As I’m wondering how I managed to get to be fifteen years old without having fifteen friends, I see Jessica Wei at her locker, switching her books before lunch. And I think: One way to prove that I’m not hiding is to actually step toward someone else.
She doesn’t act like it’s unusual for me to be hovering over her. In fact, she acts like she was waiting for me to show up.
“How’s it going?” I ask her.
“Not bad.” She closes her locker, looks at me. “The question is: How about you?”
“I’m completely messed up,” I tell her. “I’m not sure I have anywhere I can live. And, let me tell you—that sucks.”
And Jessica, who doesn’t really know me at all, says, “Fuck. I figured it was bad, but I didn’t know you were homeless.”
My first instinct is to protest. Tell her no, no, no, no, no—homeless is an old man who hasn’t showered in weeks, pushing a shopping cart full of bottles. Homeless is a family whose house has been ripped apart by a tornado. Homeless is a queer teen kicked out of their house because of who they are, and forced to live in a shelter, or under a bridge, or in the back of a car.
I am not homeless, I say to myself.
But then I ask myself back, So what are you, then? Where is your home?
Which makes me realize: I am homeless.
I haven’t had a safe home for years.
Now I have no home.
Jessica doesn’t act like it’s strange that I’m lost in my head for a minute while she’s standing there. When I come back, I start to apologize, and she tells me not to. I don’t have to. There’s no need.
The problem is, at that moment, Serena shows up, asking what’s taking Jessica so long. Serena asks this with me standing right there. It’s clear I’m the thing that’s taking her so long.
Childishly, I want Jessica to tell Serena to leave us alone. But Serena is Jessica’s good friend. Maybe her best friend. I, meanwhile, am no one and nothing to her. What right do I have?
Jessica tells Serena she’ll be right there. Serena, satisfied, heads to the cafeteria.
Jessica turns back to me and says, “Come have lunch with us.”
I shake my head and tell her I can’t.
She asks me why. And I say, “If it were just you, I totally would.” Then I realize how awful that sounds and add, “Which isn’t anything against Serena and your other friends. They’re fine. But I can’t say the same things to them that I can say to you. Not that you’re under any obligation whatsoever to listen to me. I know I’m, like, a stranger. Or kind-of a stranger. I mean—we’re not friends, exactly. And you should be with your friends.”
I’m telling you, Bea—it was pathetic. Like I’d forgotten how human beings are supposed to act in social situations.
But instead of running away, Jessica says, “No, I get it. And honestly? If there was any way to blow them off, I would. It’s just that we have a project due sixth period that isn’t near ready to be handed in, so I need to be there. But look—how about we get coffee after school tomorrow? Just us.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to hide (hide!) my disappointment. I need a friend now, not tomorrow afternoon.
Though that’s stupid too. Because what am I going to say to her? Hey, you don’t really know me, but I am losing my mind, in no small part because my runaway sister might be meeting our runaway father in a few hours, so it’s like this huge part of my life is happening thousands of miles away from my body.
No. I don’t think so.
The only person I can say that to is you. So here I am, saying it.
My life?
It’s going to be on hold until I hear back from you.
At this point, I don’t even care how it plays out. I just want it to be past tense, so we know what it is, and can figure out how to deal with it.
Good luck,
Ezra
Subject: Hello
From: LONDON WOOSTER
To: Ezra
Date: Thurs 18 Apr 20:03 CST
Dear Ezra Ahern,
My name is London Jonathan Calvin Wooster. I’m fourteen years old (almost fifteen!), and Bea told me to write this. I’m the one who’s been contacting her. It’s my fault that she left home two months before graduating high school, and it’s my fault that you set your house on fire and had to go live somewhere else. I sent her the messages and asked her to come out here. I thought she’d bring you too. I’m your brother.
I’m sorry.
Sincerely yours,
London Wooster
Subject: Hello again
From: LONDON WOOSTER
To: Ezra
Date: Thurs 18 Apr 23:21 CST
Dear Ezra Ahern,
It’s me again, London Wooster. I know you don’t know me, and I’m sorry to drop this crap bomb on you, but I figure the best way to get through this catastrophe is to try to explain.
I’m your brother. Technically your half brother. Surprise! I’m writing to you because Bea has taken off and I don’t know where she’s gone or if I’ll hear from her again and there are some things I think you should know.
There’s no good way to say this. I’m trying to imagine how I’d feel if I got an email like this from someone I didn’t know. I’d probably be like F you, and maybe stop reading. Except that I’m naturally curious, so I probably wouldn’t stop reading.
