You’re in bed now, still crying, rocking back and forth, and I’ve never felt helpless like this. I don’t know what to do.
“Shut up,” I can hear you whisper. “I’m not yours.”
For You:
I woke up alone in the middle of the night. We fell asleep together in the guest bed, but when I woke up you were gone.
Charlie was in the bedroom, sprawled all the way across the mattress, no you. The kitchen was dark and empty. I checked corners. Nothing.
I’ve been worrying about this for days. If you ever left the apartment, you could go anywhere. This isn’t your town and you’re not in your right mind. You could be wandering the streets or fucking abducted or...shit, I don’t want to think about it.
There are relative lulls, and then the world explodes.
No, that’s not fair.
It’s not fair to equate the sound of shattering glass from the bathroom with an explosion. Not now. Not anymore.
But my heart was fucking vibrating, still hasn’t settled, and the bathroom door was locked and you weren’t answering, and I started seeing spots, and Charlie was behind me out of nowhere shouting in his I-think-you’ve-had-enough-to-drink voice, his don’t-fuck-with-me voice.
I’ve been worrying about you slipping away from me for days.
Shit, I don’t want to cry, I don’t want to get out of control right now.
I found you standing in the dark staring at what remains of our mirror, your hand a mess of blood and glass.
“I had to kill the real one,” you whispered, in that voice I’ll never forget.
posted on the fridge
I know it was you because Zack was beaming in
interviews and kissing his Shakespearean love child
You were the one who was with me
You were big brother and I was little sister
We were Gena and Jake.
When Jake was my brother Zack was alive
off somewhere in someone else's fantasy
burning fiery inappropriate
your machine anatomy.
For You:
I’m on the roof tonight.
I never would have thought to come up here. This isn’t something I would have done on my own.
The wind is whipping the pages in my journal, so forgive my bad handwriting. I’m having to hold the thing down with one hand and write with the other.
It’s a miracle that I’m up here at all. I was coming back from checking the mail (bills, bills, and a care package from my mother that will probably include some newspaper articles about the crime rate in San Francisco and Los Angeles, because she hasn’t grasped that that isn’t where I live, and possibly also some Nutella). The hallway was breezier than it normally is, and on impulse I looked around the corner that leads to the fire escape exit and found it propped open.
You’re lucky that alarm’s been broken since we moved in.
I knew it was you, of course. I mean, practically speaking it could have been the stoners who live across the hall, or someone looking for a quasi-romantic view of the quasi-city to make out against, but I knew.
I found you sitting on the edge of the roof and dangling your feet over, and I called out to you.
You didn’t look at me. “Have you seen the stars?”
“What?”
“Come look.”
I crossed the roof and sat next to you, and you didn’t lean into me the way you ordinarily would. Instead, your weight shifted out, over the edge. “Do you know how far it is to the moon?”
I didn’t.
“Two hundred thousand miles of empty space.” You swayed in little circles, away from me, out over the empty air, back.
“Come inside, baby.”
“Did I do it?”
I eased an arm around your back and pulled you close. You
let me.
“See that star?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s yours?”
“For wishing. It’s my lucky star.”
“Do your wishes come true?”
You were quiet so long I didn’t think you were going to answer, or maybe the voices in your head were after you again, but then you leaned into my shoulder. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes is good.”
“Sometimes sometimes is bad.”
“I know.”
You went inside then, and I’m still here because I can’t come down, because I can’t face going back in to my scrambled-up life and the people I’m failing. So I’m up here trying to pick a lucky star of my own.
I have no idea what I’m going to wish, though.
written down Gena’s legs in
bright green Magic Marker
When I first met Alanah I thought she was fake
She had that blonde hair and the sexy shark teeth
Alanah's the kind of person who can wear backless shirts
Alanah makes you wonder where the tape is and where she is tucked in
She reminded me of Nala, who was a wild-haired lizard woman with pink eyes
she'd crawl out of anything she could decide was a tunnel
She liked to put her tongue in my ear and lick in circles,
mine
mine mine
she was the one who started fires
Alanah, Nalanah, loved me
poured herself into me like water down a drain
we never burned bright and hard and full of love
we never laughed together fought together cried and
cuddled on a dorm room bed
we never lit the world on fire
left on the kitchen table
Hey, Honey,
The school said they’d take care of getting this to you. We’ve tried so many times to call your phone. We’ve sent you several emails. Can you give us the number of where you’re staying?
We’d love to come get you and bring you home with us. We know what happened must have been so incredibly horrifying. Come back and talk to us about it? And if you’re not ready to come home, please let us know as soon as possible how to get in touch with whoever you’re with and make sure they have everything they need to take care of you.
