Miles Away to Vivian Girl
May 24 3:14 AM
I just had a panic attack. At least, I think so. I’m thinking about all those times I’d sit with you gasping beside me and all I could do was rub your back and tell you to breathe. Slow down, V. Slowly. Deep breaths. I don’t have anybody to do that for me. Mamochka, maybe, but she’s sleeping, and it’d just worry her more. And I’m too old for that shit, man.
And you wanna know what brought all of this on? This awful panic attack stuff? A fucking three-pack of Trojans.
Because, yes, I bought condoms for my trip. The smallest box I could find, and it still feels like a thousand-pound weight on my chest.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
May 24 3:23 AM
And, God, I can’t even say it. I can’t even type it to a faceless oblivion. That’s how ashamed I feel right now.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
May 24 9:32 AM
Okay. I’ve slept a little. Not a peaceful drift, but pure exhaustion. I feel a little clearer now, though. So, we can try this again.
I want to have sex with someone.
First of all, I’d choose you. In a heartbeat. Like, if some magical hookup fairy came to me and said, You can bang anyone you want, Miles, anyone in the whole world. Hell, even aliens are up for grabs if you’re into that freaky tentacle shit. I’d be all, No, ma’am, just Vivian please. Awake and alive and in my arms. No question. BUT meanwhile in the real world . . . I am losing my mind here. I hate thinking this whole thing is about sex. Am I really that basic?
There’s no guidebook for Comaland, though. Nothing to tell me that a year and a half is long enough. I wish YOU could tell me a year and a half was long enough. Just like I wish you’d been able to rub my back and tell me to breathe, but, no, I’m just feeling my way in the dark, and it really, really sucks.
Maybe a year and a half is too long? Maybe I’m a loser for waiting around when I know you’re not going to wake up, and even if you did, you wouldn’t be you and we’d still never ever sleep together again. Brian definitely thinks I’ve waited long enough. And so does his cousin Audrey, who tried to hook up with me, like, a year ago. I almost did. I mean, the pants were off. But then came the guilt.
Damn, I’ve got more hang-ups about sex these days than a Pentecostal preacher’s daughter. I want to not feel guilty. I want to not feel like I’d be cheating on you. I can’t have that, like I can’t have one last little kiss on the shoulder. I’m not asking to fall in love again. Definitely not ready for that. But I’d like someone to touch me. And maybe push you to the back of my brain for a little while.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
May 31 10:33 PM
Just finished packing. I laid everything I needed to take to Iceland out on my bed like one of those knolling-style photographs you always see on travel blogs and menswear ads. A collection of related items, perfectly sorted and neatly arranged. There’s something soothing about creating order from chaos. I folded my wrinkled jeans and worn-out boxer briefs. Belt, passport, iPad, tiny toiletries, guidebook, chargers. Other than a few dumb slogan tees and a handful of ¾-gauge earrings, it was all pretty run-of-the-mill stuff.
It’s funny how boring it all seemed. Guess I’m pretty generic. On paper, anyway.
I unzipped my suitcase to find a slight dusting of white sand, a souvenir from my last big trip. The Definitely Not Disney Trip to Florida. You made us all swear up and down that we wouldn’t set foot in the Magic Kingdom.
“Why on earth,” Mom had asked, “don’t you want to go to Disney World?”
“Because my parents haven’t ever taken me,” you said. “I just think it’s something all parents HAVE to do.”
You were sixteen. At that point it seemed highly unlikely that your parents would ever take you to Disney, especially if you weren’t on speaking terms.
I was fourteen, and my parents had never taken me to Disney. And since you weren’t my girlfriend at the time, just this new and constant fixture at my house, I had to point out the fact that you were ruining my chances of meeting Mickey Mouse—not that that was ever a life goal or anything. Now, Princess Jasmine . . . maybe.
So, anyway, we all went to Florida. We drove because you were afraid of getting x-rayed and felt up by the TSA agents. We stayed in a condo that looked like a Barbie Dream House, and you and I soaked in the enormous bathtub together with our bathing suits on. Instead of Disney World, we went to Universal Studios, which, honestly, I think is probably better anyway. Because: Harry Potter.
