My Heart and Other Black Holes

by Jasmine Warga

  Roman’s lips pull into a sly grin. It’s calculated, straight. Not like the crooked one I’m used to. “Before what happened with Maddie, she never would have allowed this. But considering I’ve spent the past year locked away in my bedroom, she’s thrilled I have any interest in doing something outside.”

  Before I can comment on that, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a wrinkled map. “Here, I figured out the easiest way to get to McGreavy.” He gives me directions as I merge onto the highway. I turn the radio to the classical music station and he makes a noise in protest.

  “What?”

  “Why do you like this boring music?”

  “You’ve asked me this before.”

  “I know. But you never gave me a good answer.”

  I shrug. “Like I already told you, it helps me think.” And someone once told me that I could find answers in it if I listened hard enough.

  “It has no personality.”

  “Not true. It has a personality that isn’t as flashy. It’s deeper. It demands more from the listener. That’s why I like it. It isn’t easy.”

  “Right. Whatever you say.” He rests his head against the window. “So are you ready for this?”

  I tap my fingers against the wheel, humming along with the radio. I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I don’t know if I’m ready for any of it. Last night, I had trouble falling asleep. I was up all night playing out imaginary scenarios in my head, but every time I envisioned myself sitting in front of the glass window, the orange phone in my hand, I couldn’t make out who was on the other side of the window. It was all blurred out, and no matter how long I stared, I couldn’t see my dad.

  And when I finally fell asleep, I had a nightmare where I was standing at Crestville Pointe, waiting for Roman, but he never came. I waited and waited and waited, my knees bloody from having fallen in the gravel. And then finally Roman showed up, but he was with Brian Jackson. They laughed at me, and their cold, haunting laughs circled me like a wolf pack. Roman and Brian shouted, telling me to jump, and I got closer and closer to the edge, but then I couldn’t move.

  “Aysel?” he presses.

  I can’t tell him about the dream. I can’t tell him that I’m not ready for this trip at all—that I’m scared this trip is going to ruin everything Roman and I have. That this trip is going to show him that I haven’t been telling him the whole truth, the real truth.

  He turns the radio off. “Aysel, look at me.”

  “I thought you told me not to take my eyes off the road.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but whatever.”

  I glance over at him. “What?”

  “Are you ready for this?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I lie. “I mean, I guess I’m ready.”

  “You have to be more sure than a guess.”

  And the problem is I’m not more sure. About any of it, anymore.

  He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a sketch pad. “Do you mind if I draw?”

  I glance over at him and he’s staring at me intently. “Draw me?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. If you don’t want me to . . .”

  “No. It’s fine,” I say quietly, and turn the radio back on. I force myself to stare straight ahead at the open road and forget that he’s inches away, studying me.

  “Relax. If you tense up, it’s harder for me to draw you.”

  “Right,” I say more to me than to him. After a few minutes, I glance over at him. He’s propped against the side door, his neck dipped forward, charcoal pencil in hand, intently staring at the sheet of paper. He looks more relaxed, more comfortable, than I’ve ever seen him.

  He catches me looking at him. “Stop,” he says.

  “What?”

  “If you think about me drawing you, I won’t get a natural picture. I want to draw you how I see you, not how you’re trying to make me see you.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Just trust me.”

  “Whatever you say.” I don’t bother to ask him why he cares so much. There’s a slight fluttering in my stomach, a lightness I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever, and I’m scared of what it means. And I’m terrified his answer would ruin all of it, so I clamp my jaw shut.

  Raising the radio volume, I focus my attention back on the road. I pretend I don’t hear Roman’s pencil scratching against the paper or his heavy, slow breaths. Instead, I start to count the miles to McGreavy Correctional Facility, the miles until I see my dad again.

  SATURDAY, MARCH 30

  8 days left

  We get to McGreavy Correctional Facility in the midafternoon. The sun’s hot on my face as we walk toward the entrance. The place looks less threatening than I’d envisioned. It’s a large, one-story brick building. Sure, it’s surrounded by two less-than-appealing outdoor spaces that are framed by high-wire fences, but if it weren’t for the barbed-wire curls at the tops of the fences, I wouldn’t have even known it was a prison yard.

  Roman grabs my hand. “You sure you want to do this?”

  I grip his hand and then drop it, trying to signal that I’m okay. But my mouth is dry and the honest answer is I don’t know if I want to do this, if I can do this. I’ve become so attached to this thought—the idea that I needed to see my dad one last time before I offed myself—but now, I’m not sure what I was thinking. I don’t know what I was hoping to find here at McGreavy, but the longer I stare at the building in front of me, the less I think that whatever it is I’m looking for is here. If I’m even looking for anything at all. Maybe Roman was right. Maybe I am just trying to find excuses to live.

  McGreavy Correctional Facility is not somewhere I’m going to find an excuse to live.

  My knees buckle and I have a sinking feeling that the man I’m about to face won’t match up with the father I remember. The father who taught me to love Mozart and who shared candy bars with me on lazy afternoons. But I guess that father never really existed, because that man never would’ve killed someone in cold blood.

