I have to stop for gas sometime in the next hour anyway, so it’s really only taking away one of the universe’s chances to get me to figure something out. I just want to keep moving. As long as I’m moving it feels like I’m going somewhere.
My GPS chirps, but this time I ignore it and look at the clock. Ten more minutes until this hour’s up.
One hour to go.
“We face the world alone to find those like us.”
I can never tell if loneliness is an emotion or a state of being. Most of the time it feels like both. I’ve been alone the whole trip. I mean, sure, there have been other people on the road and at the restaurants, but I’m by myself in the car. Even with all the alone time I haven’t really felt lonely until now. It’s been creeping in since about hour four, but the more I have to think about it, the more obvious the loneliness seems. I’ve gone nine hours with no one to talk to but myself, no one to bounce ideas off of or to help me get through all these emotions.
Even when I’m surrounded by people it doesn’t really change things that much. I mean, I can talk out loud without sounding crazy, but that’s about it. People still don’t understand. I could tell everyone everything I’ve been working out for the past nine hours but it wouldn’t matter. No one I know has been through anything like this, and there’s no way anyone who hasn’t been through it can understand. I’m alone in this poor little world of one. I want to let people in, but it’s a pretty exclusive club and not exactly one people want to be a part of.
This might be what I hate more than anything else. Being alone. I could deal with it all better (at least, I think I could) if there were just one person I could talk to about it who would actually get it. The universe takes away the one person who could help keep me sane, and refuses to send me even one other person who I can confide in, even in the smallest way. My parents are so worried about me I can’t talk to them, because that would make things worse for all of us. My friends… well, it’s senior year. We have college to think about and lives to start. We’ve never been that close anyway. It’s not like I didn’t try to talk about it. Who does that leave, though? The grief counselor who decided to hate me on sight? Mel? She could probably turn into some kind of fairy-godmother-type-creature, but she has so many of her own problems I don’t even know how I could think about piling on more.
There’s no one else to turn to. Everyone in my life is completely unsuitable for the role of confidant. It’s not fair.
Nothing is fair. Life isn’t fair. The universe isn’t fair. Fortune cookies aren’t fair. Death isn’t fair. William’s life wasn’t fair. Loving him this much and knowing he’s gone forever isn’t fair.
I hate this.
And I have to deal with it all alone.
I feel like things would be easier if I could just stop thinking about it. I stare at the road, check off the miles until the next gas station, and try to keep my mind blank. I’m not sure if I want to be angry or depressed so my emotions just keep alternating between the two. It’s not a very pleasant experience, but emotional roller coasters never are, as a general rule. I do think that’s the only thing getting me through the last hour. The weird emotional combination, while driving the rest of me crazy, is actually doing a good job keeping me awake and alert, like some kind of bizarre energy drink.
I pull into the gas station and for the first time in nine hours actually start to think about how I look to the rest of the world. I must be a mess, (comma splice) my insides are in emotional turmoil and I probably look about as fit to be around other people as I feel (not to mention nine hours in a car and greasy Chinese food don’t do much for physical appearance). This whole thing has left me feeling exhausted, and some old woman at the pump next to mine keeps looking over at me with that “poor kid obviously doesn’t know how to take care of herself” look in her eyes. I may not be quite across the crazy line yet, but I’m sick of dealing with people who think they know who I am and what I’m going through. I’m tired of being felt sorry for. It’s time to make a change.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I put on my sweetest work smile and try to emphasize the “ma’am” When I say this woman is old, I mean she’s older than me. She’s actually probably the same age as my parents, or maybe a few years younger. It’s hard to tell. Either way, I kind of hope she’s insulted by the “ma’am”, although she doesn’t seem too phased by it. She obviously doesn’t get sarcasm. Or teens.
“You here by yourself?”
