I remember William telling me about this Chinese place he went to all the time when he was down here at ‘“That Place”’. Supposedly, they have the best food anywhere. Strange, because you don’t really think of Minnesota as the Chinese food capital of the world, but I guess everything’s a matter of perspective. He said it was called “Sunrise Chinese”. Sounds like it could be good, and it does come with a recommendation. I plug the name into my GPS and follow the directions to a place that doesn’t look anything like what William described. It’s another stand-alone building, and it looks way too posh for me to go in wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and quite possibly frost-bite (my mom was right… it’s really cold up here). Still, if it’s the place William loved, I might as well give it a chance.
I walk inside on a very lush green carpet and have to wait to be seated. Not a good sign. The prices on the menu aren’t as expensive as they could have been, but they’re not exactly cheap, either. I order some sort of meat dish off the menu and hope it tastes remotely like it sounds. I couldn’t even pronounce the name of it, but luckily they have numbers to make ordering easier. The place is full, but no one here looks like me. Everyone is older and wearing suits, or at least dress clothes, probably coming from work. I don’t feel like I fit in, the waiter keeps giving me strange looks as he walks past my booth, and the food really isn’t that great. I’m not sure what William was raving about. This is ridiculous. He never would have liked a place like this. At least, not the person I knew him as. I didn’t know Minnesota William. Maybe Minnesota William liked places like this,for some reason. Maybe I didn’t know him quite as well as I thought I did.
At least they give me a fortune cookie along with my enormous (for a highschool student) bill.
To: William Davis
Message: I met your housemates today. The whole thing was really weird. They seem nice though, I guess. A lot like you.
I did learn something kind of funny, though. Apparently you talked about me so much it was “fucking annoying”. I wish you were here so I could see your face. I can’t believe you were one of “those guys”. Nonstop talking about your girlfriend… I’m glad though. I think I needed to know that. I’m just glad other people knew I was special to you. I was worried everybody would think I was just some kind of weird stalker.
That’s kind of my fault(comma) though. I’m the one who said we needed to keep it a secret for awhile. I’m glad you didn’t. I’m really glad you didn’t. Then again, when do you ever do something just because I told you to…(question mark)
Oh, I tried that Chinese place you were always talking about. It wasn’t very good. I’m not sure why you were always going on about it. I mean, it wasn’t bad, but it really wasn’t great. I saved my fortune for you, though. It says “You will accomplish great things in time.” You think it’s right? Well, you’d probably say yes, but I’m not so sure. I’d say “I’ve still got time,” we both know how untrue that is. We never know how much time any of us have left.
I miss you. Tomorrow’s the big day. I’m going to visit ‘“That Place”’. It feels like a big deal somehow. Lend me some courage, Will. Love you.
P.S. This pull-out couch is not as comfortable as I was promised. Oh well…
“Asking yourself questions about things you don’t know will give you no answers.”
I enter the address into my GPS. Something about hearing that name called out so robotically, the name of “That Place,” just seems strange. William didn’t talk about “That Place” often. Sometimes I think he was even a little ashamed to admit he had to go there, but when he did talk about it he seemed happy. Well, maybe not happy, but content, like he knew he belonged there because he wanted to get better. He told me that once, how desperately he wanted to see that he had a future ahead of him. He didn’t even ask for much. All he wanted was the chance to serve his country. He’d always wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to go to college, wanted to be a counselor to other guys going through the hell he thought he was finally getting out of. But “That Place” had failed him, or maybe he failed himself, or everyone else failed him, or maybe he failed us. People talk about how everything happens for a reason, even the things that seem too terrible to be true. I don’t think I believe that. How could any world, any God, really decide who deserves a second chance and who doesn’t? Why doesn’t William get the chance to do good with his life while so many people are out using their lives for the worst? Saying life doesn’t make sense doesn’t seem to cover it.
I send my mom a quick text to let her know I’m still alive and have yet to be mugged and beaten. While on my phone I notice I have several missed calls from someone I’m not a direct descendent of… Amanda. I’d like to say I’m surprised, but it’s just like her. She acts like she’s being the bigger person, all while letting you know exactly how small she thinks you are. Normally, the idea of a missed voicemail from Amanda would make me shake, and a long time ago it would have made me happy, but now I just don’t care. It is strange. I tell myself to be upset but I’m not. I tell myself it might be important but I know it never is. I delete the voicemail without a second thought. She was probably only calling to tell me about another party I’m not invited to. Maybe she was getting creative. She could be calling me to say she was deleting my number from her phone and it accidentally dialed instead. That’d be a new one. The whole idea makes me smile. It is all so ridiculous. And this is the shit I’ve been wasting my time with when life is so short.
