Gena/Finn

  I can’t believe he figured it out. He’s a detective, or something. I didn’t tell him where I was, only that I was going. Apparently he got onto my computer (nightmare city, oh my god, if I wasn’t so damn exhausted I’d be freaking out about that) and read my journal.

  And he’s not mad.

  And I feel like everything might actually be okay.

  Or at least, for the first time since I heard about the accident, I don’t feel that sick sinking panic, and that’s got to be a good sign.

  He’s talking to the doctor now, and I’m not crying so much anymore, and Toby got a Mountain Dew from the vending machine.

  Somewhere your real life is going on without you. Somewhere the girls in your dorm are studying and partying and gossiping about Joanne’s weird roommate who went away for a weekend and never came back. Nobody anywhere, except for right here in this too–clean too–bright hallway, is trying to figure out how you’re going to live now.

  We’re going home, Evie.

  You’re coming with us. I’m taking you home.

  Psychiatrist Notes

  Dr. Beatrice Monroe, MD, Humber River Regional Hospital

  Patient: Genevieve Z. Goldman

  October 1

  For the first ten minutes of our appointment (Day 3), Genevieve was as silent as she’d been on September 29th and 30th but was beginning to show more signs of connection and interaction. She pushed herself back and forth a little in the wheelchair (despite the bandage on her hand) and picked up and played with a few of the stress toys on the table. I asked her a few questions near the beginning about how she was feeling and if there was anything she wanted to talk about, and if she understood that our session was being tape-recorded for my records. As with days 1 and 2, she didn’t respond.

  About ten minutes into the appointment, however, she looked up at my diploma on the wall and asked where I went to school. I told her, and asked where she went, but she was unresponsive.

  For You:

  You probably look suspicious, sleepwalking around Toronto Pearson International Airport in Charlie’s hoodie. It’s too big for you, and you’re too pale and checked out. That’s probably why we had trouble at security. I should have seen it coming. I had to let go of you to send you through the metal detector, but you handled it well, at least at first. You put your hoodie and bracelets in one of those bins with your shoes, pushed it onto the belt, and walked through the gate. One of the security guards stopped you on the other side and said something I couldn’t hear, and suddenly I was breathing too fast, itching to get to you. I probably looked suspicious myself.

  I couldn’t do anything but watch as they patted you down. It was agonizing. You’ve been through so much and you didn’t need strange people going through your hair in a crowded place. Your fucking hair, really? What did they think, that you were carrying heroin on your scalp? Your shoulders were so tense, you were shaking and small and afraid and I couldn’t get to you.

  Then Charlie cleared security.

  He went over, keeping a careful distance, standing in your eyeshot and smiling, and he reached into a bin and held up the hoodie. I actually saw you relax, watching him. I remember how he used to show up at my dorm the morning of exams in college and bring me omelets and joke with me so I’d be relaxed going in.

  I just love him so much.

  He’s off getting us something to eat now, and you’re calm, curled up with your head on your backpack and cuddling a juice box. You drink it quietly. I don’t think anyone in the history of juice boxes has ever drunk a juice box quietly, but you do, with your knees pulled to your chest. But you’re doing everything quietly now. You’re still not talking much, and when you do, it’s lying half the time. Stupid lies. Pointless ones. You told Charlie he didn’t need to get food because you ate at the hospital, but we’ve both been with you all day and we know it’s not true.

  In the cab on the way over, you asked me why you were coming with me.

  I said the first thing that came to mind. “I want you with me.”

  You watched me for a minute like you weren’t sure if you believed me. “I should probably go to my parents. They miss me a lot when I’m off at school. They’ll be upset if I go to California.”

  What I’m not going to say, because it’s too sad and because you already fucking know, is that your parents haven’t called, haven’t texted, haven’t been in contact with the hospital, and as far as I can tell don’t read the news. Or maybe they don’t get the news in Ethiopia or wherever the hell; I guess accidents

  on the set of third-rate cop dramas aren’t exactly world headlines. Anyway, there’s no indication they even know what happened. Suddenly the little annoying things my parents do –

  sending me recipes even though I’ve told them Charlie’s the cook, asking about friends I haven’t talked to since high

  school – seem endearing and familiar.

  I didn’t say any of that. What I said was, “please come with us. We’ll go to the beach.”

  You nodded and closed your eyes. “I like the beach.”

  Group Text

  hey, parents

  Oct 2, 2:41 pm

  Mom: Stephanie?

  Mom: Is everything okay?

  about to get on a plane

  Dad: vacation?

  coming home. was in Toronto

  visiting a friend

  Dad: how do you have

  friends in Toronto! what else

  haven’t you told us!

  Oct 2, 2:46 pm

  just wanted to say I love you

  guys.

