by Liz Kessler
All of which is another good reason not to go looking things up online. The last thing I want to see is confirmation that my fantasy has absolutely zero chance of ever coming true.
“Any more come back to you today?” I ask instead.
“Actually, yes,” he says, getting up from the window seat. “I’ve been thinking about something I used to do. Thought I might share it with you.”
He reaches for my hand. I try to take hold of his. We haven’t really figured out how to make contact every time. Sometimes it works; other times it’s as impossible as trying to get hold of a puff of smoke. Sometimes, I go right through his skin, and it burns him and scares the life out of me.
I have a theory: it seems that the higher the stakes are emotionally, the more physical Joe becomes. If things are really intense between us, or if one of us is feeling really strongly about something, that’s when he seems to get more real. Like the other day when I was really upset, we managed to touch, but in the middle of an average conversation, it won’t happen.
We give up after a few attempts. I try not to show him how disappointed I am as I jump down from the window seat and join him.
“I want to show you something,” he says, heading for the closet and indicating for me to join him. “Bring a flashlight,” he adds as an afterthought.
I grab my phone from my bag, flick the flashlight app on, and follow Joe into the closet.
We crawl to the far end together, and Joe kneels down. I sit cross-legged in front of him.
“We’ve shared a lot over this last couple of weeks, haven’t we?” he begins.
“Uh-huh.”
“But there’s one thing we haven’t mentioned. We haven’t talked about what you saw in here.”
“The necklace?” I ask.
He pauses. “The other thing.”
He means the poem. He’s right. I hadn’t mentioned it since I didn’t know if he realized I’d actually read the words. And I didn’t want to embarrass him. I mean, before meeting him, it was just random words on a wall. Now that I know him, it feels as if I’ve been reading his diary — and I know how crappy it feels when someone reads your diary.
So I didn’t want to tell him I’d seen it. But at the same time, I’ve been feeling just as uncomfortable keeping it from him.
“It’s fine,” he says, reading my mind.
“You saw me?”
“Yup,” he says, and my heart melts for him.
“I didn’t mean to pry, I just —”
“It’s cool. Really.” He reaches out with his hand, places a finger on my lips. This time, his finger makes contact with my skin. Makes my face buzz and burn. Makes my body heat up. A second later the moment has passed, and I can’t feel him at all.
Did I imagine it?
I ask myself that question about fifty times a day. Am I making up the whole thing? I’m still not totally convinced all this isn’t a figment of my imagination. A great way of avoiding the outside world. And that thought scares me. What if I’m growing more and more detached from reality? What if I actually am going properly insane?
“There are more.” Joe breaks into my thoughts, thank goodness. I didn’t like where they were heading.
I shine the light and look around. I can’t see any more writing. “More poetry? Where? I can’t see it.”
“See, that’s what I remembered. I used to write all the time. But I had to be on my own. Mostly, I’d write in my room, sitting in our window seat.”
I can’t help a small smile at that. He called it our window seat. I’ve never had somewhere that’s been “our place” with someone before.
“Sometimes, when I really had to get away from everyone, I’d go to this place out along the coast path,” Joe goes on. “There are some rocks and a little shelter. I remember it. I used to sit in there and write. I called it my poetry cave.”
“Why are you bringing me back in here, then?” I ask.
“This was my other writing cave. The one when I didn’t feel like scrambling along a coast path and down slippery rocks. This closet was my stay-at-home writing cave.”
I laugh.
“I remember what I used to do. I’d write on the walls, then cover it up, in case anyone else came in.”
He crawls farther inside the closet. “Shine your light there.”
I shine the light right into the back part of the closet, where the stairs above make ledges in the ceiling. He’s right. There’s a sheet of wallpaper stuck down at the top, but the bottom half of it is unattached.
“It’s under that,” Joe says. “I can’t remember what I wrote, but I remember writing something.”
“How come you haven’t looked while I was at school?” I ask, then mentally kick myself. I’m guessing he wouldn’t have been able to take hold of the paper.
“Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Hey. It’s OK. Honestly.”
He turns back to me, a twinkle in his eye. He’s trying to look calm about it, but he must be nervous, too. I would be. Showing me something he’s written when he can’t even remember what it is? I’m hoping that means he trusts me.
“So,” he says. “Want to see what I wrote, back when I was alive?”
I look at him, realizing that not only is it a chance for me to find out more about him, but it’s his chance to as well. “If you’re sure,” I say carefully.
He grins. “Not remotely. But let’s do it.”
It’s a bit of a gamble, this. A catch-22, or whatever you call it. Is it ironic? Maybe.
On the one hand, now that I’ve remembered I used to write poems in here and how I used to hide them, I’m desperate to see what’s in here. I feel like it holds some kind of key for me. A key to myself, even. I mean, all this time, I’ve been completely lost. The first thing I remember at all was the daffodils and blossoms, so I figure I must have died early in the year. It’s October now. And I’ve been in here the whole time. Stuck in this room, which is mine and not mine. Held prisoner in the house that is like an outer skin to me, but lost and cut off from everything else I ever knew.
