by Susan Oloier
I step out into my new life, a life where the sun still shines, plants keep growing, and things continue moving. Even though my feet step forward, inside I stand still, stuck in some forever place. A place where I want to remain grounded.
My phone rings. I’m sure it’s my mom, checking on me already—or Layla again. But when I glance at the screen, I see Zoe’s name and number. My heart lurches. I’m not ready for this conversation, the one forcing me to explain what happened and why. How can I possibly make clear to her why I lived and he died? I bury the phone in my purse.
Flowers edge the walkways to houses, perennials in full bloom before the icy fist of fall seizes them by the necks and strangles them all. Right now there’s an illusion that life is at its full thrust, oblivious to the oncoming fall when autumn will wrestle the leaves off the trees, and they’ll spill to the ground like glistening hues of yellow and orange tears, robbed of their glory.
I stop inside the flower shop. As the bells clang against the opening door, I take in the smell of roses, the calming fragrance of lavender. I find myself struck by the white, pink, yellow, and red rainbow of peonies, lilies, and carnations. It feels like another world—a world I want to grasp together and take to Jeremy.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks.
“I need some flowers. For my boyfriend.”
She smiles. “How lovely.”
I muster up a smile and say nothing.
Jeremy
I’m so relieved to see Hailey. I’ve wandered the grounds of the cemetery for so long looking for her, I thought maybe she wasn’t here at all. For a while I sit down on one of the benches and entertain myself by watching a small boy of, say, three or so chase a ball outside the office. I’m here because I know Hailey and I must have arranged to meet one another at this spot, but nearly everything seems a blur.
But then she’s here, and my heart lifts. Even though there’s hesitation in her step as she strolls the walkway, she’s still the same, beautiful Hailey with her gorgeous, long hair and undeniably perfect posture. Her rose-petal lips are pursed closed as though she feels uneasy about being around so many graves and tombstones. I guess I can’t blame her. It’s a strange place to meet. And as nice as the grounds are, hanging around all these dead bodies is kind of creepy.
She doesn’t see me yet, so I soak her in from a distance, thrilled to know she’s all mine. She carries a bouquet of flowers, clutching them to her chest like a nervous bride on her wedding day.
Though I’m only seventeen, I imagine our wedding day on occasion: Hailey draped in white, her hair cascading down her back, her gaze wrapped up in my own as though we’re the only people in this vast universe.
I bask in the thought of it, closing my eyes to better picture the moment, when a ball rolls toward me, bouncing off my feet. I open my eyes and look around.
The child from earlier stands a fair distance away, staring at it. He says nothing; only waits. So I lift the ball and chuck it in his direction, then comb the walkway for Hailey. In my brief reverie of daydreams, I’ve lost sight of her again. Panic takes over, and I make a 360-degree search of the area.
“Hailey?” I call out, “Where are you?”
Finally I spot her stooped over a gravesite, ringlets of hair falling past her face.
“What are you doing?” I ask from a distance. But she ignores me, draping the bouquet across the dirt. Her shoulders lift and fall in what appear to be sobs.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, walking over to her through the lush grass of rained-upon summers. My mind is a fog. Does she have a relative buried out here? Did someone recently die? I’ve found myself incredibly forgetful in the past week or so.
“Hailey!” I say, trying to capture her attention. “Hailey.” My voice is softer now. But as I reach out to touch her, the same ball makes its way in front of my feet, rolling to the outer perimeter of the cemetery where it is deeply forested. And dark. The ball rests at the boundary.
My eyes are riveted to the spot where weeping willows hang, and tree arms stretching like boney fingers gnarl the area. I glimpse the source of the ball: the child again. He pleads with his eyes for me to retrieve it. I glance to where the ball lays stationary. It would be easy enough to pluck it from beneath the velvety drapery of green and black. But the thickly curtained border of the cemetery stops me cold. There’s something out there. Something disturbing and unquantifiable.
