You Are the Everything

by Karen Rivers

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Well, from that same assignment, I remember a guy named Big Nose George, who was basically a bad guy, robbing stagecoaches and maybe killing people. I forget that part. After they hung him for his crimes, they took all the skin off his body and made it into a doctor’s bag and, I think, a pair of shoes.”

  “That is a truly repulsive story. Thank you so much for sharing it with me. Now I will always remember it and I will likely never sleep again.”

  “Well, sorry. But you asked.”

  “I’m taking the piss again. Although I am inclined towards nightmares.”

  “You and Josh Harris, both,” you say, without meaning to break a confidence, it just slips out. “You two should be friends.”

  He shakes his head and turns around in the saddle to face you. “We can’t possibly be friends! We’re both vying for the heart of the same lovely maiden.”

  You roll your eye. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t vie for my heart. My heart is unviable.”

  “Unviable! Tragic. That means you’ll be dead soon and we should snog immediately before it’s too late. If I snog you after you’re dead, I believe it’s a crime.”

  “Snog! That’s another terrible British word. It’s an unforgivable word. I’m never going to kiss an English person now, not ever, because they might describe it using that word and then I’ll have to kill them.”

  “And make their skin into a doctor’s bag?”

  “Nope, just a regular purse. Or maybe gloves. My hands are so cold.”

  “Here, wear my gloves.” He takes them off and tosses them back to you, one by one. You don’t argue. Your hands are already resisting bending. You put them on, feeling where they are already warm from his hands. You blush. There’s something too intimate about the gloves but you are so desperate for the warmth you can’t exactly refuse them.

  “You’re welcome,” he calls.

  “Thanks! It’s just that I have this arthritis. My hands get—”

  “I know,” he interrupts. “Pretend I already know everything about you, because I do. I collect facts about you, Elyse Schmidt. Like you collect facts about weird ways to die, and Wyoming, especially weird ways to die IN Wyoming. For the record, I am fourteen percent in love with you.”

  “I thought it was seven, at last count. What changed?”

  “It’s gone up since we started this ride. I don’t even like horses, or even if I did, I’d never admit it because it would make my dad too happy. Not pleasing my dad is my primary interest and you, my brain-injured manic pixie girl, are my secondary interest.”

  “You’re veering into creepy territory again. Maybe more riding and less talking.”

  “But I have more things to say.”

  “I don’t. I’m on a break.”

  “You don’t just go on a break from a conversation. That’s not normal. Also, I’m no etiquette expert, but I suspect that it’s rude.”

  “Well, then I’m rude. I’m okay with that. Deal.” You close your good eye for a second, letting Midi rock you gently as he steps carefully up the now-gravelly trail. Your glass eye feels wet, but you touch it and it’s the same as always: cool, unyielding, smooth. You blink, hard. Midi slips a little, scrambling to not lose his footing. The trail is getting steeper. You need to concentrate.

  “I thought you didn’t know the way!” you call.

  He raises his hand. “No talking! You’re on a break!”

  “You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eye,” you tell his receding back, nudging Midi to keep up. “I’m rolling it so hard I may cause it permanent damage. And it’s not like I have an eye to spare. Without it, I’ll be fully blind. But don’t let the guilt eat away at you.”

  You let him get farther ahead. It’s better that way.

  You miss Josh Harris.

  Where is he?

  How does he feel about you riding off with Benedict Cumberbatch?

  Did you fight?

  Pow pow, Josh Harris would say, which is as close as he comes to bantering.

  But he isn’t here.

  You have no one to ask.

  28.

  The side of the path offers a steep drop-off, which is giving you vertigo. The third most common cause of death by selfie is people wanting to show off how close to the edge they were willing to go, and then falling off. You got really good at drawing those people, posing on top of buildings, and then just their feet in the next frame as they toppled over the side. You frown. How could you have found it funny? They died, all those people. They were real. But somehow they didn’t seem real. Not quite. They were more like characters playing a part in this ongoing movie of the internet.

