by Amy Reed
He tried to explain his excitement to me, and his eyes got all big and he was waving his hands all over the place and he kept saying, “Don’t you get it? I got to look inside? I got to see how it worked.” And I tried to pretend I was as excited as he was, but he could tell I had no idea what the big deal was. And it made me feel bad for a while, until a couple days later when I was trying to explain to him why I was so proud of this sculpture I was working on in art class, and he gave me what must have been the same blank look as I had given him. We laughed about that for a little while, how it’s impossible to really communicate about an obsession with someone who’s obsessed about something completely different. But what you can talk about is the feeling of obsession, so at least we have that in common. He’s obsessed with knowing stuff and I’m obsessed with making stuff, and it’s kind of better that way because there’s no chance of us getting competitive.
Which makes me wonder: Have you ever felt competitive with me? About art and stuff? I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way about you, mostly because I’ve always been too busy thinking about how brilliant you are. I guess it’s hard to be competitive when you’ve already accepted that someone’s more talented than you. It’s like, why bother?
What does it feel like to be so talented? You know you are, right? It’d be impossible for you not to know it. What does it feel like to be called brilliant? I doubt I’m the first one to call you that.
Sometimes I wonder why you and Jeremy are even friends with me. I really am serious about being paranoid that the two of you are going to become best friends next year and forget all about me. You’re you and Jeremy’s Jeremy and you’re both so fucking special all the time. At ten years old, Jeremy knew he was going to be a scientist, and that he was gay, and he announced both things to his parents around the same time. And ever since, he’s been pushing through life with a confidence that’s just not natural for a teenager. Isn’t this when you’re supposed to be miserable and in the throes of a constant identity crisis? It’s not fair that he gets to just skip that part. But then again, if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s him. And god, imagine if he was growing up anywhere else on earth. A teenage Gay Scientist in some backward town that refuses to teach evolution in school and thinks homosexuality can be prayed away? He’d be a goner. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live here, that outside of here, people die every day for just being themselves.
Do you ever think about that? Like, what if we were born in some redneck town in the Bible Belt, or in Palestine, or Sudan, or Afghanistan? We complain about our lives and how no one understands us, but then I think about places like that and I just feel like an asshole.
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Friday, March 2—10:50 PM
Subject: losing it
Dear Isabel,
I did my best at pretending things were normal, that I’m not terrified every second of the day, that I’m not having trouble sleeping because I’m awake worrying about you. I’m not really sure what I thought I’d accomplish by pretending you’re there. Maybe some people can lie to themselves like that, but I can’t. I can’t not think about the fact that you’re missing. I can’t not think about the fact that you’ve been gone for five days. It seems like my mom is on the phone with your parents all the time now. She’s never even met you, but it’s like you’re family, like your family is family. And I guess there’s some comfort in that, having this connection. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one falling apart.
I talked to your sister today, and of course I immediately liked her. It’s probably impossible for me to not love someone you love. When you come back, she said we should come over for dinner, you and me, like a double date with her and Karen. And something about that made me so happy, the thought of us doing something so normal and couple-y, and I was smiling like crazy, and Gennifer even said, “I can hear you smiling,” and then I laughed a little, then all of a sudden I don’t know what happened, but that little laugh turned into crying, and the crying turned into choking, and then I couldn’t breathe. I could hear your sister asking me what was wrong, but her voice got smaller and smaller until I hung up the phone, and I was just sitting there trying to suck in air but nothing was getting in. It felt like my eyes were burning, my throat was burning, everything was so hot and tight like my head was going to explode. And somehow I made it downstairs, and my mom took one look at me and she got this look on her face that just made me lose it, like seeing me like that hurt her, like actually physically hurt her, and something about that just made me let go inside, like I didn’t have to hold everything together anymore, like she could hold some of my pain for a while. So I let her. I went over and threw myself on the couch and let her put her arms around me and rock me like I was a little kid. And even though I was crying harder than I ever remember crying, even though I was sick with fear that I lost you, something about being held like that made it bearable. Somehow just knowing there was that space for my pain, I don’t know, maybe it didn’t hurt so much.
Isabel. Come home. Someone needs to hold you like that. We all need to hold you like that. You don’t need to carry all your pain alone.
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Saturday, March 3—11:36 AM
Subject: atlas
Dear Isabel,
My whole life, I’ve had this feeling like I was the one holding everything together. After my dad left when I was six, I somehow knew I was the only thing that could make my mom stop crying. I could sing a stupid song or tell her a joke or draw her a picture and she’d come back to the world, she’d come back to me. She was the one who got to be sad and lonely and stressed out, like she was the only one who got left, and I had to be the one to relieve her of those feelings. I had to be the reason she’d even want to be relieved of those feelings. It’s a role I’m used to, and I guess that’s the role I took with you, too. The solid one. The stable one. The one who’s always trying to save you.
