“Hey, everybody, it’s me, Alana, co-president, associate treasurer, media consultant, chief technology officer, and assistant creative director slash public policy director for creative public policy initiatives for the Connor Project.”
“Hi, I’m Evan. I’m co-president of the Connor Project.”
I see my face on one side of the screen and Alana’s on the other. I’m assuming it’s the same visual Alana is seeing on her screen at home, and the same one our audience is seeing, too, but this being our first-ever live-streamed update, I’m not positive.
“I wish I could see all of your amazing faces out there,” Alana says.
“I hope you’re having an amazing day,” I add.
It’s crazy to think how many people are waiting right now to hear what we have to say. Our viewer count is currently in the high hundreds and climbing. Wildly successful in my book, but Alana assures me that it’s not really about the people watching live; it’s about the traction we get after the fact. Once we log off this morning, the video will be watchable on our website and spread-ready through all social channels. Thanks to Jared, we’ll even have usable data about who’s engaging with our video.
“I know a lot of you have seen the inspirational videos on our website,” Alana says.
“Thank you for checking out the awesome videos we put up last week with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy and Connor’s sister, Zoe—”
“And Connor’s best friend, my co-president, Evan Hansen.”
I smile. (Awkwardly, I assume.)
There was no way I was going to allow anyone to be in the room with me when I did my video. I shot it myself and ended up doing seventeen takes before I had something I was willing to share. Alana wanted each of us to talk about the one big thing we learned from Connor. For Cynthia, it was patience. For Larry, empathy. My answer was hope. It was the only thing I could think of that was, and still is, totally and completely true.
Zoe might have been more nervous doing her video than I was doing mine. She said she knew what she wanted to say, but every time I started to record her, she’d clam up and go silent. Eventually, she talked about the importance of being independent and self-sufficient. I wonder if that was the answer she originally intended to give or if she changed her mind at the last second. I never asked. It didn’t seem like she wanted me to.
“As you know, Connor’s favorite place in the entire world was the incredible Autumn Smile Apple Orchard,” I say.
“Tragically,” Alana says, “the orchard closed seven years ago. This is what the property looks like now.”
Onto the screen pops a photo of an empty overgrown field with tree stumps. A FOR SALE sign hangs on a rotting fence.
I’ve never actually laid eyes on the orchard. I know where it is, but I’ve never been there, not with Connor (obviously), or anyone. I never imagined it being so dilapidated and depressing. In my mind it’s green and alive, rows of trees dotted with red apples.
The photo vanishes and our faces reappear. I perk up my sagging smile and make a contribution. “Connor loved trees.”
“Connor was obsessed with trees,” Alana says. “He and Evan used to spend hours together sitting at the orchard, looking at the trees, being with the trees, sharing fun facts they knew about the trees.”
“That’s true. For example, did you know that if you hang a birdhouse on a branch, it won’t move up as the tree grows?”
“I did not know that,” Alana says. “That is so interesting.”
According to the script Alana sent me, it is now time for me to tee up our big announcement. It’s been a learning process these last few weeks figuring out what exactly the Connor Project is and what it should be doing. At the outset we had only a few pamphlets, parental approval, and a kickoff assembly, which went way better than any of us expected. We weren’t prepared for the reaction to my speech, either in a practical sense (our website crashed twice; Jared seemed stumped) or emotionally.
Jared and I were blown away to a degree that no one else could fully appreciate, and it caused us to stop and acknowledge what, until then, had gone unspoken. We both agreed: no one could ever know the truth. This thing we had started was actually helping people. The truth now would only cause harm.
A whole week went by after my speech before we realized that we weren’t capitalizing on all the attention. New followers were still jumping on board, but some of our original followers had already lost interest and left. People kept arriving at our online door inspired by this newfound belief that they were not alone, that they didn’t have to live with that burden anymore, that they could lessen it by sharing it with so many others who felt the exact same way. And we’d invite them into this new home of ours, except we soon realized that we had nothing tangible to offer them once they were inside. We weren’t keeping them engaged.