Spike and Thomas miss you...
xoxo
Aunt Jane
outgoing mail, torn open and taped shut
Ms. Goldman,
Oakmoor University forwarded your letter to me. My name is Stephanie Bartlett, and I’m a friend of Gena’s. She’s staying with me at the moment, but I passed your letter on to her so she’d know she had options.
Gena’s not feeling up to talking much these days, but she’s doing all right. At the moment she’s in my kitchen baking a loaf of bread, which we’re planning to eat tonight while we watch cartoons. Cartoons are all she wants to watch on TV right now, which I think is probably understandable.
Her recovery’s going pretty well here in California – she’s been attending a trauma support group and it seems to be helping – so I’m not sure uprooting her is the best idea. Please feel free to give me a call anytime at 618-555-0500. I know you must be concerned.
Sincerely,
Stephanie Bartlett
on the back of a flier for the Montgomery Village Trauma Support Group
bright lights, small room
there's a girl here about eight years old
finn put my hair in a ponytail this morning
the boy next to me smiles
I bet he could save the world
once a week
For You:
Charlie’s working extra hours again, so we got stuck relying on my dubious cooking skills for dinner. I hope you like canned soup.
I got your Zyprexa today. I had to call your shrink in Connecticut an
d explain the situation. Or rather, give the barest outline of it. “There was an accident and Gena’s staying with me for a while” seems like all the pertinent information and at the same time none of it.
I’m not sure what I expected – maybe that she’d be sympathetic, or at least not give us a hard time – but I guess that’s not shrink protocol. I’m sure this is old news to you. You’re probably used to debating whether you should actually have the pills she’s prescribed. You’re probably used to these tiny bottles that cost $300, which I transferred from our already miniscule savings account. I’m not sure how we’re going to afford next month’s refill, or, you know, food. I need to get a job, but I can’t leave you here alone all day. Even though you’d probably be fine. Probably. It’s your birthday in two days and I can’t even afford presents. Maybe a cake.
Jesus, not a cake, goddamn candles, fuck.
I made the soup in the microwave because I am useless at cooking, and I didn’t heat yours up quite as much as I ordinarily would. You sat at the table and stirred it around and watched it spin in the bowl like it was mesmerizing, but you weren’t crying into it and talking to the voices in your head so I’m calling it a win.
Trying to get you to talk about group therapy got me nowhere. You were so lively in Chicago. You talked nonstop. Now it’s like pulling teeth. Apparently they didn’t make you talk today, which I guess is nice of them, but I sort of wish they’d made you, to be honest. I sort of wish they’d sit you down and fucking figure out what’s wrong and call me and tell me the steps to fix it and make you smile again. I know that’s not how it works. I know. I do.
There’s this one guy. Steven.
He was in an accident, you say. He gets it, you say. It’s nice. You like him. He gets it.
I don’t know why I’m being like this.
It’s good that you made a friend. It’s good that someone gets it. It’s a good thing. Someone understands what you’re feeling. You have someone to talk to, someone who you like.
It’s just I thought that was me.
But you’re okay today (you know, relatively), you’re not crying, you’re talking more, and I love you, and what else can I be but happy?
crumpled up in the trash can
Dear Genevieve Goldman,
It is with our deepest sympathies that we acknowledge both your recent trauma and your leave of absence from Oakmoor. Your personal belongings have been gathered and shipped to you and should arrive shortly. Please accept our dearest condolences. We hope to see you back on our campus the moment you are ready to resume your Oakmoor experience. You remain a crucial part of the Oakmoor community even in your absence.
In addition, we’ve begun forwarding your mail to this address, and it should begin arriving shortly.
Sincerely,
Caitlin Fordham
Caitlin Fordham, Dean of Students
hung on the refrigerator
with a turtle magnet
Dear Genevieve,
All of us here at Stoneyhall wanted to get in touch with you as soon as we heard about what happened, but I fought tooth and nail to get to be the one to write to you first. We are so incredibly sorry for what you had to witness, Genevieve. It’s always horrible when someone in our community goes through something traumatic, and even more so when it’s a bright, compassionate girl like you.
Please know that you are in our hearts and that we are always, always here for you if you need us. We hope you’ll get in touch if there’s any way we can help, and please contact any of us if you need someone to talk to. I’ve included my personal phone number at the bottom of this letter. Call anytime.
With love,
Ms. Esme Prevot
(203) 555-0533
For You:
It’s late. It’s dark out. Bed in a few hours.
You’re on your computer.
This isn’t a good idea. There is not a chance fandom isn’t still blowing up (there’s a choice of words, good lord, never speak out loud, Finn) over the accident. I’ve avoided my computer since reporting that you were alive. I don’t want to see what they’re saying.
