This is the double bed that Connor Murphy slept in. The wooden floor his boots scuffed up. The white walls he did his best to smother. Standing out amid movie and band posters, homemade works of art, and a joke award ribbon that says I PUT ON PANTS TODAY is a close-up photo of a hand with its middle finger extended. The middle finger is painted black with tiny white lettering on it. Only when you press your face up close to the photo can you read what the white letters say: BOO!
I’m scared, all right. But I was already scared before I entered Connor’s bedroom. Cynthia told me to come up here while she finishes preparing dinner. Apparently, in my panicked state, I arrived an hour earlier than I was supposed to. I offered to stay downstairs with her and help set the table, since she seemed to be doing it all by herself, but she insisted that I go and spend some “alone time with Connor.”
It’s almost eighty degrees outside, but inside the Murphy home, I’m shivering. That woman downstairs is about to have her heart broken for the second time and I’m the one who’s going to rebreak it. She told me again how much the messages between Connor and me meant to her, how they’re helping to keep Connor alive. I can see a new lightness in her tonight, and yet here I am, about to rip Connor away from her all over again and reveal myself to be a terrible, terrible person. I hate to do this to her, but what choice do I have? It’s even worse to keep feeding her lies about me and her son.
As torturous as it feels to be here in Connor’s private space, it’s probably the closest I’ve ever been to the truth of who he was. Besides the obvious differences between his bedroom and mine—my bed is half the size, my floors are carpeted, and my walls are painted light green—there are some striking similarities. Nowhere in this room is a single hint of anything sports related. I’ve always felt out of step with kids my age for having zero interest in playing or watching sports.
Also, like me, Connor has shelves crammed with books. I see The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, and The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. Some of the stuff I’ve never heard of, some I have. I see a school copy of Macbeth from our junior year. He’s got at least half a dozen Kurt Vonnegut novels. A few have Dewey decimal numbers on the spines. It seems like a contradiction: Connor Murphy in a library.
One of the titles I own: Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. I saw the movie first and then went back to read the book. It’s about a guy in his early twenties who tries to live on his own in Alaska. When it came to nature, the guy knew his stuff. He would have made a superb park ranger. Unfortunately, he ended up committing a critical mistake and perished out there in the wild.
It’s a weird feeling, knowing that Connor and I both read the same book. It’s possible I had more in common with him than I have with most kids at school. If the two of us had sat at the same lunch table, we could have talked about other books we’ve both read, like Slaughterhouse-Five. Who knows, maybe we could have actually been friends. So it goes.
One of Connor’s hardcover books has no jacket or title. I remove it from the shelf. It’s a journal full of sketches. They’re bizarre and unnerving, but also intricate and skilled. This one features a man in galoshes holding an umbrella. Rats and spiders are falling from the sky. The ground and trees are also covered in rats and spiders. A caption at the bottom reads: Crittercism. It’s kind of funny.
“Why are you in my brother’s room?”
I practically throw Connor’s sketchbook back onto the shelf before facing Zoe. “I showed up too early and your mom told me to come up here.”
“Don’t your parents get upset that you’re here all the time?” she asks.
I’m not here all the time. I’ve only come twice. But I’m not about to contradict Zoe Murphy in her own home (or anywhere, for that matter).
“It’s just me and my mom,” I say, “and she works most nights. Or else she’s in class.”
She leans against the doorframe. “Class for what?”
“Legal stuff.”
“Oh yeah? My dad’s a lawyer.”
“Oh,” I say, scratching my ear. I don’t even have an itch, but I suddenly have a very strong urge to scratch.
“Where’s your dad?” Zoe asks.
Now I’m clearing my throat. Clearing my throat and scratching. Not weird at all. “He lives in Colorado. He left when I was seven. So. He doesn’t really mind if I’m here, either.”
Her eyebrows jump. “Colorado’s not close.”
“No, it isn’t. Eighteen hundred miles away, actually. Or something like that. I haven’t calculated it or anything.” (Of course I have.)
She steps into the room, and I step back, accidentally kicking a metal garbage can. It might as well be a cymbal, that’s how loud it seems to reverberate around us.
We stand there awkwardly at opposite sides of Connor’s room. The only places to sit are the bed and the desk chair. I make no move toward either.
“Anyway, your parents seem really great.”
“Right,” Zoe says, amused. “They can’t stand each other. They fight all the time.” She comes even closer and takes a seat on Connor’s bed. Her rust-colored corduroys hike up just enough to reveal her naked ankles.
I try to retreat even more, but there’s a wall behind me and I almost end up knocking something off it. “Well, everyone’s parents fight, right? That’s normal.”