I have a plan for what to say. I am going to go up to the person at the front desk and tell her my story. I am going to ask if there is anyone I can talk to that knew William. I’ll be led on a tour of the building, maybe meet a couple of people who were friends with him, they’ll tell me how hard he worked and how there was no way he would have relapsed. They’ll tell me he must have died some other way. A way that I couldn’t have stopped.
I pull into the parking lot and I can’t go in. It finally makes sense what I’ve been looking for this whole time. I’m not the innocent, grieving girlfriend who just wants him back. I want him back so I can know why and how. I want him to answer my questions. I’m not following his ghost so I can hold him one more time. I’m chasing him down so I can… what? Shake him down for an answer? Threaten him until he talks? I can’t go inside now. I can’t appeal to these people’s sympathies anymore. My motives aren’t totally pure. I want answers more than I want him.
The realization hits me hard. I slam myself back into the car but I don’t know where I want to go. I pull out my phone and get on Facebook. It seems like that’s what everyone does these days when they don’t know what else to do.
To: William Davis
Message: Why?
There is nothing else to the message. No “I miss you” or “I love you.” I just want him to tell me why. Why he was such a fucking idiot. Why he relapsed. Why he started in the first place. Why no one bothers to give me an answer one way or another. Why I so desperately need this kind of closure. Why it isn’t enough to just know that he loved me. Why I can’t figure out what I want. Why I’m doubting everything we’d had.
I’ll be done with high school at the end of the year. I’ll be moving on to college and I’ll have the chance for a fresh start. But what good will that do if I have no idea what to do with it? I find myself without any girlfriends to confide in, no boyfriend to lean on, and I have no idea who I am on my own. I can’t go into “That Place” now. I can’t do anything.
I sit in my car for hours and watch people go in and out. Some people are carrying flowers or bags or boxes, some people go in with nothing, and some people come and go as a group. I finally get out of my car and walk around. Across the street from “That Place is a park. Well, really it’s just a nicely-maintained grassy field, but it looks peaceful. I find a tree to sit under where I can still see “That Place”. William was so much braver than I am. He saw what he wanted, he saw what he had to do to get it, and he did it. He probably would have made it through those doors hou
rs ago.
I make the bold decision to get back in my car and try again tomorrow.
To: William Davis
Message: Hey again, Will. I don’t know how you did it sometimes. Sure, from the outside it looked like you weren’t “with it” or together like me. You were the “messed up” one, the bad influence. But at least when you saw your flaws you did something about it. You wanted to be better.
Remember that night? Our last night together. We were outside, looking at the stars, hopelessly in young love. You told me you thought I was so lucky. You said how proud you were of me for not screwing my life up the way you did. You said how much you wanted my life to be everything I deserved. You acted like I deserved the world. It was sweet. Romantic. Every girl dreams about having a guy like that, a guy who wants to give them the world… I don’t think I ever deserved you.
I’m a coward. I can’t even go and try and find a piece of you somewhere you lived for months. I don’t want to fix my flaws. I’d rather pretend they don’t exist and rationalize them away.
I can’t even say that just knowing you died loving me is enough. I have to know why. Like I have to know exactly how you died so I know what to remember you as, and I have to know what you really thought of me so I know what to remember us as. What’s wrong with me? Honestly. Can’t you come down here and haunt some sense into me?
Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow. I guess I have to keep trying as long as I have time left. That’s what you’d want me to do. I think. I don’t know what you’d want me to do, actually. I just have to guess. I don’t even know what I want – how could I possibly know what anyone else wants?
“You will meet a strange stranger.”
This is my third day sitting in the park across from “That Place” I keep telling myself it’ll get easier, but it’s just getting harder. It doesn’t help that I’m running out of time, either. Everything’s just building up and I haven’t had my miracle yet. I can’t help but think that if I go home like this nothing will change. It’ll all be the same and I’ll be as miserable and pathetic as ever. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be kind and strong and brave. I want to be an example for other people going through this. Instead I’m meek, pathetic, and, if I’m going to be really honest, getting a little self-centered. They say sometimes grief can do that to you, and so can youth. Not a very good combination. Maybe it’s good for that whole “finding yourself” thing we’re supposed to be doing in high school, but I’m not sure how great it is for the rest of life.
I’m starting to recognize some of the people going in and out of “That Place.” It’s easy to tell who’s there to visit and who’s there to stay. The ones visiting look nervous and worried. The ones staying look, well, they all look like William somehow.
“Are you an almost-patient or an almost visitor?”
“Jesus Christ!” My mom probably wouldn’t have appreciated that, but sometimes it’s the only expression that works. While I was busy working on my self-centered philosophies about life, someone had traveled from the parking lot and come to join me at my spot under the tree.
“You’ve been here all day, twice now. That usually means you’re deciding whether or not you want to go in. At least in my experience.”
The boy is my age and that makes me feel a little more comfortable. I never thought people would be looking at me, but I guess that makes sense. I stick out a lot more than any of the people going in and out, sitting by myself under a tree and staring. It still seems weird someone would take the time to do something about it, though.