  Oct 2, 2:48 pm

  Mom: Stephanie, honey, are

  you sure everything’s okay?

  boarding, g2g

  It’s a long flight. We’ve been up in the air for about four hours and Charlie’s asleep against the window. You took my Jack and Coke from my tray table without asking (I would have said yes, of course, you can have anything) and drank it straight down in one gulp. Then you leaned forward, dug through the seat back pocket in front of you, and came up with a barf bag.

  “Are you sick?”

  “Probably. Excuse me,” you called a flight attendant a few rows ahead and he came over, all smiles. “Do you have a pen? I need to fill out a form.” Then that charming smile, the one I remember from Chicago. I wish I didn’t know you so well, so I could believe this performance.

  I don’t wish that at all, obviously.

  The steward gave you a pen and a flirty grin and you gave him my empty drink cup. Now you’ve got the bag flattened on your tray table and you’re writing, head ducked so I can’t see.

  You could have had a page out of my journal if you needed something to write on, you know. You could have had the whole damn thing.

  I’ve been trying to pay attention to the in-flight movie. It’s a chase scene, but what’s baffling is that it’s been a chase scene for the past ninety minutes. A kid who looks sort of like Jesse Eisenberg but isn’t is riding his bike at breakneck pace through the streets of Some City, USA, pursued by the stupidest branch of law enforcement imaginable, which even equipped with squad cars, motorcycles, and fancy weapons can’t manage to stop their target.

  There was an episode of Up Below like this. It was just a few months ago. Tyler and Jake were escaping on foot from a group of bad guys, I don’t remember the specifics now, but I remember Jake had hurt his leg at some point and when they came to a fence he couldn’t climb, Tyler turned back to fight the bad guys because he didn’t want to leave Jake behind. It was a good episode. A lot of fandom didn’t like it much, though. I think it was actually Tylergirl – Mallory – who posted that Jake couldn’t carry his own weight in a fight, and that he was always holding Tyler back.

  Jake’s dead. That thought just realized itself in my head, or something, because I didn’t actively think it. Zack Martocchio is de
ad and that’s a tragedy, but Jake is dead and good God, that’s what’s making me cry.

  We’re starting our descent.

  on the back of an airsickness bag

  on Gena’s tray table

  I was born with a big head, too

  I was born with a big head, too much

  imagination, and no depth perception

  I see no point in living but

  FEEL BETTER?

  Use bag in the event of motion sickness

  but to see you go on

  hurry up please it's time

  i am never without it

  Patent US 2547097 A

  For You:

  Charlie put your bags in the guest room – look at that, I guess we do need a guest room – and left to give you privacy or make tea or line up your arsenal of psychiatric meds somewhere out of sight, I don’t know. You’re sitting on the bed, facing away from me, out the window overlooking our parking lot and the used car dealership and, off in the far, far distance, a line of shrubbery. This probably isn’t how you pictured your first trip to California.

  I offered you something to eat. You weren’t interested.

  I asked you if you saw it happen.

  I can’t believe I did that. I can’t fucking believe I said that to you.

  Not that I got an answer.

  I straightened up a pile of DVDs on a shelf as an excuse to move a little closer. I’m not used to this feeling of dancing around you. Everything came so easily in Chicago. In Providence we fell back together without having to try. You’ve never been an effort before, and it’s killing me.

  Charlie brought in a cup of tea and couldn’t find a place to put it down, so I’m holding it. Writing’s pretty hard like this, but every surface is covered. We don’t have guests often. We use this space for storage, for the things we don’t know what else to do with.

  I am so, so, tired. I left him for you. I left you for him. I love you both. Zack is dead. Jake is dead. Everything is falling apart and I want to cry, I just want to go to pieces and not worry anymore.

  It’s your tea and I shouldn’t, but it smells warm and homey and like someone’s taking care of me, and suddenly the mug’s half empty.

  God, I’m going to start crying.

  I just love you both so much. You’re hurting so much.

  God, I don’t know what I’m going to do except cling to you and wait for things to start making sense.

  I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, but the sun’s gone down and you’re leaning on me, eyes half open. You haven’t slept since you came off the drugs in the hospital. Sleep, Evie. Dream something nice for me.

  Text with Charlie

  you awake?

  yeah. you?

  ...okay stupid question

  Oct 3, 3:03 am

  so...coming to bed?

  Oct 3, 3:05 am

  finn?

  Oct 3, 3:09 am

  I don’t want to leave her alone,

  Charlie

  Oct 3, 3:12

  are you attracted to her?

  Oct 3, 3:13

  that’s not the point

  to me it is

  really? after I left you and flew

  across the country in the

  middle of the night to be with

  her, twice? that’s fine but

  whether I find her attractive is

  what you’re worried about?

  idk

  well idk either

  how can you not k

  I’ve been distracted, okay?

  I might be in love with two

  different people and that might

  make me the most awful

  person I know.

  and evie’s losing her mind and

  lying to strangers and writing

  weird poetry on random

  scraps of paper

  and zack martocchio is dead,

  and

  Oct 3, 3:24 am

  and Jake is dead?