  Now that you think of it, you feel sorry for all of them, but not as sorry as you feel for the woman who was hiking at the Grand Canyon and stepped aside on the path to let someone else pass, lost her footing, and plunged to her death. “The thing is,” you tell Midi. “We’re all just one side step away from being dead.” He snorts.

  “You sound like Kath,” you tell him. “I miss her so much.” You lean forward and rest your head on Midi’s neck.

  It is raining again now. What began as a drizzle has quickly developed into an actual downpour. You urge Midi on, straightening up in the saddle, keeping him away from slippery edges.

  You ride alone for ages. You almost forget that you’re here with Benedict Cumberbatch, when you catch up with him by the lake. It’s a beautiful lake—like a postcard—and it seems to appear so suddenly through the trees, like something magical. It makes you gasp every time you see it, blue-green and still. Today, it’s darker than usual, reflecting the now-hostile sky.

  You want to flip the image over, write WISH YOU WERE HERE, and mail the whole thing to Kath.

  Not possible, you remind yourself. Not a postcard. No address, even if it were.

  The lake stretches perfectly mountain blue-green into the distance, necklaced by trees in all different shades of autumn.

  “This is gorgeous,” Benedict Cumberbatch says. “It almost makes me like Wyoming, but don’t tell my father. I don’t think we should go any farther because it’s getting too slippery, but I realize now that I see this lake that this was fate. To heck with Jupiter! This lake is a jewel. This lake is the best thing about Wyoming, other than you. Look at the color of it. It is the most romantic spot on the planet.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s very pretty, though,” you agree. You look up at the sky, which is darkening. “But lakes and lightning storms aren’t a good mix.”

  “No, I suppose they—” His words are cut off when the lightning forks down in a huge arc of brilliant white light. You watch like you’re paralyzed, like you have no choice. The light is blinding. Once, twice, three times, pelting noisily into the lake, bolts of vibrating whiteness that seem to turn the surface water briefly purple. You can feel Midi tensing, like he’s about to bolt, shifting on his feet.

  “SHELTER,” you both say at once. You pull the horses around and gallop toward a trail shelter, not quite going all out, but as close as it is safe to go. You dismount at the shed and try to calm Midi by whispering in his ear. His eyes roll. He wants to run, you can feel it. You understand it.

  Escape, escape, escape.

  But if you let him go, then you’ll be trapped, too. You lash him onto the lashing post.

  “This was pretty dumb,” you say. “We should have checked the weather forecast. I’ve been almost hit by lightning before—”

  But before you can even finish your sentence, suddenly he’s in front of you and then you’re kissing him, or he’s kissing you and you aren’t trying to stop him, because he’s Benedict Cumberbatch and he’s your free pass.

  “Uh, that was a deal you made with me, not with Just Josh Harris.” But you’re not listening to Kath because you lived and you’re alive and you
’re happy and you’re kissing Benedict Cumberbatch for all the stars in the sky, it’s your job to do that, to do everything because you survived and so you have to kiss the boys and make the mistakes and dodge the lightning bolts and keep going and keep going and keep going even when you don’t know why or how or what.

  You’re not a bad person.

  You just have to do it.

  To do this.

  For all of the two hundred and sixteen people on the plane who didn’t live.

  “Poppy’s never going to believe this,” he says, when you both pull away, out of breath. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now. The air is still and cool and it’s so quiet that it’s impossible to believe that there ever was lightning and you can hear your own heart beating and your lips are sore in a good way.

  “If you tell her, I’ll make you into a purse,” you say. A bird flies past, low and loud, making a noise that sounds like screaming. You stop laughing and just like that, the moment has passed, the moment where this made sense, the moment where it felt right.

  What is wrong with you?

