This is Not a Love Letter

by Kim Purcell

  Only not you.

  Did you know most people don’t die when they jump from bridges? Even the big ones? Not immediately. Instead they break a ton of bones so they can’t swim and then they writhe in pain, squirming in the water like a spider with its legs plucked off. After that, they drown.

  Some people get rescued. That’s the good part. I read about one guy who got rescued—he said he regretted it halfway down. Like, in the air. Can you imagine? He was probably screaming and trying to figure out a way to land on the water so he didn’t die, pointing his toes, wishing he’d taken those damn cliff-jumping lessons.

  Josh crosses his arms in front of his body and stares at the divers, his mouth hanging open, like he can’t believe this. I sigh heavily and sit on the grass, pull off my bike helmet, and mess up my hair to get the sweaty itch out, then force myself to look up the river.

  Of course I count the divers. There are twenty-two. They’re floating below the bridge, in a circle. I wonder how they found that many divers who’d volunteer for this kind of job. Are they the same divers for the brothers who drowned? Where did they learn to dive? On vacation? In Cancun? That’s just sick.

  They put their mouthpieces in and masks on, and swim away from the bridge, toward me and Josh. Many of them hold metal rods with the hooks on the end. The divers push the buttons on their regulators and go under with their metal rods and their hooks.

  Those hooks.

  Josh reaches into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulls out a package of Pop Rocks. He rips the pouch open, dumps a bunch into his mouth, then holds it out to me. His face is more serious than anyone who’s ever held Pop Rocks. I can see you with your lips closed gently around the rocks, the shadow of a mustache on your top lip, quivering, your brown eyes widening.

  I open up my hand, and Josh pours them into my palm. I tilt my head back and toss them in, like my grandma used to pop pills.

  They chatter in my mouth. I hold my lips together. Try to like them.

  They stab the insides of my mouth. It’s hard to swallow. I don’t choke. You’d be proud. Remember you said I’d choke to death if you weren’t here? Not choking. Ha. You really want me to like these damn things. You keep making me try them and I don’t like them, I just don’t, not even now that you’re missing.

  Maybe these Pop Rocks will increase the possibility of telepathy. I send you a message. I know you’re not in that river. Show everyone I’m right, baby. Come home.

  The surface of the water glints under the sunlight. I can’t see anything under it. I wrap my arms around myself. It’s chilly in the shade. The last of the Pop Rocks clicks away next to my back teeth.

  The divers are passing us now. Behind me, there’s a caw. It’s Little Man. He flutters over to a low branch on the cedar tree.

  I look at Josh. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask him. “Did you know about the harassment? Like, did Chris talk to you about it?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t know, we don’t talk about stuff like that. Tim saw it. That’s all.”

  I tug at some grass by my knee. Thinking about that. You were probably trying to act like nothing was wrong.

  “He doesn’t really care about fitting in,” I say.

  “I think he cares.”

  “Not like most of us.”

  Josh glances at me. “You care?”

  “Totally,” I say. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

  “You don’t act like it. You do your own thing.”

  “I can’t not do my own thing. Ever since I was a kid, I didn’t fit in. Nobody could ever come over. Our house was too messy. Kids were always pointing at my mom and asking why she was so fat. You know?”

  Josh nods slowly, like he gets it. He’s so much like you.

  “I used to stand as far away from her as I could so people wouldn’t know she was my mom.” I swallow. It’s kind of choking me up talking about this. “She used to make me wear these stupid matching outfits, and I had to let her do my hair in some hairdo she found on YouTube.” I gesture at my cutoff shorts and leopard-print T-shirt. “Now she hates how I dress.”

  “You got your revenge, then,” he says, his mouth flickering, his dry sense of humor back, briefly.

  I let out a short laugh. “At least I didn’t make myself look so weird Chris wouldn’t want to be with me.”

  “He just accepts people like they are.”

  Behind me, I hear a caw and glance back. Little Man teeter-totters toward me, in a cute, purposeful way.