  So maybe that’s the point of all this. For me to finally face that fact, face him, the real him. Maybe.

  Roman holds the door open for me and we walk in. A metal detector and four security guards greet us. We make it through the first security check with no problem. I walk up to the front desk.

  “You don’t look like you should be here,” the man at the desk says. He’s dressed in an officer uniform but has added some panache to his style by sporting a Kentucky Wildcats baseball cap. The name tag on his uniform reads JACOB WILSON.

  Jacob Wilson is awfully presumptuous. “I’m looking for my father,” I say, and fumble around in my purse for my wallet. I pull my driver’s license out of my wallet, place it on the counter, and slide it to him. “His name is Omer Seran. I called a few days ago and was told you have visiting hours on Saturday until four p.m. I think I should be on his approved list of visitors. I’m his daughter.”

  I don’t have any idea about the list, but it seems like the right thing to say. I glance at my phone to check the time: 2:17. Visiting hours aren’t over yet.

  Jacob Wilson types something into the computer. The computer is large and bulky, like the ones we use at TMC. Jacob pushes a few more buttons and frowns. He clicks the mouse and then lets out a sighing whistle.

  I brace myself for the fact that I’m not on the mythical list of approved visitors. Great. My dad’s not even going to give me the chance to confront him, to demand answers about what made him snap. Before I can say anything, Roman interjects, “What’s wrong?”

  “Your dad’s no longer here,” Jacob says to me.

  “Huh?” I’m not processing what he’s saying.

  “He was transferred.”

  I blink a few more times but tuck my hands at my side. Show some restraint. The goal of this trip was not to get locked up. “How is that possible?”

  He holds his hands out, flips his palms up, and shrugs. “I don’t have the details, sweetheart. I only know what’s in th
e computer. And the computer says he’s been transferred.”

  Roman steps up closer to the desk. He slaps his hands down and leans in toward Jacob. “Don’t you have to inform the family before you transfer someone?”

  “Easy there,” Jacob says with a chuckle. “Dial it down a notch, will you?”

  “Sorry.” Roman backs up.

  “But you’re right, son. We do inform the family.” He squints at the computer screen, scooting forward in his chair. Then he looks back at me. “Says here that a phone call was placed to Mrs. Melda Underwood. A letter was sent, too.” He frowns and stares at the screen again. “Underwood?”

  “That’s my mom.”

  The guard raises an eyebrow at me, so I add, “Remarried.”

  He raises the right side of his upper lip over his teeth, making a semi-grimace. “It happens a lot when guys get locked up. Tough break.”

  I wouldn’t describe anything in my dad’s life as a “tough break.” From my perspective, his life was more of a “tough break” for other people than it was for him. “So where is he now?”

  “According to the computer he’s at Saint Anne’s Behavioral Health Hospital.”

  Behavioral Health Hospital. “Where is that?”

  “Not sure,” Jacob says. “My guess is it’s in-state since I don’t see them transferring him out of Kentucky, but you never know.”

  “Do you have any idea how she could get in touch with him?” Roman interjects again.

  I don’t know why Roman thinks it’s his place to take over this conversation, but I’m oddly grateful. Usually, I’d be annoyed, but right now, I can hardly see straight. All I can think is: My dad’s locked away in a mental institution.

  Jacob gives us a sad smile. “Like I already told you, he’s at Saint Anne’s Behavioral Health Hospital. If you want, I can place a call there for you and see if someone there can get you some information on how you could contact your father.”

  “Okay,” I say weakly. “Can you please do that?”

  He glances over his shoulder like he’s looking for his supervisor or something. “I can’t do it right now, but I can do it later. You could probably call the facility, too, but it might take you longer to find out the information you need. Red tape and all that.” He gives me a small wink. “I’m really not supposed to do stuff like this, kid, but I want to help you out.”

  He rips off a sheet of paper from a legal notepad and pushes it toward me. He hands me a pen. “Here. Write down your number. I’ll see whether I can find someone who knows how to get in touch with your dad. I’ll give you a ring if I do.”

  I scribble my number down quickly. The paper is bright gold. It seems like the wrong color for this type of occasion. Whoever orders the prison’s office supplies should really think about these kinds of things.

  I hand him my number. “Thank you so much.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t help more. I know how frustrating it can be when your parents keep things from you.” He adjusts his baseball cap. “You should really talk to your mother about that.”

  I nod. I would if I talked to her about anything. “Yeah, I probably should. Thanks for all your help.”

  “No problem. I hope you end up finding what you’re looking for.” The way he looks at me makes me think that maybe he understands my situation more than he’s letting on. I stare at him for a moment and then tug on Roman’s shirt and drag the sorry pair of us out of McGreavy Correctional Facility.

  Once we’re outside, Roman shades his eyes with his hands and looks off into the distance like he’s staring out over the Grand Canyon or something other than an empty prison yard. “I thought you called.”

  “I did. I asked about visiting hours.”

  “You didn’t think to ask if your dad was still here?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I had no reason to think he wouldn’t be.” I pause and look at him. He doesn’t turn to look at me—he keeps staring off into the distance. “Wait, are you accusing me of something?”