  You push away from Benedict Cumberbatch and half walk, half stumble back to Midi, who tries to nuzzle your shoulder. You untether him and get back into the saddle in one fast motion, kicking him into a fast trot, as fast as it’s safe to go on the slippery downhill trail. You don’t wait for Dwayne.

  What kind of name is that anyway?

  You pretend you can’t hear him yelling behind you, “Wait for me, Pixie! Was it something I said?”

  29.

  It is November.

  The leaves are mostly gone from the trees and seeing their bare bones makes you anxious. Worse, there is something wrong with Rumpelstiltskin. He won’t get up without your mom or dad lifting him. He no longer licks your shoes. He looks different somehow: If a dog can look pale, he’s managed it. Your mom and dad are devastated, weepy, bereft. It seems strange to you; they’ve only known him for a few months. Still, they move around the house as quietly as ghosts, hushed as though they are already deeply in mourning.

  You are in your room.

  Rain is hitting the skylight sideways. It might be snow. Or even sleet.

  You are wearing a strapless dress with huge ruffles. It’s ugly. No matter which angle you look at yourself from, you look ridiculous. The problem is that you can’t remember why you are wearing it. It is pink. Really pink. You are not a pink person.

  “Pretty in Pink. Remember? We watched it thirteen times in a row on my thirteenth birthday and then we went crazy-bananas from lack of sleep and I cut your hair to look like Molly Ringwald’s? You looked like her. Except, you know. Shorter. And brunettier.”

  “I remember the dumb movie and the bad haircut,” you say. “I’m kind of hazy about why I’m wearing the dress right now, though. I remember being brunette. That was another life, though. Not this one.”

  “Hey, it’s your story. You drew it. Don’t ask me.”

  “What?” Your heart stops beating cold in your chest. You cough. “What? Kath?”

  “Did you say something, honey?” Your mom peeks around your door. “Oh, you look so pretty! Well, as pretty as someone can look in a hideous 1980s dress. When I was your age, we all wore those, obviously, but we knew they were terrible, even back then. I never would have believed that these eighties-themed dances would be a thing! Who wants to wear flammable fabric and look dumpy on purpose? And the hair! I mean, you did a great job, but it’s terrible.”

  “Wow, you are doing wonders for my self-esteem. Thanks for dropping by, Mom.”

  “Oh, honey, you look fine. You always look beautiful. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine is what I was shooting for, I’m almost sure of it. So thank you.”

  “Are you almost ready? Because Josh is here.”

  “Josh Harris,” you correct her.

  “Do you know any other Joshes?” she asks.

  “MOM, it’s just his name, okay?”

  “Like how he calls you Schmidt?”

  “I guess. But I wish he wouldn’t.”

  “Maybe he wishes you wouldn’t call him Josh Harris. It’s so—” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s so formal. You two have been dating for so long now. Maybe time to move on to first names?”

  “We’re not ready to take such a huge step,” you tell her. “Don’t ruin my innocence.”

  “Oh, speaking of innocence. I think it’s probably time that we talked about birth control, things like that. I know you don’t want to, I just think—”

  “MOM, we use condoms, okay?”

  “You’re already having sex with Josh?”

  “JOSH HARRIS! And yes. I mean, we have. Once. I think. I mean, once that I— Oh, Mom, please don’t make me talk to you about this.”

  “I’m not making you. But I’m your mother. I thought we were best friends. How was it?”

  “Are you asking me how sex was with my boyfriend? Isn’t that way too personal?”

  “I don’t know! I’ve never had a daughter before who is having sex with her boyfriend. This is a first for me, too. Everything you go through, all your stages and phases, all firsts for me.” She looks so sad, you want to hug her.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I’m sorry. It was fine. It was nice. I mean, I think it was good. It was. It was everything I wanted my first time to be.”

  “But what about the second time?”

