by Ali Benjamin
We just sat there for a while, each in our different homes, not-talking with each other.
It’s peculiar how no-words can be better than words. Silence can say more than noise, in the same way that a person’s absence can occupy even more space than their presence did.
After a while, I bit my lip. “I have to go,” I said.
“Thank you for calling, Suzy.”
“Give Fluffernutter a kiss for me.”
“I will. You take care of yourself, okay?”
I nodded, even though I knew she couldn’t see me. Then we sat for another moment, until I heard something. It might have been the word Bye, but it also might have just been a tiny, sad little noise escaping from Franny’s mom’s throat.
I hung up the phone. I went to my bedroom and pulled my suitcase out of my closet. I placed the framed photograph of Aaron in the outer pocket. Then I picked the bag up and walked out the door.
Who knows. maybe everybody’s end isn’t the day they actually die, but the last time anyone speaks of them. Maybe when you die you don’t really disappear, but you fade into a shadow, dark and featureless, only your outlines visible. Over time, as people forget you, your silhouette gradually fades into darkness until the final time anyone says your name on this planet. That’s when your very last feature—the freckled tip of your nose, or the heart-top bubble of your lips—fades for good.
If that is true, it is a good reason to hold off saying someone’s name after they die. Because you never know. You never know which time you say it might be the last time.
And then they will disappear for good.
Results
Summarize your observations. Do your outcomes support your hypothesis? Remember that science never actually “proves” anything; it merely contributes to a growing body of evidence about the way our world works. If your research does not appear to support your hypothesis, be honest about that. Remember that in science we learn as much from failures as we do from successes.
—Mrs. Turton
Here is the last, most important thing about jellyfish.
I’ll bet you could never in a million years guess this one.
They are immortal.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that. I also don’t just mean that they will outlast us, even though they will.
I mean it literally: There is at least one species of jellyfish that can grow younger, which is something that pretty much no other creature on Earth can do. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Turritopsis dohrnii. The immortal jellyfish.
When it’s threatened, Turritopsis dohrnii can return from its adult medusa stage, the stage where a jellyfish looks like a jellyfish, all the way back into a younger stage, where it clings to the bottom of the ocean floor for safety. Theoretically, it can do this indefinitely: grow old, then young, old, then young, and never really die.
It would be as if, when everything started going wrong, when it started getting stressful, we could have just gone backward. Imagine that. Imagine if we could have said, “Oops, this is too hard,” and shrunk in size, returned to a place of being just kids, the way we always had been.
And we could just stay there, tethered safely, forever.
Then none of it would have happened like it did. I’d never have had to do anything to try to fix all those things that had gone wrong. I’d never have tried to send you that message. Everything would be okay. It would be easy, just like it used to be.
You would still be here. And, Franny, you would love me again. Just like you always did.
The trick to anything is just believing you can do it. When you believe in your own ability to do something, even something scary, it gives you an almost magic power. Confidence is magic. It can carry you through everything.
It can carry you through a long walk to campus, dragging your suitcase as you go. It can carry you through the long, cold moments standing there, trying to look like you belong. It can carry you through the wondering: Is the shuttle really going to show up? And also the relief and fear you feel when it actually does.
The shuttle was filled with strangers. There was a woman with white hair who talked for a long time to a woman in a red business suit. White Hair said she was going to visit her brand-new grandson, 9 pounds 2 ounces, in Atlanta. Red Suit replied that she was flying to Grand Rapids for one day—just a quick in and out—to deliver a talk on art conservation.
I made a point to not look at anyone. I did not make eye contact. Even when the shuttle stopped at a hotel and a man who smelled like old cigarettes sat next to me and said hello, I did not turn to look.
I watched the houses go by, and I thought, Goodbye, houses.
I watched the small roads turn into bigger roads, and I thought, Goodbye, smaller roads.
I watched the bigger roads give way to the highway, and I thought, Goodbye, South Grove, Massachusetts.
I reached into my coat pocket and ran my fingers over the pink index card, the one with my dad’s credit card information.
So far, this had all been very easy. I felt proud of how well I’d planned.
I tried not to think about my mother, about the fact that I hadn’t even hugged her goodbye. Instead, I’d just watched her get into her car and drive away.
When the shuttle arrived at the airport, passengers stepped out, one by one, at their different terminals. Each time, the open door sent a blast of arctic air into the shuttle. I noticed that they all seemed to hand the driver money before saying goodbye. So when we pulled up to the international terminal, I reached into my envelope and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. I handed it to him, took my bag from him, and said thank you. The whole time, I looked coolly into the distance, as if I did this sort of thing every day.
And then I walked to the counter and waited in line.
Now I would get my boarding pass, walk through security, then fly to the edge of the world.
I had already set my watch to Cairns time, which was fifteen hours ahead of Massachusetts time.
I had a toothbrush in my small carry-on, along with a tiny tube of toothpaste.