“Look, I can pay for my own gas and no one’s inside buying me cigarettes and beer for a blow job, if that’s what you’re getting at.” I’m a little surprised at myself. Normally that’s something I’d just think, but for some reason it came out before I could stop it. “I’m, uh, visiting family for the holidays.” I’m stammering like an idiot to make up for being rude, even though I’m still not sure if I’ve actually done something wrong.
The woman laughs and turns back to her car, checking to make sure the gas has stopped before she puts the nozzle back in the pump and slides her credit card.
“Your eyes are all puffy. I remember eyes like that when I was your age. Fight with the boyfriend?”
Her all-knowing condescension really pisses me off and I stop regretting my earlier comments. People always think they know what you’re going through and how to fix it, usually before they even ask you what’s wrong. Not all of us are so simple. Not everyone’s problems can be wiped away with a Hershey bar and a pat on the head. My problems aren’t that simple and I’m pretty lucky when it comes to most things in life. I can’t imagine how this woman would react to someone who really was a “troubled teen” -- I’m just grieving.
“Hard to fight with someone who’s dead,” I spit back a lot more harshly than I intend or maybe I do mean it. I’m not exactly trying to be polite. I punch the button to print my receipt and wish that stupid woman would stop staring at me.
“Your boyfriend died?” Now she’s looking at me with those “you poor thing” eyes. I really hate people thinking I can’t handle things, like I’m so fragile I’ll break if it rains. Sure, I’m miserable and I miss William like crazy, and I’m not really sure what I have to do to get to that moving-on place everyone seems to talk about, but I am tougher than I look. I sleep, I eat, I do what I need to do, and not once have I thought about killing myself. Isn’t that enough for right now?
“It’s fine. It was six months ago. I should probably be over it by now. It’s just the holiday coming up and everything. It’s not, like, a big deal anymore or anything,” I start muttering and look down at my feet. It’s taking forever for my receipt to print. I just want to go back into my car and drive.
“Oh, trust me, I know that’s bull.” She gives a dark chuckle that leaves me startled. I wouldn’t have thought she was capable of a sound like that. She doesn’t seem the type. “At six months it’s still a very big deal. I’m at six years without my husband and it’s still a big deal.”
“Life’s a bitch,” I try to shrug it off, but something about what she said makes me want to talk to her for just a little longer (and regret being so rude to begin with).
“And it gets worse when you’re living it without the person who was supposed to help you through it.”
“Yeah.”I finally get the nerve to lift my head and look her in the eyes. “It’s like life gets harder and the person who always helped you out can’t , so it gets even worse. It’s like you have no one to rely on and everything just gets so hard.” I’m back to staring at my feet. I hate opening up to people. I don’t sound like myself when I try to say out loud what I’m thinking. I sound like a rambling idiot. At least I’ll probably never see this woman again, so that’s something, I guess.
See Attendant for Receipt. I groan, hopefully not too loud. I just want to get my receipt and drive away, but now I can’t.
“Anyway, I have to get my receipt. Nice meeting you.” It was a lame ending to the conversation, but I’m not sure how to handle it.
“M
e too. I’ll walk with you. Would you like a coffee, hot chocolate? My treat.”
Hot chocolate sounds fantastic. I’m cold and sad and really in need of comfort. Even if that comfort comes from an automatic dispenser into a Styrofoam cup. I don’t want to admit I want it, though. Something about that seems too immature. I guess if there’s a point when you’re growing up where you don’t feel like you have to sacrifice all those little kid pleasures to prove you’re an adult. I haven’t made it to that point yet. I still want people to think I’m grown up, that I should be a coffee drinker. I actually do like coffee. I just really want that hot chocolate.
“I really don’t need anything.”
“Well, I could use a hot chocolate. How ‘bout I just get you one anyway and you can drink it if you want.” She winks at me like she knows what I am thinking.
“I guess if you’re getting it anyway, it wouldn’t be fair to let it go to waste.”
“Well, excellent.”
We both get our receipts and hot chocolate and start walking back to our cars.