  “He’s awesome.” The word catches like a shirt snagging on a tree. Gulp. Breathe in. Oh god. It’s hard to breathe.

  You might be in that water. You might have jumped in. You might be dead.

  My eyes are slippery puddles.

  Josh rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and looks away, trying to keep from crying in front of me. You never cried in front of me either. A tear rolls down my cheek. Please don’t be in that water, baby.

  The divers swim up to the boat ramp before the rapids. They swim in, kicking with their fins, regulators pressed, filling their vests with air.

  “He’d fight if someone tried to push him in.” My words are high-pitched, teary. “Right?”

  “I hope so.” He wraps one arm around me and pats my back. “It’s going to be okay, Jessie. No matter what.”

  Then, one of the divers shouts out. Like he found something.

  I jump up.

  Little Man flies a few feet in the air and scurries into the bush.

  My hand grips at my mouth, my nails digging into the skin on my face. Josh stands up slowly, squinting, looks like maybe he’d rather shut his eyes.

  8:45 AM Wednesday, a discovery

  The diver is holding up a dark article of clothing. A T-shirt maybe. A blue T-shirt?

  “Is that blue or black?” The words shoot out of me.

  Josh shakes his head.

  “It’s too small,” I say. “Don’t you think?”

  Josh hums. Looks like he’s stopped breathing.

  The diver holds it in front of his body and slightly out of the water as he swims, like a person holds something that stinks, but maybe it’s just easier to swim that way. He kicks to the opposite bank. There’s a search and rescue guy in a yellow jacket who takes it from him and puts it in a large plastic zipper bag.

  Josh blinks real fast. Sits down. Stares straight ahead.

  I sit down too, and now we’re silent. Even me.

  The pack of divers swim toward the boat ramp, where they tug off their masks, rip open the Velcro on their vests, lowering their tanks, peeling off their wetsuits and flippers. They’re talking loudly. Someone laughs.

  A search and rescue guy in an orange jacket hands out sandwiches. A diver on the ramp leans his chin up to the sun, like he’s enjoying getting a suntan. Really?

  Josh lets out a frustrated sigh and picks out a clump of grass in front of him, and then another, until he’s made a little pile. I like doing that too. There’s something real soothing about pulling out grass and making little grass mountains. I tear out a chunk of grass and start my own pile. The pain in my chest eases.

  After another ten minutes, the divers stand, zip up the backs of their wetsuits, then load the tanks in two wagons.

  Most of them head around the rapids, but a couple stay behind, along with two men in red SAR jackets. They slide an orange raft into the edge of the water. The two divers climb into the raft. The SAR guys hold on to a rope and let it out. They’re yelling back and forth. But I can’t hear what they’re saying. They’re too far away.

  They pass a long yellow pole into the boat. Is it because of the T-shirt? Do they think it’s yours? Do they think your body is down there?

  “I saw this online,” I murmur to Josh. “They use the pole when they think a body might be caught in a rock tunnel.”

  “Why would it get caught there?” he breathes.

  “The undertow. It pulls—” I pause. “It pulls anything into the turn.”

>   It doesn’t help to research these things, it really doesn’t.

  The SAR guys swing the long rope around a tree to keep the raft stable. The raft bumps over the rapids, but not in the middle where the dangerous rocks are, closer to shore. One of the divers grabs hold of the pole with two hands and stabs down into the rocks below. Again and again. I flinch each time. Feel like he’s stabbing it into my gut, my side, my chest. I am barely breathing.

  The men onshore let the rope out and then move down the shore, swing it around other trees, and the diver in the boat stabs it down, like he’s killing a wild boar who just won’t die.

  The diver pauses. Wiggles the long pole around.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Josh gives me a sharp look.

  The diver calls out to the men on the shore. They pull on the rope. The raft moves back. Inside my mouth, my tongue claps on the roof of my mouth, repeating silently, Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  The diver yells something else. The men on shore release the rope. The boat moves past the rapids. They didn’t find you. Not there.