I had a change of socks and a change of underwear, too, because I didn’t want to arrive in Australia feeling too dirty.
I had a notebook filled with words and phrases I might need in Australia: chemist means “pharmacy,” boot means “trunk,” lift means “elevator,” and to come good means “to turn out okay.”
The first part of my journey had already come good.
I had Jamie Seymour’s office address at James Cook University, which is about 15 kilometers, or 9 miles, from the airport. To get there, I would travel along the highway that is also named for Captain Cook, who, I knew from studying explorers with Franny, sailed from England to Australia. He traveled there nearly 250 years ago, as part of a long journey to see Venus cross between Earth and the sun.
Both those journeys—Cook’s and Venus’s—seemed to come good.
When I arrived, I would be less than a mile from the ocean. I wondered if I would be able to hear the waves and if they would sound like the Earth breathing.
The passenger at the front of the line walked toward the gates, boarding pass in hand. Everyone in line, myself included, shuffled forward a couple of steps.
Australia was so close I could almost feel it.
Walking up to the airport counter, I made a point not to blink too much. Blinking means you’re nervous. Nervous is suspicious.
The woman behind the counter had long blonde hair, and her eyes looked like they were set ever-so-slightly too far apart. She typed away on a keyboard, red nails tap-tapping in rapid fire.
“Name?”
I told her. She typed it in without looking up. Tap tap tap.
“Passport?”
I reached into my bag and handed it to her. The woman opened up my passport, flipped through the empty pages. Then she frowned. “Wait,” she said. “What’s your date of birth?”
When I told her, she looked at me strangely. “Well, that doesn’t . . .” she s
tarted, before her voice drifted off. She tapped a few more keys, then frowned. “And it looks like you haven’t applied for a visa.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about, but I knew, somehow, that the trip was starting to slip away from me.
Visa, I thought. She said visa.
Even as I understood that this wasn’t going to fix anything, I did the only thing I could do: I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pink index card with my dad’s credit card information. I slid it across the counter to her.
She looked at it, turned it over a few times. She seemed confused. “What is this?” she asked.
“It’s a Visa,” I said. I lifted my chin in the air and said it confidently, as though my brain weren’t racing. Just get past this moment, I thought. Do whatever you can to get on that plane.
She frowned. “This is just . . .” She stared at it for a while, and then said, “Oh. Oh, I see.”
She lifted her eyes. “Sweetie?” she asked. Her voice was suddenly very quiet. “Where are your parents?”
I took a deep breath and spoke with as much dignity as I could muster. “They are unable to make this trip,” I said. I watched luggage roll past on a conveyor belt behind her.
I blinked a few times and added, “They both work.”
She looked back down at the index card, like she was thinking about something. Then she said, “Honey, you know you can’t fly out of the country by yourself.”
“I purchased a ticket,” I said.
“Yes, but—”
I quoted the Bridget Brown newspaper story. “Passengers ages twelve and over may travel with no adult supervision as long as they have a valid boarding pass.”
“No,” she said. “Not international travel.”
When she spoke again, her voice was extremely quiet. “I’m sorry,” she said.
It was the quiet that got to me, the fact that she was trying so hard to be kind. If she thought I needed kindness, it wasn’t a good sign.
The thing is, not doing this, not making this trip, wasn’t an option. Not anymore.
I looked down, trying to figure out what to say next. I knew what needed to happen now: I needed to regain control of this situation, and fast. There was a crowd of travelers behind me, and I didn’t have much time.
I stared at the swirly pattern on the laminate countertop. But for the life of me, I could not figure out how to take back control.
Then something inside me understood, This is not going to work.
That was when the swirls disappeared into a blur. My hands, the index card, my expired passport, dissolved into ripples. I saw a fat drop land on the counter.
“Oh, hon,” the lady said.
I heard the whir of the airport around me. Heard footsteps and rolling luggage carts. Beyond those sounds, I heard the hum of the building: the heating system, maybe. Or maybe the fluorescent lights. I wondered, if I listened hard enough, if I might be able to hear my own blood pumping through my body.
I realized I was shaking.
I thought about Bridget Brown, who flew to Tennessee and then had to turn around and go home. At least she got to go somewhere, I thought.
I had gotten only as far as the ticket counter.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. The lady had come out from behind the counter. Standing next to me, she was smaller than I’d expected. Even wearing heels, she wasn’t any bigger than I was.
“Come with me,” she said.
I let her guide me around to the side of the counter, the place where the employees go in and out.
“Sit,” she said. I dropped to the floor.
I looked up at her, saw the way she was looking at me, and then she got all blurry, too. Hot tears started rolling down my face.
She squatted down next to me, placed one hand on my arm, and gave me a small squeeze. Then she stood up and walked away. I put my head against my knees, pressing my eyes right into my kneecaps.
I was tired. The light hurt.
I had failed.
I sat on the floor for a long time, watching people check in at the counter and head off toward their gates.