“My husband and I always looked forward to winter so we could have an excuse to get the good, expensive kind of hot chocolate. We waited all year so it would stay special and make the cold days a little easier to take. Just one of those funny little traditions you start after awhile. You don’t even really realize it’s a tradition until you’re doing it by yourself.”
I pause next to my car door and finally manage to look up at her without sarcasm or anger giving me confidence.
“Does it ever get better?”
She smiles sadly, and shakes her head.
“It does get easier, though. You never really move on like everyone claims you should, but you don’t have to carry it with you all the time and you can leave it somewhere. But you’ll always go back to it every now and then, and sometimes it catches you off-guard .But it gets easier.” The woman wipes a rogue tear away from her eye and takes a deep breath. “Here’s my card. It has my e-mail on the bottom. Send me a message if you want to talk. I know you need to get going now, but sometimes it helps to know you aren’t alone.”
“Thanks.” It sounds a little lame, even to me, but I try to smile before I get in my car and lock the door. She’s right. Sometimes it does help to know you’re not alone, but this trip is supposed to be all about me. Well, me and William.
I put the car in drive and finish up the rest of my hour. The hard part has to be over now.
To: William Davis
Message: Will! I made it! Safe and sound. I mean, I’m sure you know because you have the new ability to watch over all the people you care about (I hope), but I thought I’d let you know anyway. Already called my parents. They miss me, but I should be back for Christmas. We got a mega-break this year because we’re seniors and don’t have to take exams. You’d be jealous. I’m pretty sure I’d be rubbing this in your face every day you still had school. Hell, I might just do it anyway. Although wherever you are, you’re probably thinking it’s better than here and that I’m the one who doesn’t know what I’m missing. I keep hoping I’ll get a Christmas miracle, the kind they make Lifetime movies about, you know? Where it turns out you aren’t really dead and you come back on Christmas and surprise me, and it’s just some weird freak accident or you were working black -ops or something.
I’m a little mad at you because you haven’t come back to visit me as a ghost. I keep hoping maybe you’ll show up and we can talk. I want to be able to say something to you, all those things I never got a chance to earlier. Even just a dream, where I get to be with you one last time, that’d be nice too. You really fail at this whole “being a ghost” thing. I’d like to say that’s a sign you’ve “moved on” or whatever, but that’s not how it works, or maybe it is. I just figured you’d have something to say to me before you left.
Oh well, I’ll keep hoping for some kind of miracle anyway. I can dream, right? I’ll let you know how things go tomorrow; I have to get everything charged and find a way to make myself comfortable on a pull-out couch. You know how much I hate sleeping in places that aren’t my bed.
“Other people can never give you things you have to find yourself.”
My goal for today is to meet William’s roommates at the house he was living in. I’m not really sure how that will help since he didn’t even sound that close to them, but it was a part of his life, so maybe there’ll be something there that can help. It’s a nice-looking rental house. The lawn is cut, the place has been painted and maintained. It’s nothing special, but it doesn’t look trashed either.
I double-check to make sure I got the address right before I get out of the car. I’m not really sure what I’m going to say. They aren’t expecting me, they don’t know me, I’m not even sure if William told them I was his girlfriend. I still force myself out of the car. I will myself up to the door. For some reason, I don’t feel like William’s with me today.
“Hey.” Some guy opens the door a(and) just stares at me. He doesn’t ask what I want or who I am, just stares. I become acutely aware of how much I wanted, maybe even needed, a plan to help me function in the world. And here I am in a strange city, on the doorstep of a strange house, in front of someone who has no idea who I am, with nothing to say. I want to just hand him a Bible, tell him I’m a Mormon, and run. But I don’t have a Bible, nor do I have a working knowledge of the Mormon faith, so I just stand there looking awkward.
“You want something?”
He isn’t being rude, but he isn’t being nice either. He must be a few years older than me, early twenties probably. I don’t recognize him from any of the pictures William showed me. I wonder if I have the wrong address.