So we made adjustments. Jared installed an email sign-up form on our home page so we could send out regular newsletters. Alana had us do the “What Connor Taught Me” videos. And now we’re about to launch our most ambitious endeavor yet.
“There was one thing that Connor wished more than anything,” I say. “He hoped that someday the apple orchard would be brought back to life.”
“Which is where you come in.”
Alana posts a digital rendering of a beautiful new orchard: bountiful trees and tranquil benches nestled inside an idyllic park. There’s even a bird soaring across the sun. Jared introduced Alana to a free 3-D modeling program, and Alana managed to teach herself how to use it over a single weekend.
“Today we are announcing the start of a major online fund-raising campaign,” I say.
“One of the most ambitious crowdfunding initiatives since the internet was first created.”
“We are looking to raise fifty thousand dollars in three weeks.”
“It’s a lot of money, I know. But it’s also a lot of amazing.”
“The money will go to restoring the orchard,” I say. “It will be a space for everyone to enjoy.”
When I told Cynthia we had decided to use all the attention the Connor Project was getting to raise money to restore the orchard, she hugged me tighter than I’ve ever been hugged before. And when I told her what I wanted to call it, I thought she might never let go.
“It’s up to all you wonderful people out there to make the Connor Murphy Memorial Orchard not just a dream…” Alana says.
She waits, clears her throat, and repeats, “Not just a dream…”
Oops. That’s my cue. “But a reality,” I say.
We thank our viewers and end the video. Alana’s face fills my entire screen.
“That went well,” I tell her, relieved it’s over and mildly impressed with myself.
“Yeah, next time we need to rehearse before we go live,” Alana says.
Sometimes I feel more like a vice president than a co-president. But it’s fine. It’s all for a good cause.
“Okay,” Alana says. “Now let’s discuss local outreach.”
I move my cursor over to reveal the time. It’s already late in the morning. “You mean, like, right now?”
“There’s no time like the present.”
“Actually, I can’t right now. I’m sorry. I have plans.”
I used to marvel at the endurance of Alana’s smile. I understand now that she has several other looks. In fact, she doesn’t smile nearly as often as I once thought. The look she’s giving me right this second, for example, is downright chilling.
“Very well,” she says. “I’m going to print up postcards to promote the orchard campaign.”
“That’s a great idea,” I say.
“What would really be great is if you could help me hand them out around town.”
“Of course. Definitely. Just let me know when you want to do it.”
“Okay. Great. Well, I have a lot of work to do, so you go have fun and I’ll talk to you later.”
She signs off, clearly annoyed with me. But I decide to take her advice. I will have fun. Now that I finally understand what the word means.
• • •
I look behind me. “No peeking.”
“I’m not,” Zoe says.
Her eyes seem closed, but a blindfold would have been a safer bet.
“We’re almost there,” I say. “Watch your step up here. The trail gets bumpy.”
She holds on to the strap of my backpack while I guide us through Ellison Park.
A few more feet and I’ve found the perfect spot. Zoe obediently keeps her eyes shut while I unload supplies from my backpack.
“I’m nervous,” she says.
“So am I.”
I direct her where to sit (with words only; I still get nervous after all this time to actually make contact with her).
“Is this a blanket I feel?” Zoe says.
“You can open your eyes.”
She looks down, and all around, and at me. “A picnic!”
I open the white paper bag that I’ve been carrying this whole time—the last thing I picked up before getting Zoe.
“You said you never tried the Korean taco truck, so…” I hand her a taco wrapped in aluminum foil. Our fingers brush lightly and we smile at each other.
“And for my last surprise.” I raise my arm into the air, but she doesn’t get it. I wiggle my arm and give her a hint: “It’s not jazz hands.”
She keeps looking until it finally sinks in. “Your cast is off! I totally forgot that was happening.”
I lower my arm and pull my sleeve down. I don’t want her to inspect it too closely. It’s not a pretty sight, ghostly pale with thick dark hair. I wanted the cast off for so long, but now that it’s gone, I kind of miss it. I feel unbalanced and naked, like a part of me is missing.
“I have a weird question,” Zoe says.
Every time she asks me something, I brace for the end of everything. “Okay.”