But it’s hard to have your own feelings when you’re always busy worrying about someone else’s, when everyone’s counting on you to be happy and dependable. I’ve always had this fear that if I ever got too confused or sad or got in too much trouble, my mom would fall apart, like somehow I was responsible for holding her together. And if she fell apart, then everything would fall apart. So basically, I was like this little tiny Atlas holding the world on my kid shoulders, and I’m still doing it, and the world is still heavy, and it’s getting heavier and heavier every day you’re gone. And I don’t think I can hold on much longer. I’m afraid I’m going to let go, and the world is going to come crashing down and smash into a million pieces until all we have is rubble and we have to pick through the ruins looking for signs of life.
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Sunday, March 4—10:42 PM
Subject:
I don’t know what to say anymore. I don’t know what I’m writing to. You’re not there. These words are just turning into little lost ones and zeroes. They’re not reaching you. They’re not going anywhere.
You’re gone. You’re really gone.
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Tuesday, March 6—11:29 PM
Subject: Re:
Connor,
I’ve come crawling back with my crooked tail between my legs, my car running on vapors, me running on vapors. Things were sharp and then they weren’t. The world was shiny and bold, and now it’s not. And when I try to remember what happened, I see myself on a train track, trying to outrun the train that is honking like crazy. And I should be scared, but I’m not. And everyone is yelling at me to get out of the way, but I can’t hear anything real. All I hear is the poison inside my head, the voices that sound like me but are not me, the ones telling me to keep runnin
g. And I guess I’m here because the train finally caught up with me. The voices screamed as loud as they could, but it was no use. I was hit. It shut them up. And things are still, too still. It is quiet, so quiet the only thing I can hear is myself. And I can’t stand it.
Connor, something is very wrong. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who that girl was that ran away, who did all the things I did. I think she’s gone now, but what’s left in her place is just garbage, all the trash she made that she didn’t want to take with her. I have to deal with all the fallout. I’m the one who has to clean up her mess.
I drove to Portland and I found Trevor. That’s what I did. I cannot explain why. Whatever logic I was working with has left me. I remember vague, alien thoughts that seem like they came from someone else’s mind, thoughts that convinced me Trevor was the one I was supposed to be with. Because he doesn’t expect anything from me, because he doesn’t need me to be someone I’m not, because he treats me like the piece of shit I am. And there seemed to be some justice in that, and I remember feeling a kind of comfort in just letting go of any expectations. And for a few moments, I felt free, like everything finally made sense, like I could just finally stop trying, I could give up, and that was the key to happiness.
I have all these words and different ways to use them, but I can’t think of any way to put them together to explain how it feels to have absolutely no idea how I could have come to the conclusions I did. Is this what my brother feels like all the time, after so many years of being totally out of control? At least addicts have the excuse of some foreign chemical entering their body and skewing their judgment. But what’s my excuse? Is it that I’m crazy? Is that enough to get me off the hook?
I remembered something that happened months ago, when I was hanging out with Trevor and a couple of his friends, and they were high and making fun of his apartment in Portland. The building was called Excalibur, and they seemed to think that was the funniest thing ever. I had never even been there, but I could imagine it as they described the logo written in a gaudy Old English font on the entrance, the picture of a helmet and sword on the front door. They were laughing about Excalibur and talking in these fake British accents and pretending to sword fight, and I remember thinking to myself, These guys are supposed to be cool. They’re covered in tattoos and don’t dance at concerts, but here they are stoned and climbing around on the furniture and waving imaginary swords at each other.
But that’s not what I was thinking a week ago when I decided to leave. I was just thinking of Excalibur, the destination. The ridiculous word was pumping through my head like some kind of fucked-up mantra, leading me south to Portland and what I thought was my destiny. In those four hours in the car, I wrote the whole story of my life. Trevor and I would be together, I would be a devoted band girlfriend, I would go to college and do well, but it wouldn’t matter because his band would make it big and we’d get married. And even if he treated me like shit, even if he cheated on me and was on tour most of the year, I wouldn’t have to worry about the important stuff like food and shelter. Because that’s all I really deserved anyway. I could be happy with that. It was asking too much to want anything else.