  On the other side of the rapids, the divers enter the water. Their tanks sink back under the surface. We sit there until we can’t see them anymore.

  4:35 PM Wednesday, my floor

  When I get home, I decide to make you a present. I know it’s not looking good for you. But humor me. I need some distraction.

  The divers are still searching, way down the river. Maybe they’ll find you. Maybe they won’t.

  It’s killing me, this waiting.

  So I sit on my red shag carpet with a pile of magazines, a poster board, and my X-Acto knife. The red carpet pools around my body.

  I cut out pictures and glue them to a large poster board with the glue gun. The glue is burning hot. It’s maybe not the safest thing to do when I’m this tired.

  In the center of the board, I create huge letters made up of small letters from the newspaper, forming the word dream.

  Baby, I’m trying to be optimistic.

  At Bear Lake, back in April, you asked me what my dreams were. You were sitting in front of the fire, turning your hot dog, and I laughed at you. It seemed so cheesy. I never thought about dreams before, really; my whole life has been living from one crisis to the next.

  “Dreams are for dreamers.” I jammed a marshmallow on a stick and held it above the flame.

  “Okay, let’s dream.” You gave me your big old smile. “Imagine you could do anything. What would it be?”

  My stomach tightened. It felt like you were criticizing me, maybe you were thinking I wasn’t ambitious enough for you, now that you’d been scouted for a big college and you were going to be a big deal.

  I laughed. “Here’s my dream: get a driver’s license.”

  “Come on. Be optimistic. You can do anything. You can go anywhere. Maybe we can plan a trip.”

  “Fine.” I gritted my teeth. In that moment, my anger was about a five. You didn’t know how close I was to storming off. It seemed like you were putting me down. “I want to see all Seven Natural Wonders of the World.” I was overshooting so it would be impossible.

  You laughed in that deep, patient way of yours. “That’s a lot to cover in one summer.”

  “Who’s talking about the summer? While you’re at college, I’m going to put on a backpack and see the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. I’ll do all kinds of wild things. You won’t believe it.”

  Your eyes danced with worry. “What are they anyway? The Grand Canyon, the Aurora Borealis, Victoria Falls, the Great Barrier Reef, Mount Everest…That’s all I got.”

  “The Harbor of Rio, and Paricutin.”

  “What’s Paricutin?”

  I gulped down my wine cooler. “This volcano in Mexico. It grew up overnight, in the middle of this farmer’s cornfield. In a week, it grew bigger than any building in town. And then it kept growing for the next year. People came from all over the place to watch it grow, like, right in front of their eyes.”

  “No way.” You were pouring your usual amount of ketchup on your hot dog, about a third of the bottle, dripping down over the sides, a ketchup waterfall. You licked the bun, then your fingers.

  I stared. “It’s a natural wonder that you can use that much ketchup.”

  You laughed and took a bite of your hot dog. With your mouth full, you added, “Okay, I’m sold.” Like, end of discussion.

  “What’s sold?”

  “Paricutin. We’ll go right after graduation.”

  I’ve never been on a plane, but I didn’t tell you that. “Plane tickets are expensive. And I don’t even have a passport.”

  “We’ll make it a road trip,” you said. “We can do the Grand Canyon and then head down to Paricutin. Next summer we can go to Everest.”

  I laughed, which jerked my marshmallow into the flames and set it on fire. I blew it out, ate the ashes, and started again. You were so sure we’d still be together after you’d spent a year away at college being a big baseball star, on TV even, girls circling you everywhere you went. You were lying to yourself.

  “If you apply now and rush it, it’ll come in time.” You looked up at me, earnestly. “Please?”

  The smoke drifted from the fire, slid between us. I waved my hand in front of my face, using it as an excuse not to answer. Then, finally, I said, “Okay. I’ll apply for my passport.”