And mostly lost from myself. I don’t know who I am.
I’ve been avoiding thinking about the past, but maybe it’s time. I need to find out who I was, and maybe what got me here. And this may give me a clue. Which is a good thing, even if it’s also a bit terrifying.
Plus, the only way I can get to see it is with Erin’s help, since I still haven’t figured out how to do incredibly hard and sophisticated things like lift up a sheet of paper whenever I want to. But I’ve got to say, I’m hesitant about letting her see the inner workings of my mind. Not when I don’t even know what’s in there myself.
“OK, I’m all set with the flashlight,” Erin’s saying. “You ready?”
I don’t even answer her question. I don’t know how to. Of course I’m not ready. But I need to do it. “Shine the light on the first ledge,” I say.
Erin shines her light onto the lowest ledge. There’s a flimsy piece of wallpaper hanging from the top of it, flapping down, unattached at the bottom. My insides flip over. Last chance to duck out.
I need to see it. Need to know who I was.
“That’s it,” I say, pointing at the wallpaper. “Under there.”
Erin lifts the flap, shines her light on the ledge below it, and exposes my words to the light, to me, to her. I hold my breath.
SOMETIMES I FEEL I’M IN A FILM,
WEAR A FIXED SMILE WALKING HOME.
I SWALLOW EACH DAY LIKE A PILL
UNTIL I CAN BE ON MY OWN.
YESTERDAY I RAN TO THE CLIFFS,
STARED INTO THE ROARING DEPTHS,
BEGGED FOR SOMEONE TO LISTEN —
THE WIND THREW MY TEARS OFF THE EDGE.
I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO SEE ME.
THE GIRLS, THEY DON’T WANT TO KNOW.
I OPEN, I CLOSE, THE SAME PHRASE REPEATS:
YOU’RE JUST LIKE A BROTHER TO ME, JOE.
S
OMETIMES I THINK I’M DOING OK,
THEN A VOICE DEEP INSIDE ME SAYS,
DUDE, WHY EVEN BOTHER WRITING THESE LINES?
WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO IMPRESS?
He’s waiting for me to say something. Problem is, right now my mouth is as dry as the last undiscovered desert, with the added complication of having a tongue stuck to the inside of it.
His poem doesn’t just make me want to cry till my eyes are empty. His poem is me. His words feel like the other half to mine.
How do I tell him all that without freaking him out?
I tear my eyes away from his words and look at his face.
“You hate it, don’t you?” he says nervously.
I can’t stop myself from bursting out laughing. He couldn’t have said anything that was further from the truth. He flinches as if he’s been stung in his face.
“Don’t laugh at me, Erin,” he says softly. “Please.”
I stare at him. “Joe,” I whisper. “How could you think I would laugh at you?” I point at his poem. “At this?”
“I — I don’t . . .” His voice trails off.
“Joe, it’s amazing,” I say, wishing my words weren’t so insignificant. “It’s everything I feel, everything I’ve always felt. I want more of it.”
I want more of you, I add silently.
Joe’s face transforms. His eyes glimmer as if a light is shining out through them. “Really?”
I laugh again — more confidently this time. “Really,” I assure him. “I love it.”
As I say the word love, something flips inside me. I keep wanting to use the word, whenever I’m with him. “I love being with you.” “I love the poem.” “I love the time we spend together.” It’s as if the word is waiting in the wings of the stage where we’re together — looking for any chance to step in and show itself. An actor trying to steal the limelight and take over the show.
But it’s too soon. It’s way too soon. And too crazy, and too . . .
It’s just not possible. However much I might wish otherwise.
Plus, he’s looking at me now with a strange expression on his face. Just staring. Not saying anything. I shouldn’t have used that word. So obvious. So over the top. Typical girl, getting overemotional about a guy she’s known a matter of weeks. A dead guy she’s known a matter of weeks.
What a loser.
Can he see inside my mind? Does he read my thoughts? How much access to my life does he have?
His stare is making me feel too exposed, and I turn away.
Joe reaches out for my arm. This time, he makes contact.
I look down at his hand on my arm and don’t move a muscle in case the contact breaks.
“Don’t go,” he says. His voice is husky and dark. Rough like the stubble on his face, like his messy hair, like all of him. The rawness of it makes me want to smooth everything down, soothe him, take his pain away.
I turn to face him. His hand still on my arm, his eyes locked on mine, he reaches out with his other hand. Touches my face softly with the palm of his hand. I tilt my face to meet his skin. My cheek against his palm.
I think I’m going to pass out. I have never been touched like this.
I’ve held hands in the back row at the movies with Timothy Bolton, the one boy who gave me the time of day. And I only did that so I could have something to say to the girls who bragged about how far their boyfriends wanted to go with them and how they were making them wait. The girls never asked me, anyway. Even if they had, I only wanted to talk about it to prove I was likable, fanciable, attractive to someone. To kid myself that I could fit in.