I found Excalibur. There was a parking spot right in front, and I took that as a sign that it was meant to be. I sat there for a while, practicing what I was going to say, imagining him taking me in his arms and whisking me into his apartment. And I wasn’t scared. There was a sense of the inevitable, like when you’re falling in dreams but it still feels like flying, before you start thinking of the inevitable crash. It was like someone else was moving me as I got out of the car and walked to the front door, as I walked into the building and found his last name on a mailbox, as I climbed the stairs and stood in front of apartment 203, as I knocked and felt nothing.
A woman answered the door. She was pretty but tired. She was holding a baby. She said, “Can I help you?” I said, “Is Trevor here?” but already I knew the answer, already I had given up. She said, “Who are you?” and I didn’t say anything. She said, “I’m Trevor’s wife,” and I just nodded and started backing away. She said, “Who are you?” and I said, “Nobody.”
Nobody. I’m nobody.
I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t cry. I felt emptied out, like something was pulled out from inside me, and it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. I felt weightless. I floated across the street and toward Hawthorne. My head was empty. I wandered around, in and out of shops, for hours. I inspected the things they were selling, filling my head with every single detail, filling it so full of useless information there wasn’t room for anything that could hurt me. There was a record store full of beautiful people. One of them spoke to me. I don’t remember what we talked about. But I went with him when he left, I went with him when he went to the bar next door, I went with him after hours of drinks, I went with him back to his apartment.
I don’t want to tell you about the next few days, not because I don’t want you to know, but because I don’t want to think about it. Maybe I will tell you later, after it’s faded a little, when it’s not so fresh, when the memories are just a hazy black and white instead of this sharp color. I don’t know who I was for those days I spent in his apartment. I don’t know who that girl was that was drinking those drinks and snorting those drugs. Something inside me shut off. Maybe it’s a gene we all have in my family, and my brother just tapped into it more. Who knows. But I think I understand him better now. I think I understand the appeal of just throwing yourself away.
And then I woke up. It was morning and I was in bed with this guy whose last name I never knew. There was a full ashtray on the table next to my head, and the smell of it mixed with his drunk breaths. It was raining, and I felt a strong desire to run outside and just let the rain soak me, like maybe some of it could get inside and wash me out. The rain seemed to slow everything down, seemed to dull whatever convictions I had had the past week. I could remember what happened like scenes in a movie, but I no longer had a connection to what had motivated me. My evil twin was gone. She had left me in the night, left me to deal with her destruction.
She taught me how to leave. So that’s what I did. I got in my car and drove the only direction I knew. My dad was home when I got here. He cried and held me until I had to push him off. I told him I was tired. He said okay. So now I’m in my room, writing to you, getting this all down in case it’s gone when I wake up. Because I have a feeling everything’s going to be different tomorrow. I’m going to go downstairs and life is going to be waiting for me, and I’m actually going to have to deal with it. Maybe I’m ready. Maybe I’m not. But I don’t think I really have a choice.
Thank you. For being solid. For everything that you are.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, March 7—8:57 PM
Subject: imperfect words
Dear Isabel,
I’ve been sitting in front of this computer for half an hour, trying to find the perfect first sentence for this note to you. But as you can see, I didn’t find it. There are too many things in the way of the words, too many conflicting feelings, and there is no way to articulate what I want you to hear. But I guess I can start by saying I love you. And yes, there may also be the fact that I’m in love with you, but that seems so irrelevant now. It seems like such a small, meaningless thing. That’s not the kind of love you need right now. You need something bigger. Because in some ways, being in love with someone is a very selfish kind of love. It demands something of them, doesn’t it? It requires some sort of reciprocation, a kind of emotional contract. You tell someone you’re in love with them, and you expect something in return. And if the feeling is not matched, then you have a problem. Because you still have this expectation, this hole to be filled, and you’re convinced that the other person is the only one who can fill it. But they’re telling you that they can’t, that they’re not even going to try, but you still have this h
ole inside you, this place you’ve made to hold another person, and you can’t just make it go away. So you end up hating this person you’re in love with, because you need them in order to be whole, and their saying no feels like they’re ripping out that piece of you. Every time you think of them, it’s like they’re ripping it out over and over and over.
I’m not quite sure where I meant to go with that. Basically, I wanted to say that the kind of love I want to give you right now is the kind without any of those expectations. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything, that you need to act a certain way, that you need to pretend things are fine if they aren’t. I’m just going to love you, and hopefully some of it flies off of this island and over the water and finds its way to you. Hopefully it finds somewhere cozy inside you to hang out for a while and keep you company. Hopefully you know it is there and it makes things a little more bearable.
There are more things to say, but they can wait.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, March 8—11:58 PM
