Gone, Gone, Gone(23)

She leans toward me. “About Craig?”

“We’re not talking about Craig. About my mom, I guess.”

“Abandonment is a scary feeling. It makes sense you’re still angry about her leaving. People take years to recover from divorce. That’s still significant trauma, even if you have other shit you’d rather be worrying about.” Even though she’s Adelle of “a little f*cked up” fame, it still throws me when she curses. I think she does it to be cool.

“That one makes sense. But about my brother. About cancer.” I cross my arms. “I’ve read pretty much everything about twin death. I realize I’m allowed to be messed up about it for the rest of my life. If that’s what I want.” I’m allowed to make a full-scale tragedy out of my dead brother. Sometimes I hate the things I am allowed to do.

Adelle says, “Yes.”

“And . . .” I’m losing this.

But she says, “You’re doing really well, Lio.”

I get the words out as fast as I can. “And I’ve accepted that it’s always going to be a hard thing for me. It’s never going to be like I was born a single.” God, my mouth is sore. I hate talking. Fuck everything. “I’m okay with struggling with this. I really am. I’ve accepted that.”

Adelle nods.

“This can be a part of my life.”

“That sounds very healthy,” she says, like she isn’t sure.

I say, “But shouldn’t I be past the part where I’m so angry?”

Adelle says, “Lio, you have to understand that grief doesn’t work in neat little stages. Bargaining, depression, and yes, anger, they’re part of grief, but they don’t come conveniently in order, waiting their turn. Does that make sense? It’s all right that you’re angry. You’re fifteen. You don’t need a reason to be angry.”

I exhale. “I’m done talking. Can you talk for a while?”

“You don’t pay me to lecture you.”

“My dad pays you.” I’m so tired. Sometimes I use cancer as an excuse when I get so exhausted even though I sleep and exercise and eat well. I tell people it still affects me. That’s total bullshit. I’m healthy.

My last therapist said I was tired because I was depressed. I don’t think that’s what it is. One of my friends from New York has depression, and it eats him alive. I’m not depressed. I’m . . . f*cked up.

She says, “You are allowed to feel guilty for surviving.”

“Everyone tells me not to.”

“People are afraid to acknowledge that there’s validity in that. You did live. Your brother did not. That is something to feel conflicted about.”

“I don’t wish I were dead or anything.”

“What do you wish?”

“That Theo would be back. And fifteen. But that’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.”

I pull at my jeans. They’re black, and they’re dirty. “I wish I could come in here just to talk about being in love. Like you were my friend or something, I don’t know.”





CRAIG

I NEED TO SLEEP. I NEED TO STOP THINKING AND I need to stop thinking about how I need to sleep.

It’s four. In the morning. I need to sleep.

This is when my thoughts start to get so very very weird, when everything is on an axis and tilting, and this is how many hours of sleep you really need to miss. This is how many emails from Cody you need to not get. Here I am.

Sandwich sits on my feet and curls up and snores.

“Sandwich,” I tell her. “Do you get sick of being alone?”

She so doesn’t care at all. It’s like nobody in this whole world gives a shit, least of all Lio, least of all me.



And it’s not like it’s easy to sleep or even possible to run out of things to think about for even a second because, ta-da, here’s this email I got a few hours ago.

Craigy—

Sorry this took me so long.

I’m sorry about your friend’s dad, and it took me a while to figure out that maybe that was all I can say—I’m sorry. For being a jerk about it. I didn’t know. And it sucks.

Truth is I talk a big game about September 11th, but I didn’t know anyone who died. It feels special because it’s home.

Truth is, I really, really miss New York.

I’m freaked out tonight. I keep hearing things in the apartment upstairs.

See you tomorrow. No. Shit. It’s Friday. See you on Monday. Damn it.

Lio



God, so what do I do with this? I’ve been staring at it for the past million and a half hours.

Why is the only thought in my head, you can’t fool me, you were born on Long Island?

I am looking for excuses to be angry. I am picking apart the sentences for bits that could be offensive and I am wondering if I am too young to have issues with intimacy.

I hear Todd making breakfast. Speaking of talking a big game, when does he sleep? It must be while I’m at school, but it’s kind of crazy to think that my family exists when I’m not here.

I go upstairs.

He’s throwing scoops of coffee into the coffeemaker. “Good morning,” he tells me.

“Yeah.” I slump at the table and bury my head in my arms.