I saw a man with white hair and neon-orange sneakers. A woman soldier, all in camouflage. A mom with a toddler. The kid had snot running down his face and was crying in a whiny, tired way. He was wearing a sweatshirt, and his mom kept putting his hood on. Each time she did, he ripped it off. She jiggled him on her hip and stared straight ahead.
All of these people were going somewhere.
I shut my eyes and focused on my breath. I’d been breathing all day, all week, all my life, and I had forgotten to notice until now.
Franny was never coming back.
That was the thing. Even if I could get Jamie to tell me that the problem had been a jellyfish, that I’d been right all along, it wouldn’t change anything. Franny would still be gone, and our friendship would still have ended how it ended.
I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so very, very sorry.
My eyes still closed, I listened to the boy crying, to the tapping of the airline keyboards, to the loudspeaker calling out that the luggage from the Toronto flight would soon be arriving on carousel three.
I am sorry I wasn’t who you wanted me to be. I am sorry about what I did. I’m sorry for whatever you must have experienced in that awful moment when you disappeared.
A cell phone had been found in the women’s restroom and could be retrieved on the lower level.
I am sorry I am just a dumb creature on a rock hurtling through space. I’m sorry I made your time on this rock, this stupid little mote of dust, harder and not easier.
I’m sorry that my attempt at a new beginning turned out to be the very worst kind of ending.
I’m sorry I got so much so wrong.
I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, there were blankets on top of me, several of those thin, fleecy airline squares. They were placed in a kind of patchwork so that every part of me was covered. I looked up, but I didn’t see the blonde airline lady anywhere. A man in a suit jogged past, dragging a black bag that rolled behind him like a reluctant dog.
I lay down and curled into a ball, adjusting the blankets over me. The floor was hard and cold, and it felt good against my cheek.
I closed my eyes again.
The next time I opened them, my mom was there. It was such a surprise to see her, in this airport with all these strangers. She still wore the house-showing clothes that she’d had on during those final moments in the kitchen.
Mom’s eyes searched my face. She looked sort of panicked.
“Zu,” Mom said. She sank down onto the floor next to me. “Oh honey.” Her face crumpled, and tears began streaming down her cheeks.
I didn’t know if they were love tears or sad tears or happy tears or all three at once.
“Oh. Oh, my sweet, sweet Zu.” She took my hands and squeezed them tight.
Then Aaron was there, too. He sat, made a soft fist, and bumped me on the knee.
Nobody spoke for a long time.
Then, after a while, Aaron said, all casual, “So . . . what’s going on, Zu?” And the way he said it—as if this whole situation were completely normal—made me laugh a little. Snot shot out of my nose, but I didn’t care. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
“I thought . . .” I started. I took a deep breath. “I thought I could prove it,” I said. “I thought I could prove what really happened.”
But of course they didn’t know what I was talking about. They didn’t know about any of the things I’d been thinking about for the last few months. They didn’t know about the trip to the aquarium, or the Irukandji, or the twenty-three-stings-every-five-seconds. They didn’t know about Jamie, or my research, or how I thought I’d figured out something that no one else had. They didn’t know about Bridget Brown and Dollywood, or about any of the things that had led to my sitting alone on an airport floor.
They didn’t understand how something impossible could become the
only possible thing.
I listened to the words tumbling out of me, more words than I’d said in a long, long time. I could hear that they made no sense. No matter how hard I tried to explain, I couldn’t make my explanation sound any more reasonable.
It occurred to me that maybe this is another thing that happens when you stop talking. Maybe you lose track of whether the things inside your head are normal and reasonable or filled with cracks and flaws.
When I was done, when all the words were out and I’d explained as best I could, I remembered what Dr. Legs had said the very first time I met her—that everybody grieves in different ways, that there’s no right or wrong way to grieve.
Well, I thought. When she hears about this, she may just change her mind.
When I was done speaking, we sat for a few minutes. Then my mother said quietly, “I always figured it was a riptide.”
I looked at her. “What?”
“I mean—I don’t know why she drowned, Zu. But that’s what I always assumed. That it was a riptide.”
A riptide. An invisible current that pulls a person out to sea.
“It could have been anything, though,” Mom said. Her voice was so gentle. “I mean, maybe Franny got tossed by a wave and hit her head on a rock. Or maybe it was a medical thing—like a seizure, or she had a heart problem that no one knew about. Or maybe she was just a little too tired, and swam just a little too far from shore. . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
She didn’t say what she could have, and neither did Aaron. Neither of them told me what I suddenly understood—that whatever it was, whatever the reason, it didn’t really matter. It had “just happened.”
Somehow, that fact—that sometimes things do just happen—seemed like it might be the scariest and saddest truth of all.
Then I saw Rocco approaching, holding a cardboard tray of hot drinks. He handed my mom a cup, then offered one to me. “Cocoa, Suzy?”