  All around the word dream I place pictures of my dreams overlapping with yours. I will fly in an airplane. You will design airplanes. I will see Lady Gaga in concert. You will eat snails in Paris. (Um, yuck.) I will climb the Eiffel Tower. We will learn to rock climb. You will fly in an air balloon. I will create gigantic nature collages that cover buildings. We will go to the Grand Canyon and Paricutin. We will have crows as friends. We will have a chocolate lab. And maybe kids one day.

  I love you. Please don’t be in the river.

  Tears drip down my face. I swat at them.

  Your voice echoes in my brain. Pick three things you’re grateful for, baby. Every damn night on the phone. Three things. Except for the last month. We were fighting, and I didn’t always answer your calls at night. I didn’t want to think about three things I was grateful for. All I could think about was how I was losing you.

  Number one, I’m grateful for you.

  I cut a copy of your graduation picture from an extra missing poster. Your eyes look real sad. Why didn’t I notice that before?

  Number two, I’m grateful for plants and flowers and crows and birds.

  I grab a stack of National Geographic and cut out plants and flowers and birds, and I sprinkle them all around the collage, layer them on top of other pictures so that they are flying everywhere.

  Number three…

  Those eyes. Why didn’t I see that?

  If you’re in the river, right now you’ll be drifting through the weeds, through the silty, tannin-filled water, up to the surface.

  A familiar pain is stabbing away at the muscles in my chest. It’s just anxiety. But it feels like the beginning of a heart attack.

  I close my eyes and breathe in for a count of four, hold for four, exhale for four, hold again. It relaxes me, helps me breathe. My counselor in middle school taught me this, and it occurs to me now that the whole time we were together, I didn’t need it.

  Number three, I’m grateful for you.

  You’re going to say I already said that. Too bad. Saying it again.

  My phone is ringing next to me. It’s the detective. I snatch it up. “Hello?”

  “Jessie, I have some good news,” he says.

  You’re alive!

  “You asked me to call you once the search of the river was completed—and I wanted you to know…the divers didn’t find him.”

  9:45 PM, Wednesday, Chinese food

  “Chopsticks or a fork?” Josh says.

  We’re sitting in his car, which is filled with the smells of Mr. Chinese for once, overpowering the smell of the old running clothes and Red Bull. You could say it’s a no-body
celebration.

  “Fork.” I’ll probably spaz out with the chopsticks, stab my mouth, and choke, just like your prediction.

  After the detective called, Josh texted if I was hungry and wanted Mr. Chinese. I said sure—I’ve been living on yogurt cups—and he picked it up. When he got here, he called and I came out of the house to eat it in his car. Definitely did not invite him inside, even if he is your best friend, and I’ve told him about the hoarding. People are always shocked.

  He hands me the white box with sweet and sour pork. Yep, I ordered your favorite. I’m feeling a bit more optimistic now. Maybe you’ll still show up. Maybe you’re alive.

  “I always like to open my fortune cookies first.” I don’t tell him that it’s something you and I always do.

  “You don’t like the suspense?”

  “Nah, if I’m going to get food poisoning, I like to know. And with the way things are going…”

  “Good plan.”

  He reaches into the bag for the cookies and we open them. Mine says: Good fortune comes to those who wait. Which is good news. I read it aloud.

  “Man.” He shakes his head and sighs.

  “You never know. The divers didn’t find him. No dead body, right?”

  Josh winces.

  I feel bad. I guess talking about a dead body is my way of avoiding the awfulness; I smash my fist up against it. But maybe, right now, I can just shut the hell up about it.

  I clear my throat. “What’s yours?”

  “Invest your money wisely.”

  “No food poisoning.”

  “I’d bet there are no fortune cookies that warn of food poisoning.” He opens his broccoli chicken and digs in with his fork.

  I’m not hungry, but I take a bite of mine anyway. “I can’t believe we’re graduating on Saturday.”

  “Me neither.”

  Then, nope, I can’t shut the hell up. “Do you think Chris will make it back in time?”