I Was Here

by Gayle Forman

  I shove the money into my metal box under the bed. Tricia has been known to pilfer cash if it’s lying around. The house is quiet and stuffy, more claustrophobic than normal. I slide on my flip-flops and walk into town. Outside the Dairy Queen, I see a bunch of people I went to school with clustered on the benches under the cottonwood trees, including Troy Boggins. They wave and I wave back but they don’t invite me to sit down with them and I don’t pretend I want to.

  I go to the library instead. Now that Meg is gone and her house is no longer my second home, this is my sanctuary. Plus, it has air-conditioning.

  Mrs. Banks is sitting behind the reference desk, and when she sees me, she waves me over. “Cody, where have you been? I was about to send these back.” She pulls out a rubber-banded stack of books, more of the Central Europeans. Karel Capek’s War with the Newts, Bohumil Hrabal’s Too Loud a Solitude, a collection of Kafka short stories.

  “Thanks,” I say. I am out of books, but as soon as I enter the cool of the library, I understand that’s not why I’m here.

  I make my way to the computer terminals. I type Final Solution and suicide into the search box. It brings up mostly Hitler and neo-Nazi stuff, though there is one page that seems promising, but when I click on it, it won’t load. I try the other sites from the search, and they won’t either.

  “Is there something wrong with the computers?” I ask Mrs. Banks.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I can’t get pages to load.”

  “Cody,” she asks, “are you looking at naughty sites?”

  She’s teasing, but I flush red anyway. “I’m doing a research project.”

  “On what?”

  “Neo-Nazi groups.” Another lie. It just pops right out.

  “Ahh, that’ll do it. I can lift the filters for you if you like,” she says.

  “No,” I say quickly. Nobody can know about this. And that’s when I remember I have my own computer now. And the library has free Wi-Fi. “I mean, I have to leave now. But tomorrow?”

  “Anytime, Cody,” she says. “I trust you.”

  x x x

  The next day, I bring Meg’s laptop to the library, and before I get started, Mrs. Banks shows me how to get around the filters. Then I get to work. The Final Solution website isn’t so much a website as an entry portal. You have to click on a button claiming that you’re over eighteen. When I do, I’m redirected to an index with different topic headings. I open a few messages. A lot of them are spam. A lot more are ranting. I scroll through a few pages and it seems like a waste of time. And then I see a subject heading: What about My Wife?

  The post is from some guy who claims he wants to kill himself but wonders what it would be like for his wife, whom he loves. Will it ruin her life? he writes.

  There’s a string of replies below. The majority opinion is that his wife will probably be relieved, that she’s probably miserable too, and by offing himself he’ll put them both out of their misery. Women are way better at bouncing back from this kind of thing, one person writes. She’ll probably remarry within a few years and be much better off.

  Who are these people? Is this who Meg was talking to?

  I read the responses again, so casual that you’d think they’re offering advice on how to fix a broken carburetor, and as I do, my neck grows hot and something churns in my stomach. I don’t know if these people had anything to do with Meg. I don’t know if this guy really intended to kill himself, or if he actually did. But I know one thing: You don’t just bounce back.

  16

  After discovering the Final Solution boards, I spend every moment I can combing through the archives.

  Shitburg’s not a very wired place, so basically all my research is done at the library, which, even with Meg’s intervention, is only open limited hours, most of which overlap with my job. If we had an Internet connection at home, I could get a lot more done, but when I raise the topic with Tricia, even offer to pay, she scoffs. “Why would we get that?”

  Once upon a time, I would’ve gone to the Garcias and used their computer. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that anymore, even if I weren’t digging into Meg’s suicide. So, the library it is.

  “How are you liking the Czechs?” Mrs. Banks asks me one afternoon. I’m confused for a second, and then I remember the books I checked out. I haven’t cracked a single spine.

  “They’re interesting,” I lie. Normally, I read two or three books a week and have very specific plot or character-related comments for her.

  “Would you like me to renew them for you?”

  “That would be great. Thank you.” I turn back to my computer.

  “Still working on that research project?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Anything I can help you with?” She leans in to look at the screen.

  “No!” I say a little too loudly as I quickly minimize the window.

  Mrs. Banks looks taken aback. “Sorry. You’ve been so focused, I thought you might need help.”

  “Thanks. I’m okay. I guess I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  This part is true. Every day more posts are added. There are the ones asking for encouragement or advice on how to tie a noose, and the ones from people with terminally ill spouses or friends who want to help them die with dignity. And then there are the completely random rants about Israel or gas prices or who won Idol. There’s a whole language that’s used, shorthand for different methods, slang, like catching the bus, which is the way people here talk about offing themselves.

  Mrs. Banks nods knowingly. “I used to be a research librarian. When you’re dealing with an unwieldy topic, the trick is to home in on a target. You have to aim for something specific rather than cast a wide net. So, maybe an element of the neo- Nazi movement?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  After she walks away, I ponder what she said. There is a function to search the archives, but when I used that to look for the kind of poison Meg took or the motel she went to or University of the Cascades or anything else specific to her, nothing came up.