  “I think we haven’t . . . I mean, we didn’t . . . I don’t know. It was the first time that was important. I wanted the first time to be with Josh Harris and it was and then—”

  You blink, because suddenly there are tears in your good eye and it’s hard to see your mom, where she’s sitting on the edge of your perfectly made bed. It’s like there is Vaseline on the lens. “Don’t be sad, Mom. I’m sorry. It was perfect. It was a perfect first time.”

  She smiles, but she still looks funny, like she’s on the verge of tears. “It goes by so fast,” she says. “And then it’s gone.”

  “Okay, you’re really starting to make me sad, Mom. Please don’t. Seriously. I’m going to a dance! It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “Is there anything else you want to talk about? I want to hear all your things. I feel like we don’t talk anymore. How’s school? Have you made friends?”

  You feel a wave of something, like you’re going to either throw up or faint, you aren’t sure which. “Mom,” you say. “You know.”

  “I don’t know! How would I know?”

  “Don’t shout at me!”

  “I’m not shouting! You’re shouting! Keep your voice down! Josh will wonder what’s going on!”

  “Mom, is he here? Downstairs? Right now? Is there any percent chance that he can hear this conversation?”

  “Well, I suppose so. If he has very good hearing.”

  “Josh Harris does have very good hearing,” you hiss in a whisper. “He does. His hearing is basically super human! He probably heard all this!”

  “I’m sorry, Elyse,” she stage whispers, flecks of spit landing on your glasses. “Kiss him, and then he’ll forget.”

  “That’s such an un-Mom thing to say.”

  “Is it?” she smiles. “Kiss him, you fool!”

  “Mom!”

  “I just love you so much, Elyse.”

  “I know you do, Mom. I love you, too.”

  “I really love you.”

  “Okay, this is getting weird, Mom. But I really love you, too.”

  “I love you forever. To the moon and back.”

  “Me too, Mom. Can I go downstairs now? Josh Harris is waiting.”

  Your mom grabs you in her arms. “I just never want to let you go,” she says. “I never want you to leave. Remember when you were little? There was a poem I used to read to you. It had this one line, ‘I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart).’ And then one day, you drew it
for me on a card. Me, carrying my own heart like a suitcase, with your heart inside it. I still have that card. I look at it every day.”

  “I’m going to a dance, Mom. Not Jupiter. Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying,” she says, crying harder.

  “Okay, I really have to go. Are you going to be normal when I get back?”

  She holds up one hand. “I’m going to be okay. I have to keep going.”

  “Good. This has been very weird.”

  “Have fun. Promise me that you’ll be happy, wherever you go, whatever happens.”

  “Fine, I will. But not because this isn’t the strangest send-off of all time.”

  “Goodbye, my Elyse, my small heart.”

  “Bye, Mom. Tell Dad I love him and I’ll see him later.”

  “He knows.” She chokes on a sob.

  “MOM,” you say.

  She waves her hand at you. “It’s fine,” she says. “Enjoy Paris.”

  “Paris? Mom, I’m going to a dance.”

  Then everything goes prickly and then white and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re falling and you are falling and . . .

  What the actual fuck? you think.

  30.

  Josh Harris is on the porch when you go down to the front door. Rumpelstiltskin thumps his tail when you walk by, your heels clicking on the wood floor.

  “We had to stop walking Ol’ Rump because he got off the leash that time and he got into grocery store and jumped right into the meat freezer. I think the owners had to pay like three hundred dollars for the damage to all the meat, but he was just so happy. We couldn’t get him out. I mean, we could have, but it would have been mean. Do you remember? Do you remember all of it? Everything?”

  “Yes,” you say. “No.” You frown. You stand in the hallway of this strange new house in Wyoming and you turn around and look at the walls, which are all painted white. The white is too bright and it hurts your good eye. There are framed photos lining the walls. You and Kath in third grade. You and Kath at a Girl Guide camp. You and Kath at a party. You and Kath standing under a rainbow of droplets in a waterfall somewhere. You and Kath at sunset on the beach, making a heart with your hands. You and Kath and you and Kath and you and Kath.