  I’m an appalling person

  come to bed, appalling

  person.

  >>upbelowfiesta: the party never dies

  October 4

  Roll call:

  By now, most of us have heard the news of the fire on the set of Up Below. A lot of really irresponsible rumors are going around, so here’s my attempt to put some of those to rest – and I’m only going to post VERIFIED FACTS here, guys, no hearsay. If you’ve heard about any of the cast or crew, let me know in the comments, but please, no gossip, only cold hard 411.

  So, the news:

  We know Carl Casden is okay, because he gave an interview. In it, he mentioned a hospital in Toronto, but he didn’t say who had been hospitalized.

  This article suggests multiple deaths.

  We have a photo of Toby Frost in an airport. You can sort of see the date on the list of flight times behind him, so we know this is after the explosion.

  Anybody heard anything about Zack Martocchio, any of the writers, the showrunners, etc? Please comment!

  >>>>Tylergirl93 reblogged this and added: this article confirms three deaths. Thank god Toby’s okay

  >>>>MioMy says: word of _EvenIf?

  >>>>Tylergirl93 says: haven’t heard

  >>>>finnblueline says: _EvenIf is safe and with family

  on the back of a receipt for tilapia,

  celery, and minute rice

  When Jake was my brother it was hotter,

  Los Angeles and dust clouds and Spanish screaming

  we drank Kool-Aid out of plastic bottles

  We twisted off the caps and left them on the black floor

  the one with the carefully placed fluorescent crosses

  and circles

  this is where you stand, this is where you move.

  Zack and Genny played onscreen together

  billed under their wrong names

  and me and Jake undressed in the green room and drafted text messages to Alanah

  For You:

  Sometimes being with you is like Chicago again, when everything was easy and fun and falling into place. Except it’s even better, because we’re together with Charlie in the room to see what we are, and so you can get to know him, and so I can really work out how it all fits together. He likes you. I can tell by the way he messes up your hair when he’s leaving for work, by the way he brings home coasters from the bar because he noticed you collecting them from around the house.

  I really, really hoped it was going to fix everything.

  But it’s not working out that way at all, and not for any of the reasons I would have expected. Charlie’s spooked, but he’s trying. I fall asleep with you as many nights as not, and it’s warm and comfortable and he looks in on us before he goes to bed and smiles like a father, and on one memorable day he brought a blanket and kissed your forehead and you squeezed his hand a little as he was leaving.

  Last night we all watched TV together – something frothy with a laugh track, nothing that’d make you think too hard about anything – and now I’m awake in the middle of the night, staring at a blue show’s-over glow on the screen and the two of you curled up together like cats.

  I wish I could say everything was better, Evie. More than

  anything.

  across several of the coasters

  from Charlie’s bar

  When Jake was my brother it was More than Oak

  it was cottonwood swings that scraped your back when you fell off

  it was people who called me Genny

  and people who called you Zack

  when Jake was my brother

  when things could be touched

  I know it was you because you were the one who held me when the voices left

  You were t
he one who pulled me away from deadlines

  you were the one who cuddled me in a blanket in my dorm on Monday nights

  when you were my brother it was pornography in our heads and we had no idea

  For You:

  Today was my first day back at work. At least, it should have been. Actually, it turned out to be the day I lost my job. And also, incidentally, the day you lost your mind.

  I really didn’t see this coming. I don’t know how. God knows no one could say I’ve been employee of the year. I guess I forgot everyone else’s sun doesn’t rise and set with you. I guess I convinced myself it was okay.

  My things were in a box behind the receptionist’s desk. She handed it over without any acknowledgment that she even knew who I was, and a manager came and escorted me from the building, I guess in case I got violent or something. All of this should probably upset me more than it does, but the truth is that I’m just relieved. You’ve been staying home with just Charlie, who sleeps a lot during the day and just doesn’t know you like I do. He can’t take care of you like I can. I want to be the one taking care of you. Oh, hell.

  There’s no relief in what’s happening to you, just empty horror, and I’m sitting awake replaying it in my head instead of worrying about where the hell the money’s going to come from now.

  Charlie made spaghetti for dinner. He loves to cook, and I love to eat. It’s a good partnership. He was all expectant and cute putting food in front of you for the first time, trying to hide his anticipation in chatter about work and the extra shifts he’d picked up because we need the money.

  You pushed the spaghetti around on your plate.

  “Isn’t it good?” Charlie’s not always so anxious to please. He likes you. He wanted you to be happy with him. My Charlie.

  You nodded, too fast, too hard.

  “Evie, what’s wrong?”

  “Stop,” you whispered, pulling your knees up to your chest. “Stop, stop...” and you were crying into your spaghetti, hands pressed to your ears, shaking your head over and over.