  But then I go and look at the actual notes and see that everyone has to use some form of user ID. Obviously, Meg wasn’t going to use Meg. So I try other things. Runtmeyer. But nothing comes up. Luisa, her middle name. Nothing. I type in the names of her favorite bands. The girl rock stars that she wanted to be. Nothing. I’m about ready to give up when I try Firefly.

  A whole screen of messages comes up. Some of them contain references to fireflies. And there are at least a dozen usernames that are a variation of Firefly. It seems to be a popular name—maybe because fireflies have such brief lives.

  And it’s while I’m contemplating the link between fireflies and suicidal people that I see it: Firefly1021. 10/21. October 21. Scottie’s birthday. With trembling fingers, I go to the oldest one, from earlier this year. The subject line reads Baby Steps.

  I have been thinking of this for such a long time and I don’t know if I’m ready, but I’m ready to admit to thinking about it. Much as I like to think of myself as a Buffy, a kick-ass, fearless person, I don’t know if I’m fearless enough to do this. Is anyone?

  This must be how archaeologists feel when they unearth hidden civilizations. Or how that guy felt when he found the sunken Titanic. When you know something is gone, but you’ve found it too.

  Because, here, this is Meg.

  I scan the replies. There are more than a dozen of them. They are so warm, welcoming her to the group, congratulating her on being brave enough to admit her feelings, telling her that her life belongs to her and it’s hers to do with as she pleases. And it’s the oddest thing, because even though I know what these people are congratulating her for, my first reaction is pride. Because these people met my Meg; they’re seeing how amazing she is.

  I keep going.
A lot of the missives read like they were written by sixth graders, full of typos and grammatical mistakes. But there is one at the bottom from a user called All_BS that stands out.

  Baby steps? Is there such a thing? Lao-Tzu famously said: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” He also said this: “Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.” You have taken your first step, not toward death but toward a different way of living your life. That itself is the definition of fearless.

  17

  After I read that response to Meg’s email, I ran out of the library like the chicken shit that I am, vowing never to go back on those boards. It takes two days to break that vow. And I don’t do it out of any kind of bravery. I do it for the same reason I gave in and slept on her sheets back in Tacoma. To be closer to her. Every time I read one of her posts, even though she’s writing about death, she feels alive.

  Firefly1021

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Here’s the thing that screws with my head. Afterlife. What if there is actually an afterlife, and it’s just as bad as the current life? What if I escape the pain of this life only to land somewhere worse? When I imagine death, it’s liberation, a release from pain. But my family is Catholic, big believers in hell, and while I don’t believe in that version of it, with devils and damnation and all that, what if there’s just more of this? What if that is what hell is?

  Flg_3: Hell is a bullshit Christian construct to keep you in line. Don’t buy it. If your in pain, you do what you do to end the pain. Animals bite of there own claws. Humans are more enlitened and have different tools.

  Sassafrants: Hell is other people.

  Trashtalker: If the afterlife sux, kill yourself again.

  All_BS: Do you remember pain from before you were born? Do you remember the torment from before you came into this world? Sometimes a pain is tolerable until it is touched, a tender bruise jostled. So it is with the pain of this life; it is brought about by this mortal coil. “It is not death or pain that is to be dreaded, but the fear of pain or death,” wrote Epictetus. Stop fearing. Stop dreading. The pain will go away and you will be freed.

  All_BS. The one who called her fearless before. The one who writes in complete sentences and quotes dead philosophers. The one who, in a twisted sort of way, makes sense.

  I read this latest message again, and a voice inside my head yells: Stop talking to her. Leave her alone.

  As if this is still happening. As if it’s not already too late.

  Firefly1021

  To Medicate or Not to Medicate?

  A friend told me to go to the campus health center to get some meds, so I talked to a nurse there. I didn’t tell her everything that was going on, not about what we’ve been talking about here. But the nurse started going on about the first years away at school and the Northwest Effect and it sounded like standard boilerplate. She gave me some pamphlets and samples and made me an appointment to come back in two weeks, but I think I’ll blow it off. I’ve always said it’s better to be hated than it is to be ignored. Maybe on the same lines, it’s better to feel this than to feel nothing.

  It’s one thing to type messages into the ether, but it sounds like she was talking to someone in the real world, too. Someone else other than me. The hot boil of jealousy shames me. It’s so pathetic. I’m waging a tug of war, but no one else is holding the other end of the rope.

  I skim the responses. Some people warn Meg about SSRIs being a mind-control plot devised by the pharmaceutical industry. Others say that taking them will numb her soul. Others claim that humans have always used mind-altering substances, and antidepressants are merely the latest incarnation.

  And then there’s this response:

  All_BS: There is a difference between using a natural substance like peyote to engage in a consciousness-expanding experience versus allowing a bunch of drones in lab coats to manipulate brain chemistry to such a precise degree that thoughts and feelings are controlled. Have you read Brave New World? These new miracle medications are nothing but Soma, a government-produced narcotic to blot out individuality and dissent. Firefly, it is an act of bravery to feel your feelings.