For some strange reason, I’m torn between Hailey and this unsupervised child whose parents are nowhere to be found, probably still picking out caskets inside.
I shake my head at him. “I don’t want to play right now. Okay?”
He merely blinks at me, then moves to rescue the ball himself. He stands on the edge of the grounds almost smirking, challenging me to join him. I don’t. By the time I turn back to Hailey, she’s already making her way out of the cemetery gate.
“Hailey! Wait for me!” I shout, jogging after her. But she doesn’t hear, doesn’t turn. I reach the entrance, but fatigue washes over me, and I can’t go further beyond its gates. I feel the watchful eyes of the child on me, completely unemotional in the vast desolation of the cemetery.
An overwhelming sense of terror begins to settle in the pit of my stomach. I scan the grounds, afraid to turn toward the parking lot, petrified by what I know is—or rather isn’t—there.
When my gaze falls on the lot, not a single car is parked in it. So where did the child come from? What’s he doing here alone? And—more importantly—what am I doing here?
“What the hell is going on?” I scream.
Of course, there’s no answer. Not even from the child who’s suddenly disappeared. Clearly, Hailey’s mad at me. How could she not have seen me standing here in a desolate cemetery? It feels like forever has passed since we last talked. I comb my mind for a sliver of a memory, something to tell me what I did to make her so upset with me. But nothing comes. It’s all a blank.
I hear the harsh caw of a crow from its watchtower on the cemetery chimes. I glance around, still certain as ever we are supposed to meet. Otherwise, what am I doing milling around gravestones?
I rub my freshly-shaven chin, completely perplexed. I feel like I’m caught up in some bizarre movie where my memory has been wiped clean or at least blurred enough to make only the edges seem clear.
I return to the spot where she wept and find a bright red feather from a summer tanager laid on a mound of dirt, left there deliberately. As I step to pick it up, I instantly think of all the times we spent at the bird sanctuary, away from the chaos of dancing and life, with only the birds to keep us company. I run my fingers over the feather, wondering why she left it, knowing I should return it to her. For now, I tuck it in my pocket.
I decide to go home. No point in hanging out among a bunch of dead people. I’m sure things will come back to me after a good night’s sleep.
Eli
Kids filter out as I pack up my guitar.
“Bye, Eli!” they call out all smiley.
It makes my heart break a little to see them, knowing it’ll be one of the last times playing here.
Sharon comes into the meeting room, rattling off courtesies to the moms and dads. She isn’t much of a kid person. But since the children’s librarian is out on maternity leave and the person who helps with story time is out due to some personal issue, Sharon’s in charge. So she hired me to temporarily fill in.
“You wanted to talk to me—now that we’re Penny-free?” she asks.
I zip the case and stand up, suddenly all morose about the prospect of breaking the news to Sharon. I love the library and especially the kids, but there’s no future for me singing songs about magical dragons, no career in dancing like an animal while strumming a guitar. I have dreams and goals. Lofty ones. The library isn’t in my grand plans.
“I’ve had an awesome time, Sharon,” I say while running a hand through my hair, “but the thing is—”
“Can’t say I like where this is going.”
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br /> “I have this band,” I continue.
“You’re not leaving me for a band, are you?” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the doorjamb.
“It’s not just that. There’s this other thing…” But I totally lose my train of thought when I see this girl walk into the foyer. My hand literally perches in the tangles of my hair as if it’s just as mesmerized by her as I am. She epitomizes the Chopin nocturne—dreamlike and melancholy with its broken-cord accompaniment. In other words, she’s beautiful.
I watch her glance around, briefly brushing her eyes over mine, and then I shake myself out of my temporary reverie. I can’t venture down that path again. One thing the past has taught me is to remain ever-present and cautious about the future. No matter how fluid her movements or how thrilling the cascade of her hair, I have to ignore her and move on. Someone like her cannot become a part of my anything.