The thing is that, for most of the fandom, the relevant tragedy is Jake’s death. And I don’t know how I feel about the fact that I’m legitimately grieving about this fictional character when real people are dead. What I do know is that Zack was your friend, and you’re my friend, and you’re a mess and you shouldn’t have to see people crying over Jake.
I tried to stop you, or maybe just distract you, to intervene in some way. “What are you doing?”
“Checking email.”
“Just email?”
You heard what I wasn’t saying. “No.”
“Why don’t we watch a movie or something?”
“Don’t want to.”
“Evie...”
“Can you not, Finn? Can you just fucking not try to make everything fine for five fucking minutes?”
And that hurt, that still hurts, and I can’t even deny it. Of course I’m trying to make everything fine. What would you do, Evie? You’d hug me and tell me jokes until I felt okay. But I’ve been doing that stuff for days, and you don’t feel okay. This is too big. I can’t help.
So now we’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, twenty minutes of me sitting on the couch in front of you with every muscle tensed, pretending to watch some reality show but actually listening to every mouse click and every keyboard tap, and you’re just now closing the computer. You look fine. You look calm. You walked around and you’re sitting beside me on the couch and neither of us says a word. You stare at the TV with me, and we watch the people who aren’t Jake and Tyler and don’t talk about what we’re doing.
I won’t ask you what you saw on the computer.
You don’t tell me.
You drop your cheek down to my shoulder like it’s nothing.
You don’t cry.
You don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
October 17
Okay.
I feel like enough time has passed that we can talk a little bit.
I want to open by saying what I know we’re all feeling – Zack Martocchio was a good man. He gave generously of his time and talent to his fans and he’s a big part of the reason why Up Below is the incorrigible show we’ve all come to love so much. He was lost too soon.
But the announcement that Up Below will be staying on the air is really just proof of what we all knew – that this show is adaptable and is going to remain powerful no matter what. I think this is what Zack would have wanted. I think we’ll be seeing a great new evolution of Tyler – he’s going to be reckless, vindictive, angry.
I’m disabling comments on this post because I don’t want to get into it with a bunch of jakegirls, obviously that’s not what it’s about right now.
0 Comments
Hey Gena--
Okay so I’m sending this to four different addresses because I have no idea which one is right, because your school said you weren’t there anymore and was completely unhelpful about what address to send it to or if I could just write it to them and get it forwarded because Oakmoor is some kind of shithole, babe, but hello, fake Genas. And hello real Gena too, hopefully. Either way, I hope you enjoy the swirly lollipop. I blew a lot of money on these.
I miss you, girl. Let me know if I can come out and visit, okay? We’ll hit it cali-style.
Give me a call when you can, okay? Remember how we made up songs about each other’s numbers to remember them?
Miss you, Gena. Nice meeting you, fake-Genas.
Love,
Alanah
For You:
You’re crying.
I can hear you in the dark, so dark I have to curl up against the window pane to see well enough to write this. It’s heavy and slow, hospital crying, so quiet that I didn’t realize it was happ
ening until I felt the bed shake a little under me.
“Hey.” I petted your hair. “Hey, it’s okay.”
You shook your head, and yeah, I know it’s not. I know.
“Do you want to talk about it, Evie?”
“No.” It was barely a whisper. You still haven’t talked about it. It’s starting to feel weird. You and I talk about everything. You’re slipping away from me, and I shouldn’t care so much because you’re slipping away from yourself. We have to figure out how to catch you, both of us together. Please together.
“What’s in your head?” I tried, pushing the hair out of your face.
“Everything. Fucking everything.” You closed your eyes and lay there shaking.
I don’t know what else to do, so I’m writing this with one hand on your back, singing songs from old TV shows, songs I don’t know the words to, filling in the blanks with hums and random syllables. If you won’t talk to me, I’ll fill the space between us with whatever I have, for as long as I can.
You’re still sobbing a little, quietly.
“It was my fault.” You’ve been saying this for a while now, no matter how many times I try to rub your back and rub it out of you. “I pushed. I pushed.”
I’ll just stay here and breathe songs into your ear until you sleep, staring at your shaking back and out at the lights of the car dealership that stay on all night.
What if I really can’t help you?
Stack of mail
Hey, Honey,
We were so sorry to hear about the accident! And I have to say, we were a little hurt that you didn’t contact us. Imagine having to hear that you were involved in an explosion from a man who calls himself a key grip! We’ve tried so many times to call your phone. We’ve sent you several emails. Can you give us the number of where you’re staying?
We were able to get this address from the hospital in