That was a good trip. A happy trip.
Sometimes when I get really angry about your parents, Mamochka tells me that they’re just loving you the only way they know how. Like, somehow, keeping you alive makes up for being the reason you wanted to die. It never quite makes sense, but it used to be enough to calm me down. Now I think it’s bullshit. It’s bullshit, and I hate them for not loving you the right way and for never taking you to Disney World.
You should have let us take you instead.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 1 12:55 AM
I’ll be close to you tomorrow. The airport’s only, like, thirty minutes from your hospital. But I can’t go see you, because your parents filed an ex parte. Weird, isn’t it? I’m the last person you’d ever think would get slapped with a restraining order. I wish I’d known the last time I saw you it was truly the last time. I don’t know what I could have done differently, but there does seem to be a lack of closure here. So, for now, I’ll have to browse through my photos of you and kiss my phone screen goodbye instead of your cheek. Not really. I don’t actually make out with my phone or anything. That would be weird. I miss you, V. Love you.
Chapter Four
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 1 3:45 PM
Well, goddammit, I missed my flight. A connecting flight. There aren’t any flights from St. Louis to Iceland, so I had to fly to Boston first, but for whatever bullshit reason, I had this tiny little layover in Charlotte. Forty-five minutes. What the hell kind of layover is that? And since my last flight took thirty-five extra minutes to get off the ground, that gave me, like, ten minutes to haul ass across this giant airport, but by the time I got to the gate, it was too late. They’re putting me on the next flight to Boston, which arrives at eight. My flight to Keflavik leaves at nine, so assuming I can book it across another ginormous airport, I could still make it.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been up since the crack of dawn. First a two-hour drive to St. Louis, then this mess. I haven’t eaten because I thought I’d eat in Boston while I was waiting for my flight, but it looks like I have to eat now or not at all until I cross the Atlantic. So I bought a slice of pizza, but I’m too anxious to eat it. And now I’m annoyed at myself for wasting money.
The airport goodbyes in St. Louis were as teary and awkward as you’d expect, but now that I’m away from Mom and Mamochka, everything’s starting to sink in. It’s like I was bluffing this whole time. I didn’t actually expect my parents to be okay with me leaving like this. Do you know (of course you don’t) that I’m going to be there for a month? Seriously, they booked me an entire month at a hotel. How can we afford that? I’ll be away the whole time Camp’s going on. They must not want me near the place. I must be in really bad shape, V.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 2 9:15 AM
This is literally the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten. It’s got, like, sliced boiled eggs, tomatoes, romaine lettuce, and some sort of Thousand Islandish dressing on it. And you know how much I hate Thousand Island. But it is literally the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten because it’s the first food I’ve had in twenty-four hours. And it’s European. Yes, V, I made it to Iceland. I’m in a hotel lobby that is very modern and . . . dare I say “posh”? Yes, I think I will say posh because that would be the properly European thing to say. Anyway, this is definitely not a Motel 6.
Also, right next to me there’s a statue of a sheep that appears t
o be made from lumber scraps, and somehow it is very posh, too. I have named this sheep Sven, and he’s guarding my suitcase while I stuff my face and try to type with one hand.
I would like to tell you about the flight and what little landscape I’ve seen, but I’m so exhausted and dizzy-headed that all I can think about is this sandwich and wooden sheep. I’ve had no food and no sleep for a full day now. All I want is a bed, an actual bed, but my room isn’t ready. A scheduling error, the little guy at the front desk said. He is very sorry. His hair is up in a man-bun. His accent is amazing. I’m not even going to yell at him because I seem to be experiencing some sort of post-flight-delirium, and also I never yell at customer service reps because I know those kinds of jobs must suck. I’m sure it’s not Man-Bun’s fault they overbooked. Plus, he gave me this sandwich, and it’s the fucking best. Right, Sven?