I hope you won’t stop reading. This is pretty much the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Writing to you, I mean. The stupidest thing I’ve ever done is this:
A few months ago I wrote to Bea pretending to be our dad. It took her a while to write me back, but then she did and we started talking. I couldn’t believe it! At some point I told her I was dying. Not actual me but Dad me. I didn’t even plan it, it just came out. And before I could change my mind it was out there. And then she said she was coming to see me before it was too late because she wanted to know me, and I kept not saying anything to stop her, and I may have told her that I was dying immediately. And then she actually showed up!
The thing about my dad—our dad—dying wasn’t a total lie. He died last year from a heart attack. He was a good dad. I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. But he was. He was maybe the greatest dad, but then I don’t have anything to compare him to and that’s not, like, based on scientific knowledge or anything. I just really loved him. And I miss him. All the things I wrote to Bea about him were true. He wished on 11:11. He never made left-hand turns. He didn’t pick up pennies for good luck because he said he was already lucky, so he left them for other people. Those are just a few of the good things.
So I’m really sorry about the crap bomb, but in some ways, I think I kind of know how you feel. Because I just found out about you. I was going through boxes. All these boxes of his stuff. And there you were. Actually there Bea was. Jumping off the pages of his journal where he wrote all about this second family he never ever mentioned! The detectives he hired. The ones that discovered your sister was living in Indiana under the name Beatrix Ahern.
You weren’t in the journal. I found out about you from Bea. I’m not sure Dad ever knew you existed.
I’m sorry about that too. I feel like in some way it’s my fault because your mother, Anne Wooster, left him after he got my mum pregnant with me.
Apologetically yours,
London Wooster
Subject: Some things about me
From: LONDON WOOSTER
To: Ezra
Date: Fri 19 Apr 08:12 CST
Dear Ezra Ahern,
My friends call me Lo. Not that we’re friends and not that I’m assuming we ever will be, but I just wanted you to know you can call me that if you want.
Or maybe you’ll think of an
other name, which is cool too. I’ve always wanted a unique nickname. My best friend, Thomas Warmflash, has been Wormy since second grade. And my friend Megan Louise Vanacore is Midge to her family, The Meg to Wormy and me, Vanna to her girlfriend, and Lou to everyone else.
Other things about me:
I’m sneak-writing this on my phone, sitting in this gnarled-up oak tree outside my bedroom window. When I was seven I named it Captain America because it was big and strong and seemed kind. That probably sounds crazy. But then I’m sure all of this sounds crazy to you.
My mom’s name is Amelia and she’s a landscape architect. So I know a lot about plants. (Most people call her Ames for short, but our dad called her Amélie, like the movie.)
From Captain I can see all the way to the river and the arch.
I’m in ninth grade.
I’m going to send you a picture of myself so you can see if we look alike. Bea and I have the same nose, which is our dad’s nose. She took one look at it and said, “So you got it too. I’m sorry.”
I have a dog named Mustache. He’s six.
When I get older I want to be an archeologist. Dad used to take me to watch these digs sponsored by the university, and sometimes they would let me help out.
I’m good at digging.
I’ve never had a brother before but I’ve always wanted one.
Sincerely yours,
Lo
Subject: One more thing
From: LONDON WOOSTER
To: Ezra
Date: Fri 19 Apr 20:48 CST
Dear Ezra Ahern,
I should probably stop writing to you because I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything, but I just wanted to say again how sorry I am.
I hope you’ll think about writing me back. I’ll hang out in Captain till you do.
Your brother,
London
Subject: Last one, I swear
From: LONDON WOOSTER
To: Ezra
Date: Sat 20 Apr 00:52 CST
Dear Ezra Ahern,
Actually I’m not really going to hang out in Captain all night because it’s not that comfortable and I have to be up early for a dig at Sappington House, the oldest brick house in the county. Also Mom would kill me. And what if you don’t write back for hours or ever? I’d be up here for a long time and I’m sure I’d get hungry.
So goodnight, Ezra. And if you decide not to write me back, goodbye. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you. And who knows? Maybe you’ll be sorry you didn’t get to know me too.
London
p.s. I didn’t mean that in a threatening way. I just meant that maybe you’ve always wanted a brother, like I have, and here I am.
p.p.s. I wish I could climb back into the TARDIS and do it all differently, but in some weird way I felt like meeting you would be like holding on to a piece of Dad.
Subject: FW: Last one, I swear
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Sat 20 Apr 02:12 EST
Bea,
Please tell me what’s going on. I need to hear it from you, because I don’t trust anything else.
Ez
Subject: FW: Hello
From: Ahern, Ezra
To: Hall, Terrence
Date: Sat 20 Apr 07:24 EST
Terrence,
This is what’s going on with me this morning.
