If you need help and don’t know what to do.”
As he gets up and takes stuff to the counter,
I think about that.
And what I think is that
when you’re completely alone
and deep inside yourself
with feelings no one else can understand,
there really aren’t a hundred places to go.
It’s like if I woke up one day
and looked outside and saw purple trees
and red grass and green dogs,
is there anyone I could tell who would understand?
No.
There’d be no one.
It’s exactly like that.
He saw purple trees
and red grass and green dogs
while no one else did.
And maybe,
he just got tired
of seeing them.
Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico
I decide we need
to lighten the mood,
so I ask her to show me some of her art.
She doesn’t say a word.
Just looks at me with eyes of uncertainty.
“You really want to see?”
“Yes,” I say. “I really do.”
She leaves and returns with a big black book,
and we sit together on the love seat,
the book laid in her lap
as tenderly as if it were an infant.
On the first page, on the left side, is a photo of a sunflower,
and on the right, her artistic version.
The colors and the lighting,
so right on,
all I can say,
in a whisper of wonderment,
is “Wow.”
Page after page of
blues and purples, oranges and yellows,
mums and lilacs, daisies and daffodils.
The last one is a single rose,
on top of a casket.
My brother’s casket.
So much for lightening the mood.
Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn
I haven’t drawn
in so long.
Since he died.
Looking at these pictures,
I wonder,
did that part of me
that flourished around him,
like prized perennials
under a tender gardener’s care,
die along with him?
Or am I just dormant,
able to bloom again someday
when love finally decides
to shine on me
again?
Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico
When her dad comes home,
she introduces me as her friend.
She doesn’t tell him I’m Lucca’s brother.
Would he think that’s weird,
us hanging out together?
Is it weird?
Do I care?
Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn
After Nico leaves
Dad drills me.
I tell him he’s just a friend
I know from school
who’s helping me train for a race.
Then he wants to know what kind of race
and why I’m doing that
and do I like this guy and is that why I’m doing it
and blah blah blah.
I guess it’s good he’s interested
because most of the time
it seems like he cares more about ESPN
than me.
After I’ve told him
what he wants to know,
he says, “And look, he brought you roses.
What a coincidence.
You saw the rose I left you this morning, right?”
“You left the rose?”
“Someone sent us flowers at the office.
To say thanks.
I let one of the admins take them home.
But I brought one home for you.
And then I forgot to give it to you last night.”
My dad left me a rose.
Not a ghost.
Thank God.
Not a ghost.
Sun., Jan. 29th—Nico
This morning I found
A Cry for Help
in my gym bag.
He’s still worried.
And I wish I knew
what to do about that.
Sun., Jan. 29th—Brooklyn
This morning I found
a few of the letters to Lucca
torn up and tossed around,
like confetti.
Why?
My words,
my heart,
my soul,
shredded by someone
who seems intent
on hurting me.
Why?
Tears slide down my face
as I pick my heart
off the floor.
Fear controls you.
Stop the fear.
Love is the answer. Not fear.
Does Gabe want me to love him?
How can I love him
when right now,
I hate him more
than I’ve ever hated anyone
in my whole life?
I sob into a fistful
of shredded words.
Because words matter.
And so do I.
Sun., Jan. 29th—Nico
When we meet up
at the pool,
she’s cold and distant.
It’s like one step forward,
two steps back with her.
Just when it feels like
we’re making progress,
something happens
and we’re running backward.
I don’t know what else to do.
What else can I do?
Sun., Jan. 29th—Brooklyn
The water
feels extra cold today,
matching the temperature
of my heart.
I swim,
hoping the water
might smooth things out
once again and
wash my troubles away.
But nothing is smooth today.
It’s choppy and hard
and I tire easily.
When I finally can’t take
the failure anymore,
I get out.
Nico’s in a swimming trance.
Doesn’t even notice me.
I slip out quietly,
away from the cold, harsh water
into the cold, harsh world.
Sun., Jan. 29th—Nico
When I realize she’s gone,
I start to go after her.
But I change my mind.
Because obviously, she doesn’t
want to include me in whatever’s going on.
Whatever’s bringing her so much pain.
She starts to give, then pulls back,
gives, then pulls back.
I hate tug-of-war.
It seems so pointless.
And I’m not sure I can pull any harder.
All I can do is keep showing up.
Keep engaging her in life.
Keep trying.
Sun., Jan. 29th—Brooklyn
I’m standing
at a crossroads
in the middle of nowhere.
One path leads into
thick, black trees
with weird noises.
It’s dark.
Creepy.
The other path
leads into the sun,
with colorful wildflowers
growing on both sides.
Birds are chirping,
and farther down the path,
a large oak tree
with plenty of shade awaits.
I have to choose one.
Any second, I’ll hear
his footsteps behind me,
and I’ll have to choose.
The choice seems obvious.
> But something tells me
it’s a trick.
The sunny path that looks safe
can’t be as it seems.
Nothing is ever as it seems.
So I begin running,
through the dark forest,
branches reaching out
and grabbing me as I do.
I hear him coming.