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 2 7:54 PM
Jet lag: the struggle is real. I’ve slept away most of my first day in Iceland. I didn’t sleep at all on the flight. I had a window seat, and I just kept staring down into the ocean. I’m a Missouri boy, after all. It’s hard for me to fathom how that much water even exists.
It was cold and rainy yesterday when we landed at the airport, which is tiny and made of glass. I went through customs and got a stamp from the second country I’ve ever visited (Canada being the first—but that hardly counts!), then stopped to take a stupid selfie under the WELCOME TO ICELAND sign for Mamochka and Mom.
After I got out of the airport, I had to wait on a bus to Reykjavik. The plane ride had really taken its toll. I was anxious from sitting too long, but too tired to do anything about it. I sat outside underneath an awning and just stared into the distance for a long while. There’s a sculpture in the parking lot. It looks like a bird—or a dinosaur, maybe—hatching out of an egg. Just one unrecognizable limb thrust out into the world. The rest of whatever-it-is inside that shell probably hasn’t made up its mind about whether or not it wants out.
That’s when I let myself miss you. Not enough to get all weepy about it. Well, maybe I did tear up a little bit. What I’m trying to say is that I really wanted you there with me. And this whole trip was starting to seem like a really bad idea. I mean, who does this shit? I don’t know a single person that’s gone off to a foreign country for a month all by themselves at the drop of a hat. No planning. Here’s your ticket. Boom.
What happens if I get sick? Or lost? What if I just need someone to hold my hand?
If you Google Iceland, you’re bound to get blown away by all the beauty, but the bus ride was kind of underwhelming. Forty-five minutes of bumpy lava fields. Puke green and unreal, but not necessarily pretty. And in the distance, mountains like you’ve never seen before. Tiny. Like steep, pointed hills. They don’t tower the way American mountains do. They just sit there, totally chill, watching your bus roll along. After fifteen minutes, it was old news and I was dying for the scenery to change, but it didn’t until we hit the city. And Reykjavik doesn’t even seem like a city. Two-lane traffic. Quiet and calm. The architecture doesn’t strike me as European. Everything is a little rundown-looking, but all of this makes me feel more relieved than disappointed. It’s not intimidating. I mean, I feel like I could get by okay here. I am especially grateful that everyone knows English.
The first bus took me to a bus station, and another bus took me to the hotel. The driver asked me which hotel, and I got embarrassed about whether or not I pronounced Skógur correctly. Who knows? But at least he didn’t laugh. I’m sure Americans have butchered worse.
By this point, I was wearing pretty thin, really looking forward to crashing at the hotel. But, as you know, my room wasn’t ready. I was so out of it I started to get the sensation that the floor was kind of wavering, all bumpy and rolling like the lava fields. Not good. The awesome sandwich did help flatten things out, but I was stuck waiting for about half an hour while they decided what they were going to do with me. Eventually, I did fall asleep, curled up in one of the lobby chairs.
The guy with the bun woke me up, tapping me on the knee. “Hey. Come with me.” He had a huge laundry sack slung over his shoulder, but he insisted on carrying my suitcase, too. We got in the elevator and he pulled out a set of keys and showed me—twice, actually—how to insert one of the keys into the control panel. I was so tempted to go, Aw, shucks, we don’t have none of that fancy key technology back home! Mamochka would be proud I managed to contain myself. He hit a button marked P, and up we went. I sometimes get a little claustrophobic in elevators, but I decided not to lose my shit about it around him. We got out in this blank gray landing with nothing in it but a tiny spiral staircase. Kind of creepy and industrial-looking. I followed him up the stairs, and just when I was starting to wonder if he was actually the kid from Let the Right One In luring me to a dark corner so he could drain my blood, he opened the door and all this sunlight streamed in.
Apparently P stands for whatever the Icelandic word for roof is.
“What do you think? Just for today and tonight? If it’s not okay, I’ll call around and find you a room at another hotel for the night. You have my sincerest apologies.”