No one else is awake yet here, but they will be soon. I have to get out of here.
I don’t know what to do. But at least you now know what’s happening.
xoxo,
Ezra
Subject: RE: FW: Hello
From: Hall, Terrence
To: Ahern, Ezra
Date: Sat 20 Apr 07:27 EST
Come over. Right now.
I’m here for you.
<3 T
Subject: FW: Last one, I swear
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Sat 20 Apr 10:12 EST
I reached for him, Bea, and he was there. Terrence.
This simple thing that has never been an easy thing—this time it worked.
And I cried, because I don’t think it’s ever worked for me before. Not like this.
I cried because Mom was never there for me when I reached for her. Not really.
I cried because you’re not here for me to reach for.
I cried because my father is dead, and I never got to reach for him.
I cried because you don’t understand how deep the deep end goes until you’re actually drowning.
I cried and it was almost okay, because I was crying in Terrence’s arms. And this time he knew everything he needed to know, everything about me that needed to be held.
I cried because his presence allowed me to let myself cry.
I cried because at that moment, Bea, I was too exhausted to be angry, too defeated to lash out.
I cried because when I got to his house, his father didn’t understand why I was there so early on a Saturday morning, and Terrence came right out and said, “He’s my boyfriend, Dad. My boyfriend. I love him, and if that’s a problem, we can talk about it later. Right now, he needs me, and there’s no way I’m going to let you stand in the way of that.”
I cried because I’d had no idea how much I had needed him to say that.
I cried because his father stepped aside, and his mother made me breakfast.
I cried because I am starting to realize that to love someone, to really love them deeply, is to want them to be family.
I let all these things crescendo within me. I let myself feel all of them at once. I felt the loss most of all. The loss of the home I never had. The loss of so much of my life until now. Loss should be a numbness. An emptiness. But it’s not. It is the most painful part.
I wondered: Did Mom and Darren hurt us more by what they did or by what they didn’t do? Which wounds us more—the hostile presence or the absent kindness?
I thought about all these things. I felt them all.
And then I took hold of not only Terrence, but everything else I have.
I told myself this is the restart, this is the first morning of something new.
I stopped crying.
I sat on my boyfriend’s floor as he gathered my crumpled tissues and offered me another. He was joining me in the deep end, neither of us knowing what to say.
We’ve never been like this before. We’ve certainly left the shallows before, when he would vent about his father’s conditional love and his mother’s inability to persuade him out of it, or when I would share what I was willing to share about what was going on in our house. One night he asked me point-blank if the abuse had ever gotten more than yelling and the occasional shove and the even more occasional blow. And I told him that was the extent of it, and he said that was still more than too much. I didn’t disagree, but we didn’t go further than that, trying to figure out an escape plan. Not in the shallows, but treading water. Not the deep end, because I still thought I could find my footing if I stopped treading.
But now, in the deep end, I need him beside me because if I stop, if I tire, I will go under and not come back up. I may need him to carry me to shore, and he’s letting me know he’s strong enough to do it.
* * *
—
I’m still there. On his floor. In the deep end. Only now with his laptop, and him giving me a little space so I can write to you. He says I have to write to you. He says I have to understand the full situation.
I know he’s right. I feel this could all go badly, me relying on him so much. But I also feel it would be stupid not to rely on someone who has always been reli
able to me. I don’t think I understood that until now. Not so clearly. The importance of reliability, because it’s not something I’ve known much firsthand.
Okay, deep breath…this is what I want to say to you.
If London is who he says he is—and the only reason I’m thinking he might be is because I can’t believe you would have given him my email address if he wasn’t—I’m not sure I want to have anything to do with him. I feel bad that his father’s dead. I feel bad that he’s always wanted a brother. But I can’t muster up any feelings other than those. The rest is my exhausted rage.
It makes it worse to know that our biological father was a good guy.
It makes it even worse to know that he’s gone now, and that none of that goodness will ever come our way.
It makes it worst of all to have learned this from a stranger, not you.
I feel like my whole life I’ve been playing this game called This Is Not As Bad As That. I would tell myself that our life with Mom and Darren wasn’t as bad as if they’d sexually abused us. Or hit us hard enough to break bones. Or kicked us out when they threatened to. Or prevented us from seeing Meemaw, the one person who actually tried to love us. It could always be worse. I’ve listed all the ways it could be worse. This Is Not As Bad As That.
Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this was the wrong game to play? Why didn’t I understand how broken my frame of reference was, and that I wasn’t the person who’d broken it?
Take Me With You When You Go Page 12