Closer and closer.
He grabs me and yells,
“Why do you keep choosing fear?”
I wake up screaming.
Daddy comes running.
Flips the light and
sits on my bed.
I crawl out,
squeeze next to him,
and let him wrap me up
in his arms.
And we stay that way
for a long time.
Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico
I swear
I left my keys where I always do.
The kitchen table, by the napkin holder.
But this morning, they’re not there.
I look everywhere—
jacket, pants, dresser, bathroom, ignition.
Nothing.
Finally, twenty minutes later and ridiculously
late for school, I go back to the kitchen table.
And there they are.
Gone before.
Now here.
Apparently just like my brother.
Who always did enjoy making me sweat the small stuff.
As I walk out the door, I laugh.
I miss you, Lucca.
Man, I miss you.
Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn
Nico’s all happy
and cheerful as we run,
telling me a story about a guy at school
who made a fool of himself
in front his dream girl.
Apparently, the guy didn’t know
she was watching.
God, Nico is just too happy.
He doesn’t have a freaking care
in the world.
Well, of course he doesn’t.
His world is all about
running and biking,
puppy dogs and potato chips.
When he laughs at himself
for the third time,
I stop and yell,
“Shut the hell up, Nico.
It’s not funny, okay?
God. You think everything is funny?
Well, let me tell you.
It’s not.”
He stares at me like I just threw
rocks at his head.
And then I turn around
and go home.
Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico
Our paths don’t cross
at school, so later, I call her up.
“I don’t think everything is funny,” I tell her.
“I’m sorry, Nico. It’s not you. It’s me.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “Some mornings are like that.
I have an idea, though. A different kind of workout.
Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”
“What? Um, yeah, I guess.”
“Great.”
“Wait, what should I wear?”
I almost quip back with something inappropriate,
but I stop myself.
“Jeans. T-shirt. Tennis shoes.”
Silence.
“See you in a few!”
Did I really just do that?
Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn
Pirate’s Bay Miniature Golf
greets us with neon lights
and eighteen holes of fun and adventure
in a big warehouse.
We hit the balls
through old ships,
around treasure chests,
and up and over bridges.
Four hits,
five hits,
six.
Hole after hole.
Ten smiles,
Eleven smiles,
twelve.
Hole after hole.
No ghosts,
no ghosts,
none.
Hole after glorious hole.
Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico
Around hole 7
I’m all stressed about my score,
about trying to get the elusive hole-in-one.
She teases me, asks if my lifelong dream
is to be king of the putt-putt.
Before I know what she’s doing,
she grabs my score sheet,
rips it into little pieces,
and throws it in the sky,
a shower of confetti raining down on us.
“Now let’s have some fun,” she says.
And that’s just what we do.
Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn
On the last hole,
I get a hole-in-one
which sends me into
a squealing fit of joy,
like a little kid at the first sight
of the tree Christmas morning.
Nico looks at me,
looks at the hole,
takes a deep breath,
and hits his ball.
Like magic,
that neon green ball
goes right for the hole
and drops in with a
resounding plunk.
I give him a high five.
“Well done, King,” I tell him.
He smiles.
“Actually, hate to burst your bubble
but I think it’s rigged.”
“You mean everyone gets a hole-in-one?” I ask.
They want people to leave
happy.
And I’m pretty sure
we do.
Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico
On the way home,
we’re quiet.
A song by The Fray comes on—
How to Save a Life.
“I love this song,” she says as she turns it up.
The haunting music and words
speak about trying to help someone.
And I know what she’s thinking.
I just hope she’ll open up and talk about it.
When we pull up to her house,
she turns and says, “I didn’t do enough.”
“I didn’t do enough to help him.”
“No,” I say. “Don’t play that game, Brooklyn.
What happened to Gabe has nothing to do with you.
You were hurting too, and you did the best you could.
We all did.”
She nods, and tears well up in her eyes.
Here we are, the weather changing again.
“Brooklyn,” I say softly, “listen to me.
If this is what you’re struggling with, let it go.”
“I’m trying,” she whispers.
I reach up and wipe the single tear
that manages to escape.
“You can do this,” I tell her.
“You are so strong, Brooklyn.
Stronger than you know. Believe in that, okay?”
Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn
When he tells me
how strong I am,
something flares up inside of me.
It makes me want to be strong
even if I don’t feel that way
most of the time.
I feel a shift.
A shift in my heart.
I don’t know exactly
what it is
or what it means
but I definitely feel it.
There’s something about Nico
that makes me want
to be a better person.
And so I tell myself,
I will be.
Tues., Jan. 31st—Nico
As I’m getting ready
to head out to the track,
I find a note from Pop
with a guy’s phone number.
Hey, Nico—
Give Rob a call.
He might have a job for you.
/> Bagging groceries.
As I go to stick the note in my pocket,
I notice writing on the other side.
It says Hey, Lucca—
And then it’s crossed out.
He started writing to him instead of me.
He’s still wanting him back.
And wanting me out of here.
Tues., Jan. 31st—Brooklyn
Chasing Brooklyn Page 10