And I was like, “ARE YOU KIDDING? THIS IS GORGEOUS!” Because it was. Wedged in between shoulder-high brick walls, there was a little open-air “room” with this big round lounger thing and jungly potted plants and a bohemian-looking rug. A canvas canopy looped with Christmas lights provided shade from the sun, which had decided to come out during my little nap in the lobby. On the cement floor around the canopy, rain pooled into puddles here and there, reflecting little patches of cloudy sky. Gorgeous, V. Gorgeous. “Can I stay here the whole time?!”
“No bathroom,” he said. “And it can get a bit chilly at night. It won’t be too cold tonight, though. Around sixteen, I think.”
“Sixteen? Degrees?” Crazy, invincible Nordic people!
“Celsius,” he reminded me. “That is maybe . . . sixty for you.”
“Oh. Right. That’s not bad.”
He overturned his laundry sack on the lounger. Inside was a set of bedding and some big, fluffy pillows . . . I started daydreaming about sleep again. I helped him try to make up the bed—impossible, really, to make rectangular sheets fit on a round bed. But we tried.
He smoothed out the comforter one last time, then stood up straight and started working the elevator key off his key ring. He also gave me a magnetic key card. Apparently, there’s a spa downstairs with a restroom and showers and a huge, heated pool. It’s closed after five, but he told me I could come and go as I pleased after hours as long as I didn’t invite any of the other hotel guests along. He apologized a few thousand more times and finally left. I crashed, taking a blissful eight-hour nap under the warm, Icelandic sun.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 2 11:22 PM
Why do I keep writing to you? I guess I still have things to say. And I know that writing things out can help cement memories. For a long while now, I’ve been living in this black, colorless void. Bedroom. Kitchen. Cabin. Couch. Food. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. I couldn’t name one interesting thing that’s happened in the past year. I’m starting to worry that the part of my brain that’s supposed to hold on to stuff—good stuff, pretty stuff, whatever—might not be able to latch on to new things anymore. Mom says that can happen. Trauma can steal your memories. Like if a person is having a really hard time, sometimes their brain will just block out that whole time period a year or so down the road. She says Mamochka once told her she can’t even remember her ex-husband’s face. I don’t think I’ll ever forget yours.
I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you that I’m wearing your boots. Those Docs you had your heart so set on, and I hated that they were leather, but I bought them for your birthday anyway, cows be damned. Now I’m wearing them because you aren’t and they might as well be put to good use.
I just got done chatting with Mamochka. The Camp kids have arrived, and everyone’s in bed now
. It’s late, there and here. The sun didn’t set until after eleven. I’m wide awake under the sparkly Christmas lights, Reykjavik twinkling back at me in the distance. The hotel’s off in a vacant field, with no other buildings very close. I’m eating Icelandic potato chips, which aren’t any different than American ones, but . . . Man, don’t even get me started on this lousy excuse for Mountain Dew. It tastes like Mello Yello, so screw that. What am I going to do with myself? I don’t even know what I’m going to do for tonight, like, entertainment-wise. I hear the nightlife in Reykjavik starts super late, so I could go wander around, but I’m not feeling up to the noise and lights of the bars yet . . . or the people. I’ll get there. Just not tonight.
I wish I were more of a drinker. Or a better one. All it does is make me sad and sleepy. Remember when you tried to get me drunk for the first time? You had this great plan to get me shitfaced and make me fun, as if my first tequila sunrise would not only change my life, but yours as well. I told Mom and Mamochka I was staying over at Brian’s, but I spent the night at Camp with you instead. You made me try a bunch of different mixed drinks, and I didn’t like any of them.
“Quit photographing your booze and drink up!” I can still picture you sitting across from me in the empty Camp mess hall. Violet lipstick and that big yellow bow in your hair.
“But they’re so pretty!” Okay, I did get a little drunk.
“I just don’t understand how the two most amazing people on the planet raised this.” You waved your hand all around my face. “You’re like a blanket stuck in the mud.”
Miles Away from You Page 3