“My dad’s in total denial. He didn’t even cry at the funeral.”
I have no idea how to respond to this. But that is definitely not something you reveal to someone you hate. Even if she doesn’t hate me now, she will definitely hate me later. “Your mom said we’re having gluten-free lasagna for dinner,” I say. “That sounds really…”
“Inedible?”
I try not to laugh. “Not at all. You’re lucky your mom cooks. My mom and I just order pizza most nights.”
“You’re lucky you’re allowed to eat pizza,” Zoe says.
“You’re not allowed to eat pizza?”
She rolls her eyes. “We can now, I guess. My mom was Buddhist last year, so we weren’t supposed to eat animal products.”
“She was Buddhist last year but not this year?”
“That’s sort of what she does. She gets really into different things. For a while it was Pilates, then it was The Secret, then Buddhism. Now it’s free-range, Omnivore’s Dilemma or whatever. It’s hard to keep track.”
Besides my mother’s fascination with astrology and arena rock, she doesn’t really have any interests or hobbies. I tried to get her to come on a few hikes with me, but she said she doesn’t like bugs.
Zoe scratches her freckled shoulder and then leans back with both hands propped behind her. She smiles at me, and my body reads it as an invitation. I look down and try to recall what we were just talking about. “I think it’s cool that your mom is interested in different kinds of stuff.”
She seems confused that I’m confused. “She’s not. That’s just what happens when you’re rich and you don’t have a job. You get crazy.”
“My mom always says, it’s better to be rich than poor.”
“Well, your mom’s probably never been rich, then.”
“And you’ve probably never been poor.”
Did I just say that? I feel my face begin to radiate red heat.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to—that was completely rude.”
She laughs. “I didn’t realize you were capable of saying something that wasn’t nice.”
“I’m not. I never say things that aren’t nice. I don’t even think things that aren’t nice. I’m just, I’m really sorry.”
“I was impressed. You’re ruining it.”
Oh shit. “I’m sorry.” Shit.
“You really don’t have to keep saying that.”
I want to. So badly.
She sits up on the bed and grabs a solved Rubik’s Cube off Connor’s nightstand. “You want to say it again, don’t you?”
“Very much so, yes.”
She smiles at me, a real and full smile, the kind Zoe seems reluctant to hand out freely to anyone, and I feel myself bask in it. Like: I made that happen.
She spins one panel of the cube and then, thinking better of it, spins it right back into place, as if not wanting to spoil its perfection. She slides it back where she found it on the nightstand.
“I should probably apologize about my mom emailing you. I told her not to.” Zoe looks up. “I don’t imagine you found what she wanted.”
I shake my head.
“I didn’t think so. My mom’s clueless when it comes to that stuff. She never knew when my brother was high. He’d be talking so slow and she’d be like, ‘He’s just tired.’” She pauses and stares at the Rubik’s Cube. “Why did he say that?”
It’s almost a whisper. She’s lost me.
“In his note,” she says. “‘Because there’s Zoe. And all my hope is pinned on Zoe. Who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me.’ Why would he write that? What does that even mean?”
“Oh. Um.” The letter. She has the letter memorized.
She stares at me, waiting for a response. When I don’t provide one, her head drops and her legs angle away. I recognize that feeling, when your body tries to fold in on itself in the hopes that it can go unseen.
I can’t stand to see her like this. So in need.
“Maybe,” I say. “I mean, I’m not one hundred percent sure about this, but thinking about it now, Connor always felt like, you know, if you guys were just closer—”
“We weren’t close,” Zoe says. “At all.”
“No, I know. But he used to say that he wished you were. He wanted you to be.”
Her chin comes up. Just like that, she seems resuscitated. “So you and Connor, you guys would talk about me?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely, sometimes. I mean, if he brought it up. I never brought it up. Obviously. Why would I have brought it up? But yeah, he totally thought you were awesome.”
She smells something foul. “He thought I was awesome? My brother?”
“Yeah. Of course. I mean, maybe he didn’t use that exact word, but—”
“How?”
“How did he think you were awesome?”
“Yeah,” she says, pulling up her knees and sitting cross-legged on the bed. I gulp, hopefully not audibly.
“Well, okay, let me try to remember. Oh. Okay.” How Zoe is awesome happens to be a subject I know a lot about. “So, whenever you have a solo in jazz band, you close your eyes—you probably don’t even know you’re doing this—but you get this half smile, like you just heard the funniest thing in the world, but it’s a secret and you can’t tell anybody. But the way you smile, it’s sort of like you’re letting us in on the secret, too.”