Sharon’s gaze trails my own, and a hint of sadness finds its way to her cheeks. “You were saying?” she says, “About this other thing.” She tries like heck to pull me back to our conversation.
“I’m quitting,” I blurt, turning fully back to Sharon and the meeting room now that the girl’s no longer in my sights.
“I gathered.” Now Sharon’s attention darts back and forth between where we are and where the girl has gone. “Do I at least get a two-week notice?”
“Sure. Two weeks.”
“Eli, will you pardon me?” Her mind has already left the room. “I need to, um…”
I nod and return to packing up my things. Leaving my old life was easier than I thought. No one seems to be putting up a fight. Now all there is to do is move forward.
Hailey
Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Maybe my mom was right—I should have waited longer to return to work. I’m so not ready for immersion into my old life, to move within the spaces I once walked before everything turned upside down.
Sharon gives me reshelving duties, likely so I won’t have to deal with other people asking about my forehead, or so I don’t have to face the real world in full force too soon. Plus, she and Penny have no idea how to talk to someone like me. What do you say to a person who’s been where I have? Nothing. Instead, you find a way to talk around the event or avoid it altogether. That’s what putting me in the stacks does for them. Not only do they believe it’s a way to save me, it’s also a means to free them of the burden of dealing with me.
The thing is, no matter what I do or where I turn, I always see Jeremy’s face: On the book spines, in the dusty bookshelf corners, in patrons’ faces. I always remember. Even the most minor things serve as a memory of him like the musty smell of old book pages, the tone of a person’s voice, or even the letters comprising his name—no matter how scrambled they are throughout the library or how twisted in the alphabet. But most of all, each second, each movement is a reminder of his absence. The fact that I’m here and he isn’t. Every step I take, every new dawn, is just one additional moment to take me further from him, making his memory fade more. Nothing anyone can ever do could fix that.
I’ve only been at the library for maybe ten minutes, but the walls feel like they’re closing in on me and the weight of grief and guilt crushes me.
I set the John Grishams back on the cart and head to circulation.
“You all right, Hailey?” Sharon asks.
“Can I just...?” I let my gesture toward the back office finish my sentence.
“Sure.”
As soon as I push the door in to the back room, I run smack into this guy—the same one who was in the conference room chatting it up with Sharon when I first arrived. Startled, my heart lurches, and he catches hold of my arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Whoa! Sorry,” he says. Then, realizing his hands still clutch my triceps, he lets them go. As soon as he does, I become acutely aware of the bandage on my head and feel completely self-conscious about it. My hand instantly goes to it. I use it as a touchstone.
I eye him, and the first thing I notice is how tall he is. Then my gaze moves temporarily to his dark blonde hair mussed up in a devil-may-care fashion, like a comb is the last accessory he’d ever dream of owning. A guitar case is strapped across his shoulders and back. Though he’s easy on the eyes, I drop my own to avoid his intense blue-eyed stare outlined by a paintbrush of lashes. Instead, my attention is drawn to a tattoo stenciled on the inside of his lower right arm. He draws it away too quickly for me to see. Not that it matters anyway. I just need to be alone, not to have to deal with some complete stranger, sleepwalking through the formalities of introductions.
“I’m Eli,” he says, offering his hand.
“Okay,” I say not taking it. He lets his arm fall back to his side.
I know I’m being rude, but an invisible hand clutches at my chest, choking the air out of my lungs, making my breaths come in fits and short puffs. My pulse races and my hands grow clammy.
“All righty then. Nice to meet you…” his hands play out a gestural dance to fill in the spaces I’ve left blank, “…whatever your name is.”
“I’ve gotta…” I point to the innards of the back room, “go.”
So I do. I’m either going to vomit or die, so I rush toward the employee bathroom. I feel him watch me walk away, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe how socially awkward I am, how completely lacking in interpersonal skills I must be. But after all I’ve been through, I simply don’t care. I hear the door swing closed, and when I turn back around, he’s gone.