  Oh, Meg would’ve loved that. It’s an act of bravery to feel your feelings, even if your feelings are telling you to die.

  And again, I wonder: Why didn’t she come to me? Why wasn’t I the one she asked for help?

  Did I miss something in her emails? I open my webmail, checking to see what messages she might have sent me in January, which is when she posted this one to the boards. But there are no emails between us from January.

  It wasn’t a fight, exactly. It was too quiet to be a fight. Meg was staying in Tacoma for part of the winter break because of her work-study job, so she was only coming home for the ten days around Christmas and New Year’s. I was so excited to see her, but then at the last minute she said she had to go to southern Oregon to visit Joe’s family, so she wouldn’t even be coming home. Normally, I would’ve been invited to join them in Oregon. But I wasn’t. Well, not until the day before New Year’s Eve, when Meg called and begged me to come down. “Rescue me from the holidays,” she said, sounding frazzled. “My parents are driving me crazy.”

  “Really?” I replied. “Because I spent Christmas Day eating an eight-dollar turkey plate at the diner with Tricia, and that was magical.” Before, we might have laughed about this—as if the patheticness of my life with Tricia belonged to someone else—but it didn’t and so it wasn’t funny.

  “Oh,” Meg said. “I’m sorry.”

  I’d been angling for pity, but now that I had it, it only made me angrier. I told her I had to work, and we hung up. And when New Year’s came, we didn’t even call each other. We didn’t communicate for a while after that. I wasn’t sure how to break the ice because we hadn’t fought, exactly. When Mr. Purdue grabbed my ass—a piece of news, at last—it gave me the opening, and I emailed her as if nothing had happened.

  I scroll back to September, when she left for school. I read Meg’s initial emails, the Meg-like rambling descriptions of her housemates, complete with scanned drawings. I remember how I read those messages over and over, even though it physically hurt to do so. I missed her so much, and wished I could’ve been there, could’ve gone through with our plans. But I never told her that.

  There’s a lot that I didn’t tell her. And even more that she didn’t tell me.

  Firefly1021

  Guilt

  I keep thinking about my family, not so much my parents as my little brother. What would this do to him?

  All_BS: James Baldwin wrote that “Freedom is not something that anybody can be given. Freedom is something people take, and people are as free as they want to be.” You have to decide if you’re willing to grab your freedom, and if in doing so, you might inadvertently set others free. Who knows what path your decision will lead your brother down? Perhaps freed of your shadow, perhaps freed to be his own person, he will be able to fulfill a potential he might not otherwise reach.

  Firefly1021: All_BS, You’re bizarrely insightful. I always feel like my brother is limited, by me, by my mother. He’d be a different person if we weren’t around. But you can’t say such things.

  All_BS: Except here we are saying them.

  Firefly1021: Here we are. It’s why I love this forum. Anything goes. Everything is said. Even the things that are unspeakable.

  All_BS: Yes. So many taboos in our culture, starting with death. It’s not so in other cultures that see it as part of a seamless cycle: birth, life, death. Similarly, other cultures view suicide as a brave and honorable path to life. The samurai Yamamoto Tsunetomo wrote: “The way of the warrior is death. This means choosing death whenever there is a choice between life and death. It means nothing more than this. It means to see things through, being resolved.” I think you have the warrior in you, Firefly
.

  Firefly1021: Warrior? Not so sure I can handle a sword.

  All_BS: It’s not about the sword. It’s about the spirit. You have to tap in to your strength.

  Firefly1021: How? How do I tap into it? How do you do something that brave?

  All_BS: You screw your courage to the sticking place.

  Firefly1021: Screw your courage to the sticking place. I like that! You always say the most inspiring things. I could talk to you all day.

  All_BS: I can’t take credit for that. It’s Shakespeare. But there is a way for us to communicate more immediately, and privately. Set up a new email account and post the address. I’ll email you instructions and we can take it from there.

  I taste the sour tang of envy again. I’m not sure if it’s because I can sense the closeness between Meg and All_BS. Or if it’s because in her litany of people she worried about leaving behind, she mentioned her parents, her brother, but she didn’t mention me.

  18

  I get a new client. Mrs. Driggs. She takes me through the house and we both act like I’ve never been here before. It’s funny how once you start pretending, you realize how much everyone else is too.

  The house isn’t big—it’s a three-bedroom ranch style—and it already seems pretty clean because she lives there alone. Her husband is gone, dead or divorced or maybe never there. When I was here last, it was just her and her son, Jeremy, and, as everyone in town knows, he is doing three years at Coyote Ridge on drug charges. He got sent away a year ago, but Mrs. Driggs shows me his room, asks me to change the sheets on his bed each week, vacuum the rug.

  Jeremy’s room looks a lot like it did the one time I came here with Meg in high school: the reggae posters, the psychedelic wall tapestries. Meg had heard that Jeremy had a snake and was fascinated by seeing it eat. So even though he was a senior and Meg and I were freshmen, she got him to invite us over.