“Do I do that?”
“Totally. At least that’s what Connor told me.”
“I never knew he was even awake at any of my concerts. My parents always made him go.”
I laugh, like, Of course he was awake! That is so funny and ridiculous, what you just said!
She looks down and scratches the stitching in Connor’s quilt. I did it again. I took it too far. I shouldn’t be doing this, digging myself in deeper when the whole reason I came here was to finally break free. Just tell her. Do it. Now.
“You know the first time he ever said anything nice about me was in his note,” Zoe says. “A note he wrote to you. He couldn’t even say it to me.”
“Oh. Well. He wanted to. He just… he couldn’t.”
She takes it in for a long moment. Shyly, she asks, “Did he say anything else about me?”
How do I answer this question?
Before I can formulate a response, she jumps back in. “Never mind. I don’t even care.”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just, he said so many things about you.”
She peeks up. Her eyes move through me. What am I doing?
“I know he thought you looked really pretty—I mean, sorry, what I meant to say is that he thought it was pretty cool when you dyed your hair blue.”
“Really?” She stares into space, seeming to travel back in time to sophomore year when her hair had lines of blue in it. “That’s weird, because he used to make fun of me all the time.”
“Well, he liked to tease you. You know that.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding to herself.
“He noticed all kinds of things about you. He’d watch you all the time. Just keeping track of you, I guess.”
Again, I have her full attention.
“He noticed how you scribble on the cuffs of your jeans when you get bored.”
A sheepish smile. I finally cross the divide between us and sit down on the bed, facing her.
“And how you chew on the caps of your pens. And how your forehead crinkles when you’re mad.”
“I didn’t think he paid any attention to me.”
“Oh, he did. He couldn’t not pay attention to you.”
She seems troubled. “I just wish I knew.”
I take a hefty breath. “I know. It’s just, he didn’t know how to say all this to you. He didn’t know how to tell you that… he was your biggest fan. No one was a bigger fan than him. He knew how great you are.”
Her eyes. Looking into mine.
“You are so great, Zoe.”
Freckled nose.
“I can’t even tell you.”
Shimmery hair.
“I mean it.”
Lips like pink pillows. Smiling at me.
“You’re everything.”
I feel them. Even softer than I imagined.
Her hand on my chest, pushing me back.
“What are you doing?” Zoe says.
“I don’t… I didn’t… I’m so…”
I can’t speak words. What the hell am I doing?
She jumps up, forehead crinkled, staring, processing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Dinner’s ready,” Cynthia yells from downstairs.
I see Zoe’s anger, confusion, hurt, all these emotions arriving at once, because of me.
“Tell them to eat without me.”
She’s out the door before I can stop her. Before I can clean up this brand-new mess I’ve made.
• • •
You what?
Is it that bad?
You tried to kiss Zoe Murphy.
On her brother’s bed.
After he died.
It looks really bad when you type it out like that.
Grapefruits.
Your balls are the size of grapefruits.
How do you walk around with those things in your pants?
I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened.
I just got caught up in the moment. It felt like she, like we, like something was happening. When I leaned in, it was as if my body was working without my mind, like we were being drawn together.
I don’t know how long I sat on Connor’s bed before Cynthia appeared at the door, announcing for the second time that dinner was ready. It could have been two seconds or twenty minutes. I thought about jumping out the window. Just one story down. I could have made it. I’ve survived falls from greater heights. I could have disappeared into the night and never looked back.
Somehow I willed myself off that bed and down those stairs and sat at that table. When Zoe didn’t show up, I suggested to her parents that she probably wasn’t feeling well.
As expected, over a home-cooked meal the likes of which I’ve never seen in my house, Cynthia asked if I happened to find anything in the emails. Larry seemed annoyed that she was even bringing it up. As they bickered, I reminded myself that this was my chance to come clean. At least I wouldn’t have to do it in front of Zoe, which was a small but not insignificant relief. I desperately wanted to. My stomach was a hot puddle of nerves, had been for a week straight. I couldn’t take it anymore. But to get rid of it once and for all, I had to do the brave thing. That’s where my plan failed. I couldn’t do it. I’m not brave. I’m extremely not brave.
Being not brave is just about as easy as breathing. Here’s how I did it. First I shook my head. Then I said, “I didn’t find anything.” That was it. The moment passed. Connor’s parents were content to move on to another topic and so was I. I can’t remember what the new topic was. It hardly mattered. Eventually, we returned to the topic of Connor. They asked me questions. I told them what I thought they wanted to hear. What I thought would make them happy.
I wish someone could do the same for me.