Eli
I sit with hands poised above the ivories, a sheet of musical scales with chicken-scratched notes propped against the music rack. A pencil held between my teeth.
I’ve sworn to myself I wouldn’t write any more music for girls. I’m done with it. I’m only going to write for myself. But then she walked into the library and effed it all up with her hair and her body and… I yank myself out of the library scene and back to the piano and my own house. I’m not writing it for her, I tell myself. I’m writing it—well, for the band.
My fingers dance over the keys, brushstrokes of a melody emerging. Lyrics unfold. Lost in your smile, your eyes. There’s a degree of cheesiness in the words, so it definitely needs work. But after an hour, I feel a huge sense of accomplishment. I start to erase a note here, a lyric there, when the family comes crashing in through the back door.
“Heard music, Eli,” my twelve-year-old brother says as he bounds into the room followed closely by my mother.
“Is it new?” she asks.
I jump up to help her with the grocery bags, rumpling Conner’s hair in the process. He smiles up at me.
“Yeah.”
He hugs me. “Play more.”
“Maybe later, buddy,” I say. “How’d the appointment go?” I ask my mom.
“He’s going to need a brace,” she says while unloading the groceries.
I help her put them away. Conner tries to help, too. But he winds up putting refrigerated items in the pantry, so I redirect him.
My brother has tons of delays: he thinks differently than a typical seventh grader, he wears hearing aids and glasses, he has speech impediments, and has more medical stuff to deal with than just about anyone else I know. Some would call him mentally disabled—some use the r-word—but not me. I think he’s the coolest kid brother around.
“Sorry about the brace, kiddo,” I say, messing up his hair again. “But maybe you’ll look like a Storm Trooper. That would be kind of cool, huh?”
My mom smiles at me. My brother is a complete sucker for anything Star Wars.
“Storm Trooper,” he repeats, considering the possibilities.
“I’m making pasta with Italian sausage. Your favorite. You staying for dinner?”
“Yeah, I am.”
Conner usually likes to tinker around on the piano while I work on my music, so I decide we’ll entertain our mom while she cooks. “Come on, Conner,”
I say. “Let’s work on the Imperial March.”
“Not again,” my mom complains, though I know deep down she loves it.
Hailey
I pick at my plate of stir-fried tofu and greens. My vegan diet. My mom is so accommodating even though both she and my dad love to eat meat. I don’t know why I can’t reciprocate when she asks me questions about my evening at the library. The only thing I can say is it was excruciatingly long. But these days, pain and suffering are both relative. My dad doesn’t pry. In his mind, I’ll talk when I’m ready.
“So, I want to ask about the library, but I don’t want to sound trite,” my mom admits. “Was it…okay?”
My dad lifts his eyes.
I think about my mom’s question. So much about the library is the same: Sharon peering over the tops of her glasses, comparing new books against the computer; the cluttered circulation desk I’ve always tried to keep clean; and Penny who’s so…Penny. With her ongoing patron crushes and innocently scatterbrained way of forgetting even the simplest of things.
The only difference is that guy. Eli. Apparently, he’s taken over my story time while I’m out. The thought of him working with the kids I’ve come to know and love makes me bristle. No one’s better with those kids than me. Well, at least I was. Before. Now I don’t know if I can muster the energy to entertain children for a few minutes, much less an hour. According to Sharon, this Eli person is a real hit with his guitar playing and made-up songs. But I hate how they’ve gone behind my back and hired him. How they’ve completely altered my typical summer program and routine.
While in so many ways I want things to never change, a small part of me hates that everything’s the same on the outside. It seems things should be turned on their heads after that night—mixed up like a jar of buttons, never to find their way back to an original order. The world should have come to a halt. But it didn’t. Doesn’t. It keeps spinning and rotating and moving out of my control. People continue living, and it makes my stomach twist.