“Um.” I hate how my voice goes all soft and mousey when I’m nervous or don’t know what to say. At least that makes me want to speak up. “I’m William Davis’s girlfriend. I think he used to live here.”
“Oh, yeah. Not anymore. I’ve got his old room. I think he moved back home.”
“Sort of. He’s dead.” I’ve never said it so matter-of-factly before, like it was just a state of being and not a tragedy. I don’t even start to tear up. I just say it like I’d say, “My name is Christine, but I prefer Criss, not Cris, or Tina.”
“Ah.” He steps to the side and opens the door wider. I walk in, even though he hasn’t actually invited me. I figure it’s implied.
“He relapse?” he asks as matter-of-factly as I said “he’s dead”.
“I don’t know for sure. The detective said it was a good possibility. She seemed pretty sure, you know once an addict always an addict.”
“Sounds like my mom.” He gives a dark look over my shoulder, like there’s someone standing behind me. “Don’t know for sure, though?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Yeah, I get that. I probably wouldn’t wanna know either. Not like knowing’s gonna bring him back. I’m Jay, by the way.” He shakes my hand and walks down a small hallway to a room in the back. “This used to be his room, but it was cleaned out before I moved in. Don’t think there’s anything of his left.” He shrugs but invites me in anyway.
“It’s okay. I’m not even really sure why I came here,anyway. I don’t know what I thought I’d find.”
“Nah, it’s fine. We’re all looking for answers or some philosophical shit like that. But hey, if I run into any of his junk that got left behind, I’ll let you know.” He’s nice, but obviously wants me to leave. I understand that. This is his room now, his house, his life. William isn’t here anymore.
“Thanks.” I turn to walk out and Jay doesn’t walk me to the door. It’s so strange that something so life-shattering to me can be nothing to him. I guess that’s how it is, though. If Jay died, my world really wouldn’t change any. I wonder why it had to be William? He wasn’t any worse than any other addict in the world. But that’s a question people have been asking variations of for years, and most people are probably glad it happened to William and not their kid. It’s strange how humanity works
, isn’t it? Always glad it didn’t happen to us.
“Hey!”
I practically run into another one of the guys heading back into the house from his car. This one looks vaguely familiar.
“Sorry.”
“No, you look familiar. You’re Crissy, right? Davis’s girl.”
“How’d you know?”
“Recognized you from your picture . He talked about you all the time. It got fucking annoying. Nice to meet you, though.” He smiles, and doesn’t seem concerned that I’m this close to his house and William hasn’t been there for months.
He slams the door shut, and I edge around him to open it again. He doesn’t seem concerned that I’m leaving, either, doesn’t ask about William or why I’m there. It’s not what I expected at all. Nothing about Minnesota is what I expected. William talked about me. That makes me smile, him being alive and talking about me. I make sure to hold onto that memory as I start up the car.
I’m not sure what else to do for the rest of the day, it’s already late afternoon, so I just drive around town. I guess I could go back to my aunt’s house and spend some time with my extended family, but that would just lead to them asking all sorts of obnoxious questions like: Why are you here? Who is this guy you keep looking for? How did he die? Why did no one know you had a boyfriend? How does this all make you feel? Are you going completely nuts? All questions I’m not too crazy about answering. I’m sure plenty of other people would ask me the same questions if they could, but even if I wanted to give them answers, I’m not sure I could. I don’t know what’s going on with me, I don’t know what happened with William, and I have no idea if I’m still in my right mind.
Instead of wasting time trying to figure out the answers to the more difficult questions the universe is throwing at me, I decide to focus on the one, almost universal, question people ask themselves when they don’t know what else to do: What should I eat? I don’t really want any more Chinese food. I’m sick of it and I’m mad at fortune cookies, but it’s also the only thing I can think of to eat. Sort of like when you say “don’t think about something” and that something is all you can think about. Well, when you tell yourself you don’t want to eat Chinese food, Chinese food is the only thing you can think of to eat.
Chasing William Page 11