  He drags his sneaker along the cement. The sun glints off his hair, making it look less brown and more blond. The air feels thicker than it did before, like the steam after a hot shower. It doesn’t feel like March air. Maybe spring is here. Maybe Mrs. Franklin’s flowers will bloom soon. “I don’t know, Aysel.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It just seems like you’re searching for reasons to delay it.”

  “Delay what?”

  “Never mind.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “No. Say it.”

  He turns to look straight at me, his eyes wide but empty. “If you don’t talk to your dad before April seventh, you’re still going to jump with me, right?”

  I say yes, but I don’t look him in the eye. I can’t.

  SATURDAY, MARCH 30

  8 days left

  I park in front of the campground. If you can even call it a campground. It looks more like a muddy lot to me. I’m no expert in campgrounds, but I’d have to think this is about as basic as you can get. The only amenities it seems to offer are a fire pit—complete with half-burnt logs and ashes—a large oak tree, and a rusted trash can.

  Roman steps out of the car and walks around to the trunk to grab the tent. Far off in the distance, I can see a rocky shoreline, the river lapping up against the pebbles. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe this will give us some time to talk. Maybe I’ll finally find the words to explain what’s going on with me.

  I pull my backpack out of the backseat and follow Roman toward our campsite. When he unzips the tent bag, I notice he’s hidden two bottles of wine inside it.

  “Classy,” I say.

  “You can drink red wine warm. Warm beer is gross. I made an executive decision.”

  “You could’ve put the beer in the cooler.” I ignore the fact that he’s talking to me like a loser who’s never drunk alcohol before. Even though, to be fair, I am a loser who’s never drunk alcohol before. Unless you count a few sips of Steve’s beer he gave me when I was like eleven and he and Mom were hosting a backyard barbecue for some of their friends.

  “Yeah, but my mom packed the cooler. She would have noticed.”

  “You could have put them in later.”

  “Jesus, do you really want beer that much? I can run into town.”

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my black jeans and walk farther toward the river. “No. It’s fine. I was just giving you a hard time.”

  He pulls the tent out of the bag and fumbles around with it. A couple of times I think about offering him help, but I know nothing about tents. I hear him cursing under his breath and I decide to take a walk by the water.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I call out, and he doesn’t answer.

  I walk down the other side of the hill. My sneakers sink into the damp grass. As I move closer to the river, I see an empty dock. There’s no one around. Broken fishing lines float in the water, and I try to imagine the place full of people, laughing families and eager fishermen. It doesn’t seem like a place that would ever be crowded. It seems like a place that was meant to be lonely. I hear a few birds chirping to one another and the roar of a boat’s motor off in the distance, but all I can focus on is the ringing in my head. I cup my hands over my ears and hum to myself. Bach’s Mass in B Minor fills my mind.

  I lean against the splintered wooden railing and a gust of wind slides off the water and touches my face. Sometimes it feels like the wind has hands, has fingers. Sometimes I wonder if I could reach out and grab it. If it would grab me back, squeeze the space between my fingers, take me away. I wonder if Roman ever thinks about these things, if anyone else ever thinks about these things.

  I look behind me and I can’t even make out our campsite. I go back to staring at the water. The rocky bottom of the riverbank is covered with slimy algae and rusted fishing hooks. I know that if I jumped, I’d only end up wet and dirty. I wouldn’t end up dead.

  It’s not Crestville Pointe. That jump will kill me, will kill Roman.

 
; I head back to the campsite. My steps are heavy and sluggish. I’m not in any rush to get back to Roman and his beerless cooler and his questions about whether I’m going to flake out on him. I see him before he sees me. I guess he managed to set up the tent—a flappy blue structure sways in the wind. His back is turned to me and he’s hunched over the fire pit, lighting a match.

  As I step up behind him, I watch the two old logs burst into flames. The fire crackles and I take a seat on the ground next to him.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Huh?”

  “I thought you wandered off to find something.”

  “Nope.” I cross my legs to sit Indian style on the grass. “Everything’s still the same.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He rubs his hands together before he stands up. “Are you hungry?”

  I shrug, which he interprets as yes. He walks over to the cooler and pulls out the hot dogs his mom packed for us. They’re shoved together in a plastic bag, looking sad and slimy. He hands me the bag and then grabs some steel skewers from his backpack.

  I slide one of the hot dogs onto the skewer and watch the metal point poke through the hot dog’s casing. I hover my skewer over the flames and Roman does the same. I turn it over every so often, but to be honest, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. My family doesn’t camp.

  “I think it’s done,” Roman says, nodding at my hot dog.

  “Oh.” I pull it away from the flame.

  “I forgot to pick up the buns. My mom would be horrified.” He gives me a sheepish grin as he plops back down on the ground. He folds his legs up to his chest and pulls the hot dog off the skewer, repeatedly blowing on it.

  I do my best to imitate him, except I’m pretty sure I look like a five-year-old that can’t manage to successfully blow out her birthday candles. I tear off a piece of my hot dog and it burns my fingertips. I shove it in my mouth and chew. There’s a charred taste on the outside, but it’s cold on the inside. I manage to swallow it.