A World Without You(86)

It’s not fair, a little voice inside me says.

And it’s not. Not for me. Not for him. Not for any of us.

Rosemarie describes my house as “richy-rich.” She always says it in a joking way, but I often wonder if she just laughs to hide her bitterness. Our families are the same size; our houses are not.

But I see the credit card bills that stack up at the end of our table. I see the late hours Dad works. I saw the bill for Berkshire’s tuition. I added it up.

I dig the brochure for Europe out of the trash and allow myself to look at it one last time. Then I fold it in half and very slowly, deliberately rip it apart. I relish the way the paper comes apart, and then I stack the pieces up and drop them back into the trash can.

I know I’m being childish and stupid and trite. I know Bo’s health is more important than any trip.

But none of that erases the bitter jealousy in my heart.

I can’t help what I want. I can’t help wishing things were different, wishing he were different. So that I could be too.

Across the hallway, I see the sheet hanging in Bo’s doorway. I stride into his room before I can tell myself it’s wrong. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Just . . . a peek behind the literal curtain.

It feels like going into a stranger’s room, or maybe like going into the room of someone who’s died, riffling through their belongings in an attempt to find closure or meaning. It’s wrong. But I don’t let that stop me.

The room smells slightly musty, like the body spray Bo sometimes uses, but old. Mom has already stripped the bed and replaced the sheets and duvet cover for the next time Bo comes home. He probably never notices that she does this, that every single weekend, he has fresh sheets.

I trail my hand along his dresser, leaving a faint trace of my fingerprints in the very thin layer of dust. The top is cluttered with things he’s probably not used or even noticed in years: a little carving of a turtle he bought from a Native American in Four Corners during that family trip out West; a Mickey Mouse snow globe from an “adventure” to Disney World; a box that holds a mint coin collection, something Mom gives us both every year at Christmas, because what kid doesn’t want money he can’t spend.

These are the things our parents would say were important. But Bo wouldn’t. That’s why he left them behind.

In one corner of the dresser there’s a huge marble made of black-and-red glass, so large that it barely fits in my palm. It’s on a little clear plastic stand, and when I move it, I can see the stand’s footprints in the dust on the dresser.

I gave this to Bo for his birthday last year, just before he left for Berkshire. I stare down at it in my hand. I had bought it for him because I had no idea what else to get him. He had no reason to want a huge round marble, but it looked kind of cool—at least I thought so when I saw it in that little shop at Quincy Market. He had seemed happy with it, rolling it across the table and letting the colors flash. He had thanked me, and though I never knew if it was sincere or not, I had hoped it was.

I slide the marble into my own pocket now, wondering if he’ll ever notice it’s missing. I leave the little plastic stand behind as a clue.

On top of Bo’s desk is a notebook with a broken USB drive awkwardly sticking out of the pages—the same drive that I used to watch videos of Bo’s class.

I flip the notebook open, curious to see what Bo’s thoughts on the videos are, but it quickly becomes apparent that he wasn’t taking notes at all. The pages are chaos: brief snippets of ideas, reflections on people he knows or little stories about history, nonsensical lists scratched through. I try to read a few pages, but I can barely make the words out, much less make sense of them. Attempt 1 is written at the top of one page, but everything under it is scribbled out. Another page has a different list of “attempts,” all crossed out with the word FAILURE written in caps.

Another entry is just the words I’m sorry written over and over again, each one methodically scratched through.

I touch the apology page, my fingers dancing over the bumps made from the grooves of each letter.

Each page becomes more and more chaotic, more panic-ridden. I don’t understand and I’m scared jump out at me from one of the pages. I read the passage—the words are all in English, but they don’t make any sense.

None of it makes sense.

It’s like a visual representation of Bo’s mind. It starts out organized, but descends into something unrecognizable.

None of us can understand him, I think.

Soon enough, the ink-stained pages give way to nothing—more than three-quarters of the book is empty. Still, I turn the blank pages, one by one. In a weird way, seeing them gives me some peace. They’re not riotously scribbled in. They’re calm. They’re the quiet without the storm.

If I could choose, I think I would give him the blank pages instead of the black ones.

My hand pauses, hovering over a crisp, clean, empty page.

If the ink on the first pages represents Bo’s mind, what do the blank pages mean? And what kind of person am I to prefer them?

I told Bo’s psychiatrist that I was horrible for thinking that Bo might do something terrible if given the opportunity. But that’s not really horrible. That’s just fear. No, I’m horrible for what I’m thinking right now.

For wondering if we would all be happier with the blank pages.