But this. This isn’t the same. This is something I have never known. This is about a moment when time has stopped. When my heart has stopped. When the whole world has stopped moving and, instead, has been sucked into the moment, here, now, when nothing else matters or exists.
I am falling.
And in that moment, it’s as if the truth of this whole situation is suddenly revealed. This isn’t a relationship. It isn’t real. It isn’t life.
It’s dangerous. It’s like the top of a ride — those rides I always hated but went on anyway. Always trying to be part of the gang, show how I could do it, too. But I couldn’t, not without putting myself through all that fear.
The fear, that’s the thing I can’t deal with. The anxiety, the nights it took me over, threatened to engulf me, drown me, tear me apart. And then it nearly did.
I told myself I would never care again. Never need anyone, want anything from anyone. I ran away from needing people. Ran away from pain. Ran from all of them, from everything. From their words, their gossip, their laughter. The laughter followed me all the way to the edge of a cliff.
I’m not going there again. I refuse to let someone in if it means opening myself up to need, to fear and anxiety. I won’t. I can’t.
And that’s when I realize the horrible truth, the truth I wish I didn’t have to face but I know I can’t escape.
I can’t go back there. I can’t be here. I can’t do this. I can’t afford to show my hand. Can’t go to the edge of the cliff.
How can I let myself fall when there is no feasible way that Joe could ever catch me?
I don’t know how long the moment lasts.
I don’t know much nowadays. I’ve woken from a deep sleep only to watch my family move out of my house. I’ve called out to my brother as he looked through me and said good-bye to an empty room. I’ve watched a new family move in. I’ve fought to release myself from the trap of these four walls. And I’ve made contact with a girl who moved into my room and into my heart in equal measure.
But this — this throws me more than any of those things. The look in her eyes. The feel of her skin, her soft, warm skin, on my hand. The electrifying bridge of unspoken words between us.
Where can we go from here? Only closer together, surely.
The wanting makes me hope. Can we get closer? Can we overcome this gulf? Does it have to be like this? I ask myself every day: Am I definitely gone for good, or could she literally bring me back from the dead? I’m sure I’m just making up stories to get through the day. Myths. Fables. Crazy dreams.
But everything else about this situation is crazy, so why not? Why not?
I’m watching her mouth. Her lips are moving. She’s speaking. The need in my chest is so intense, it’s reached my ears and is blocking out sound.
Her lips. I want to kiss them.
I lean forward, just a tiny bit. Imperceptible.
In that moment, sound gets through. She’s speaking.
“I have to go,” she says.
I jump back as if she had struck me.
“I — sorry,” I say. “I thought — I — sorry.”
I pull my hands away. They fall by my sides, limp and stupid. Like me.
“No. It’s not you,” she says.
I laugh drily. “It’s not you, it’s me?” I ask bitterly.
Another unwanted memory crashes into my mind. Or memories, I should say. The girls at school. The ones I liked, the ones who saw me as their safe best friend. Liked me as a brother. Or liked me for my brother, I should say. Wormed their way into my life, thinking it was a shortcut to Olly’s inner circle. How many times did I fall for it? And then, when I was getting close to them, getting to like them, maybe trying to kiss them, that was the moment I found out the truth. It was Olly they were after. It was always Olly.
“It’s not you, Joe. You’re perfect. It’s me. You’ll make someone a wonderful boyfriend one day. I wish I felt differently so it could be me.”
The feeling is so familiar, it’s like an old bruise.
Erin takes my hand. Her hand, warm in mine. Her touch is like a first sight of land to a drowning man. I am drowning. But is she my lifesaving shoreline or the mirage that just makes my dying hopes even more painful?
“I’m sorry,” she’s saying, answering my question. It was a mirage after all. “I just — I don’t know if I can do this.”
“It’s fine,” I say coldly.
“Joe, it’s really not your fault.” Her voice is like a thin wire slicing through me. “It’s —”
“Please, Erin, just go.”
I turn away from her. I don’t want her to see my pain. And I haven’t got it in me to put on a brave face while she tells me I’m like a brother to her, or a best friend. I got it wrong again. More wrong than I’ve ever gotten anything.
I don’t turn back around. I need something to focus on. Numbers. I’ll count them. Just keep counting in my head. Feels like an old childhood game of hide-and-seek. How many times did I hide in this closet?
One, two, three . . .
Run. Go.
Eight, nine, ten . . .
I hear her move away. Her footsteps, one by one, walking away from me.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .
I hear her walk across her bedroom. I hear her sniff. I close myself off to the sound of her. I hear her open the door. Close it. Leave me here. On my own again. Safe, alone, just how I like it.
Twenty. Coming, ready or not.
She’s gone.
I turn to face my demons, my prison, the room that feels empty for the first time in weeks.
I barely even know what just happened there. One minute, we were the closest we’ve ever been. Then I freaked out. I mean, I know it was me. But still, a tiny part of me wanted him to save me. Instead he sent me away. I guess that proves I was right. He can’t save me. No one can. I’ve only got myself.
