Gone, Gone, Gone(46)

“I’ll be home soon,” I say, and then we have to hang up. Closing the phone makes my chest twinge so hard I wince.

“You okay?” Michelle says.

“I miss him.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ll see him in, like, a minute.”

“I don’t like leaving him here.”

She shrugs and turns a page in her magazine. After a minute, she says, “You’re the one always saying the chances are miniscule.”

And for the first time in my life, words come out of my mouth before I can agonize over them. Before I even hear them at all.

I say, “But this is Craig.”

I feel something turning in my head like clockwork.

Craig is just one person. The chances that he will get shot are the same as anyone else’s.

The hole in the world when he’s gone would be the same size as the FBI agent’s.

Except . . .

It wouldn’t be.

To me.

I have no way to measure these holes.

Click.

Numbers don’t matter.

Because what if loss is immeasurable? What if all we can do is call a loss a loss?

What if the FBI agent is worth as much as Craig? What if my brother is worth as much as September 11th?

There is no way to measure these holes.

One dead person today is one person who is dead, one whole person who is not around anymore, and that’s horrible. And now, nine dead people are dead forever and ever. That isn’t less than September 11th. It can’t be. Because how could you ever figure out how many people it takes to equal one person?

Nine people and three thousand people and one hundred eighty-nine people are all numbers that shouldn’t have happened. But they’re not enough to measure a tragedy. We’re not just numbers. Someone loves us.

I want to get off this plane, but it’s taking off. I’m breathing too hard. I haven’t been on a plane in three years.

“Hey.” Michelle squeezes my hand. “You’re okay.”

Did planes always feel like roller coasters? I don’t want to crash I don’t want to crash. I don’t want to die.





CRAIG

CRAIGER—

At Mom’s apartment now. It’s small and smells like cats, a smell I have become familiar with recently.

The weird thing is, Mom doesn’t have any cats.

She’s about the same. DEAD BROTHER came up in conversation and she so obviously danced around him, it was pathetic. The sick thing is that I think she’s doing it for me. If it were too painful for her to talk about, that would be one thing. But it’s as if she doesn’t know I’ve been dealing with this for seven years. Shockingly, my life continued when she (and the kid himself, too) wasn’t here. Whatever.

Any new animals?

Say hi to Todd for me. Maybe throw in something about how I make you deliriously happy and there’s no reason for him to hate me. I dunno, up to you.

Just wanted to let you know I got in all right. And also that my chest hurts as if I MAY BE DYING, because I accidentally left my heart on your kitchen counter. I hate when that happens.

Li

_________________________

C—

Craaaaaigor. My school’s having an open house on Saturday. I guess they want to prove to our parents that we’re not being electroshocked. Come?

Love,





C


My inbox smells like conflicting feelings and guilt.

Also, why does Lio spell “Craiger” with an -er and Cody spell it with an -or? That’s weird.

The fact is, I’m going through all our conversations again and again, and I’m pretty sure that Lio and I never made anything official before he left. I wish we had.

“Mom?” I say.

She’s sewing. She only sews when she’s stressed. She’s shoving her needle through the cross-stitching fabric like she’s trying to kill it.

She’s watching the news, even though it’s Wednesday and no one’s been shot since Monday. I told Lio this was a really shitty week to choose to leave, considering the lack of death, so much lack that my parents are actually considering sending me back to school, and he IMed me back with a laugh I could read—im not here to escape anything. I’m not fooled, exactly, but I like that he thinks that.

But then I start worrying. If he’s just there to hide for a little while, that means he’s planning to come home. But if he’s just there for no reason then what’s going to pull him back?

I know this is stupid.

I think this is stupid.

The news is playing the same footage, showing the same stills of the same places where the same people were shot. They’ve started pulling over and searching every white van that drives by. That’s insane. I’m glad we don’t have a white van.

Mom says, “What is it, honey?”

I squirm. She doesn’t use nicknames or pet names for me very often. But I guess she must know them, so maybe I should ask her how to spell Craiger. Craigor. Craiger. Oh, God, is this a metaphor? Or or or er er er.

I say, “Cody’s school is having an open house. I talked to his mom and she says she’ll drive me up to see him.”

Mom studies me. “Really?”

I don’t know why I would joke about this. “Yeah. I could stay overnight in the guest dorms—they have guest dorms or something, Mrs. Carter said—and then come home on Sunday.”