“What did you do with the cast?”
Not such a weird question, actually. After the doctor sawed it off, he asked me what I wanted to do with it. My gut said trash it. It had spelled nothing but trouble for me from the start. Keeping it would only be a reminder of all the pain.
“I kept it,” I say. “I don’t know why.”
It’s the truth: I did keep it and I really don’t know why.
My answer seems to satisfy her. Same for the taco. There’s kimchi dropping everywhere. She searches for a napkin in the white paper bag. “So this is where you worked all summer?”
“Yeah. It feels weird to be back.”
“I feel dumb asking, but what exactly does an apprentice park ranger do?”
“You’re not dumb at all. Believe me, I didn’t know what it was, either. I just assumed I’d be walking around a lot, you know, being surrounded by nature, but there’s a lot more to it. You have to know everything about the park, its ecosystem, geography, natural resources, history, because if a visitor asks you a question, you need to have an answer. Then there’s the maintenance duties: cleaning the restrooms, restocking maps, changing light bulbs. Also, you have to know basic first aid, just in case of an emergency. And then, on top of all that, you’re sort of the police officer of the whole park, which means learning all these laws and making sure people follow them.”
“Sounds like you really enjoyed it.”
“I did, yeah.”
Being at the park was such a welcome reprieve from my normal existence. Having someplace to go, something to do. Half the time I’d forget that I was here to work. I’d just stop and look around and feel, I don’t know, calm, I guess.
“So when you and Connor were talking about trees in your emails, you were really talking about trees?” Zoe says.
“Of course. What did you think we were talking about?”
“Nothing.”
Before I can inquire further, she asks me something else: “Have you always been so into nature?”
“I think so,” I say, washing down my taco with water. “I probably get it from my dad.”
That’s why he moved to Colorado. He thought the East Coast was too crowded. My mom is convinced that my dad’s whole thing about green space was an excuse, that he was really just following Theresa out there, but that’s how I remember it. Then again, it was a long time ago, so maybe I have it all wrong.
“Before my parents got divorced, my dad took me fishing a few times, and once we all did a whole camping weekend here in the park.”
As I chew my taco, the memory takes hold. I remember my dad hanging a hammock between two trees so he could sleep under the stars. I asked him how he knew the trees would hold him up. Trust me, he said. A hurricane could tear through here and these trees would still be standing.
I believed him, but I couldn’t stop worrying. I kept picturing the trees toppling over and my dad getting hurt. But he was right. When my mom and I came out of the tent the next morning, he was still hanging there. He said it was the best night’s sleep of his life. Before we cleared out, he helped me carve my initials in one of the trees, so we could come back to it next time. But there was no next time.
The first thing I did when I started my apprenticeship at the park was try to find that tree. Every time I walked a new trail I looked for it, but I couldn’t find it. Eventually I gave up. The park is way too big and it was such a long time ago.
“What did he say about your speech?” Zoe says.
Serves me right for bringing up my dad. He doesn’t know about my speech, of course. The last time I tried to share news like that with him it didn’t go well.
Zoe gleans enough from my silence. “Have you not shown it to him?”
“How’s that taco? Delicious, right?”
“Evan.”
I love it when she says my name. She sits patiently, waiting for me to trust her. I feel like I can.
“I plan to show him,” I say, proceeding with caution. “I guess I’m just waiting for the right time. He’s been really busy lately, with work, and Theresa being pregnant. Also, they’ve been looking for a new house, and I know they’re really hoping to move in before the baby’s born.”
“Wait. You never said anything about a baby. Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
Zoe lights up. “No way. That’s awesome. You’re going to have a baby brother.”
“I guess,” is all I say. Because, while I trust her, and I do, I don’t trust myself to talk about this.
As Zoe turns quiet, I realize something: she lost a brother and here I am about to gain one. Maybe I don’t have a right to be bitter about it.
“It hasn’t really sunk in yet, the whole brother thing,” I say. What I don’t say: I wish my dad kept track of my life without me having to always be the one to tell him about it.
“Well,” Zoe says. “You’re going to be the best big brother. And I’m sure your dad isn’t too busy to be so proud of what you’ve done.”