“I’m, well, visiting, I guess. Not really. I don’t know what you’d call it.” I’m not sure if I want to keep talking or not. I’ve spent so much time inside my own head it feels good to have another person here. It’s a relief to have a voice talk back.
“They not know you’re coming?” He sits down next to me, against my tree. I’m not sure I like him being so close to my tree.
“Not exactly. No. He’s not here anymore.”
He looks at me, but not as condescendingly as I thought he was going to. He doesn’t even look at me like I’m crazy. I guess spending time anywhere near “That Place” makes you tolerant.
“He died. I’m just here, well, following a ghost, I guess. It didn’t make much sense before I left. It made less sense when I got here. Makes even less sense now that I’ve said it out loud.”
“Well, I hate to be the voice of reason, but even if you made it inside, you wouldn’t be able to find out much. They won’t be able to give you any answers or information, even if it does exist.”
Now it’s my turn to look at him, confused.
“They can’t just give you a patient file or tell you everything he said in group. You’re not family, at least so I’m assuming, so they can’t really give you anything.”
“How did you know I wasn’t family?” I try to change the subject quickly. I can’t believe I never realized “That Place” would have all sorts of confidentiality issues. I can be such an idiot sometimes. It’s like during this whole trip my brain had shut itself off to all those normal, practical things I’m usually so concerned with.
“The way you said him. Didn’t sound like a relative, and if your dad was in there you’d be more upset than sad.”
“How would you know what I’d feel?”
“My dad’s in there. I know how it feels. You never really forgive them. I don’t give a shit about how he screwed up his life, but I’ll never forget what he did to mine. I’ve been visiting places like this for Christmas since I can remember. Don’t think I’ve seen a Christmas tree that wasn’t plastered between hospital walls. But hey, I made it out of the house alive . That’s something.”
He says “that’s something” like he doesn’t think it counts for anything at all. I can tell he’s bitter. It’s like he’s stuck in the kind of rage I’d felt in the car. The anger that won’t go away at people who can’t (or won’t) change their ways. He reminds me a lot of William. William’s dad walked out on him before he was old enough to remember. The man walked out on his son so he could have more time with his beer, or at least that’s how William tells it. Told it. That’s how William told it.
I am able to talk about William in the past tense pretty easily. I don’t like it, but I can do it. William is dead, people know that, and I know how they expect me to talk about him. Thinking about him in the past tense is a totally different thing. There are no social norms to adhere to in my mind, and he is a lot less dead there than out in the real world.
I wonder if this guy knew William. Maybe they ran into each other sometime. I could use a coincidence like that. Maybe they were best friends somehow. Maybe he can give me all the answers I’m looking for. Things like that happen in real life, right? I mean, not usually, but to people who are really lucky. I could use a really lucky moment. I think I’ve earned it.
“And don’t tell me how sorry you are. I hate when people say how sorry they are, like it changes things or makes it okay how embarrassed they are to have brought the subject up.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I hate that he thinks he knows me, that he thinks I fit so easily into the slot of “everybody else.” Just like all those other people think they know what I’m going through or what my problems are like. And I’m not thinking about him at all. “I was going to ask if you ever met William Davis.” My voice starts shaking and he probably assumes I’m crying, but I’m not this time. I’m nervous. I think this is it. All those answers. This is finally it.
“Nope. Don’t think so. I try not to socialize with the patients. Sooner or later they all leave to go somewhere. And sooner than later they all usually come back.” He looks at me for a few seconds and seems to regret what he said. “I mean, no offense. I’m sure what’s-his-name was a great guy.”
“Even great guys do stupid things. And if you’re gonna feel sorry for me then I’m going to start apologizing t
o you.” I look him right in the eyes, my voice doesn’t waver, and I don’t feel out of my element. It’s a new experience for me. I’m actually feeling confident.
“Alright. That’s fair.” He chuckles a little. “My name’s Luke.”
“Crissy. So, tell me, Luke, why are you here?”
“Curiosity.”
“Bull. If you don’t want to get involved with the people inside “That Place” why would you bother with someone working out issues next to it?”
“’That Place?” It has a name, you know.”
“Of course I know. I’m in denial, probably about more than that, but I don’t see any reason to stop. It’s not like my denial’s hurting anyone.” I say that a little more angrily than I mean to, but it just makes Luke chuckle again. I’ve been doing that a lot recently, saying things more angrily than I mean to. I think my filter’s broken.
“And there’s the bitterness. Welcome to the club.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Which was?”
“Why did you bother coming over here?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like going in today.”
I shrug, not really sure what to say. I’d like to tell him something helpful or encouraging. I’d like to be able to relate, but I can’t. I’d give anything to have just one more hour with William, even if I had to spend it in “That Place”.
Chasing William Page 12