As much as I’ve told her, she doesn’t know the half of it.
• • •
“All this used to be private property,” I say, gesturing around us. “Back in the twenties, there was this guy who lived out here with his family. People assume his name was Ellison, but it was actually Hewitt. Ellison is a made-up name.”
I turn around to check if Zoe is still with me. We’ve been walking the trail for a long time and I’ve been talking even longer. Now that Zoe switched me on, I can’t switch myself off. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“No, I like it. Keep going.”
“Okay, well, what happened was, there was a big fire at John Hewitt’s house and it wiped out everything, including his wife and kids. He couldn’t bear to live here anymore, so he made some sort of deal with the state to have the land turned into a park in his family’s memory. He asked that it be called Ellison. It’s a combination of his wife’s name, Ellen, and his kids, Lila and Nelson.”
“No way,” Zoe says. “I just got the chills.”
“I know, right? My boss told me that.”
The most remarkable part of that story, to me, is that the guy could have gone with the family name, Hewitt, and that would have included all of them. But I guess he wanted to take himself out of it and make it about them only. It’s unfortunate that more people don’t know who made this place possible and how.
“Do you know where the house was?” Zoe asks. “Where the family lived before they…”
I shake my head, sorry to disappoint her. I should ask Ranger Gus if he knows.
Zoe stops in her tracks and takes a wide scan of the surroundings. “To be honest, I always forget this place exists. Even though it’s right under my nose.”
And a perfect nose it is. Her beauty easily trumps the park’s. “So,” I say, “while I was here all summer, where were you?”
“I worked at a camp over in Riverside during the day. And a few nights at that new yogurt shop on the boulevard.”
I nod, pretending that I never once walked past that yogurt shop this summer after hearing she was working there. “Sounds like you were busy.”
“Guess so,” Zoe says. “I try to be home as little as possible.”
It’s the opposite for me. Or, it was.
Zoe walks ahead. I advised her to wear sneakers today, but I wasn’t picturing Converse. They’re not exactly made for hiking. We’re about to head down a steep slope.
“Careful on those stones,” I say. “They can be slippery.” I want to take her hand and guide her, but with her eyes open she doesn’t need me to, and I’m not sure if she wants me to.
“When I was about twelve…”
“Yeah?”
“I tried to run away,” Zoe says.
I pick up my pace so I can hear her better.
“My parents were so consumed with Connor, like twenty-four seven. I had this plan to sneak into the park with my sleeping bag and stay out here until they came and found me.”
Ranger Gus says there are homeless people who sleep in the park and decamp by the time the rangers make their morning sweeps. The rangers only know this because of what the people leave behind.
“I packed a bag full of supplies,” Zoe says. “You know that movie Moonrise Kingdom? It was like that. Except I didn’t pack a record player.”
She stops at a fork in the trail.
“Anyway, I never actually did it,” Zoe says. “I came outside to the edge of the park and it was so dark in here I chickened out and went home. I slept under my bed, thinking my mom might come to wake me up in the morning and not know where I was. But… she never even noticed.”
I can’t imagine what it must have been like having to share a house with Connor. Like having a tornado for a roommate. It was hard enough for people who shared a classroom or bus or hallway with him. I guess living with that chaos every single day could make the woods seem pretty comfy.
I steer us left before Zoe has a chance to choose a direction. The path to the right leads to Clover Field and the oak tree.
“Hey,” she says. “You know how I was telling you about that open mic night I did at Capitol? Well, I might be doing another one next weekend.”
“You might be?”
“Yeah, I might be.”
“Well, I might want to be there.”
“I might like that.”
A bird whips past us and ascends to the open air. That’s me up there, soaring. I’ve never been this high.
We hear a chirp, but it’s from Zoe’s phone. “My mom,” she says. “She wants me to ask if you have any more emails for her. Sorry, I know she’s annoying.”
“Oh. No. That’s okay. Does she want them, like, now?”
“Not now now. Whenever you can.”
Right. Whenever I can.
To the ground I fall. I can never stay aloft too long. Not when there’s an ugly and heavy truth always dragging me back down.