Well, goddammit, I missed my flight. A connecting flight. There aren’t any flights from St. Louis to Iceland, so I had to fly to Boston first, but for whatever bullshit reason, I had this tiny little layover in Charlotte. Forty-five minutes. What the hell kind of layover is that? And since my last flight took thirty-five extra minutes to get off the ground, that gave me, like, ten minutes to haul ass across this giant airport, but by the time I got to the gate, it was too late. They’re putting me on the next flight to Boston, which arrives at eight. My flight to Keflavik leaves at nine, so assuming I can book it across another ginormous airport, I could still make it.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been up since the crack of dawn. First a two-hour drive to St. Louis, then this mess. I haven’t eaten because I thought I’d eat in Boston while I was waiting for my flight, but it looks like I have to eat now or not at all until I cross the Atlantic. So I bought a slice of pizza, but I’m too anxious to eat it. And now I’m annoyed at myself for wasting money.
The airport goodbyes in St. Louis were as teary and awkward as you’d expect, but now that I’m away from Mom and Mamochka, everything’s starting to sink in. It’s like I was bluffing this whole time. I didn’t actually expect my parents to be okay with me leaving like this. Do you know (of course you don’t) that I’m going to be there for a month? Seriously, they booked me an entire month at a hotel. How can we afford that? I’ll be away the whole time Camp’s going on. They must not want me near the place. I must be in really bad shape, V.
This is literally the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten. It’s got, like, sliced boiled eggs, tomatoes, romaine lettuce, and some sort of Thousand Islandish dressing on it. And you know how much I hate Thousand Island. But it is literally the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten because it’s the first food I’ve had in twenty-four hours. And it’s European. Yes, V, I made it to Iceland. I’m in a hotel lobby that is very modern and . . . dare I say “posh”? Yes, I think I will say posh because that would be the properly European thing to say. Anyway, this is definitely not a Motel 6.
Also, right next to me there’s a statue of a sheep that appears to be made from lumber scraps, and somehow it is very posh, too. I have named this sheep Sven, and he’s guarding my suitcase while I stuff my face and try to type with one hand.
I would like to tell you about the flight and what little landscape I’ve seen, but I’m so exhausted and dizzy-headed that all I can think about is this sandwich and wooden sheep. I’ve had no food and no sleep for a full day now. All I want is a bed, an actual bed, but my room isn’t ready. A scheduling error, the little guy at the front desk said. He is very sorry. His hair is up in a man-bun. His accent is amazing. I’m not even going to yell at him because I seem to be experiencing some sort of post-flight-delirium, and also I never yell at customer service reps because I know those kinds of jobs must suck. I’m sure it’s not Man-Bun’s fault they overbooked. Plus, he gave me this sandwich, and it’s the fucking best. Right, Sven?
Jet lag: the struggle is real. I’ve slept away most of my first day in Iceland. I didn’t sleep at all on the flight. I had a window seat, and I just kept staring down into the ocean. I’m a Missouri boy, after all. It’s hard for me to fathom how that much water even exists.
It was cold and rainy yesterday when we landed at the airport, which is tiny and made of glass. I went through customs and got a stamp from the second country I’ve ever visited (Canada being the first—but that hardly counts!), then stopped to take a stupid selfie under the WELCOME TO ICELAND sign for Mamochka and Mom.
After I got out of the airport, I had to wait on a bus to Reykjavik. The plane ride had really taken its toll. I was anxious from sitting too long, but too tired to do anything about it. I sat outside underneath an awning and just stared into the distance for a long while. There’s a sculpture in the parking lot. It looks like a bird—or a dinosaur, maybe—hatching out of an egg. Just one unrecognizable limb thrust out into the world. The rest of whatever-it-is inside that shell probably hasn’t made up its mind about whether or not it wants out.
That’s when I let myself miss you. Not enough to get all weepy about it. Well, maybe I did tear up a little bit. What I’m trying to say is that I really wanted you there with me. And this whole trip was starting to seem like a really bad idea. I mean, who does this shit? I don’t know a single person that’s gone off to a foreign country for a month all by themselves at the drop of a hat. No planning. Here’s your ticket. Boom.
What happens if I get sick? Or lost? What if I just need someone to hold my hand?
If you Google Iceland, you’re bound to get blown away by all the beauty, but the bus ride was kind of underwhelming. Forty-five minutes of bumpy lava fields. Puke green and unreal, but not necessarily pretty. And in the distance, mountains like you’ve never seen before. Tiny. Like steep, pointed hills. They don’t tower the way American mountains do. They just sit there, totally chill, watching your bus roll along. After fifteen minutes, it was old news and I was dying for the scenery to change, but it didn’t until we hit the city. And Reykjavik doesn’t even seem like a city. Two-lane traffic. Quiet and calm. The architecture doesn’t strike me as European. Everything is a little rundown-looking, but all of this makes me feel more relieved than disappointed. It’s not intimidating. I mean, I feel like I could get by okay here. I am especially grateful that everyone knows English.
The first bus took me to a bus station, and another bus took me to the hotel. The driver asked me which hotel, and I got embarrassed about whether or not I pronounced Skógur correctly. Who knows? But at least he didn’t laugh. I’m sure Americans have butchered worse.
By this point, I was wearing pretty thin, really looking forward to crashing at the hotel. But, as you know, my room wasn’t ready. I was so out of it I started to get the sensation that the floor was kind of wavering, all bumpy and rolling like the lava fields. Not good. The awesome sandwich did help flatten things out, but I was stuck waiting for about half an hour while they decided what they were going to do with me. Eventually, I did fall asleep, curled up in one of the lobby chairs.
The guy with the bun woke me up, tapping me on the knee. “Hey. Come with me.” He had a huge laundry sack slung over his shoulder, but he insisted on carrying my suitcase, too. We got in the elevator and he pulled out a set of keys and showed me—twice, actually—how to insert one of the keys into the control panel. I was so tempted to go, Aw, shucks, we don’t have none of that fancy key technology back home! Mamochka would be proud I managed to contain myself. He hit a button marked P, and up we went. I sometimes get a little claustrophobic in elevators, but I decided not to lose my shit about it around him. We got out in this blank gray landing with nothing in it but a tiny spiral staircase. Kind of creepy and industrial-looking. I followed him up the stairs, and just when I was starting to wonder if he was actually the kid from Let the Right One In luring me to a dark corner so he could drain my blood, he opened the door and all this sunlight streamed in.
Apparently P stands for whatever the Icelandic word for roof is.
“What do you think? Just for today and tonight? If it’s not okay, I’ll call around and find you a room at another hotel for the night. You have my sincerest apologies.”
And I was like, “ARE YOU KIDDING? THIS IS GORGEOUS!” Because it was. Wedged in between shoulder-high brick walls, there was a little open-air “room” with this big round lounger thing and jungly potted plants and a bohemian-looking rug. A canvas canopy looped with Christmas lights provided shade from the sun, which had decided to come out during my little nap in the lobby. On the cement floor around the canopy, rain pooled into puddles here and there, reflecting little patches of cloudy sky. Gorgeous, V. Gorgeous. “Can I stay here the whole time?!”
“No bathroom,” he said. “And it can get a bit chilly at night. It won’t be too cold tonight, though. Around sixteen, I think.”
“Sixteen? Degrees?” Crazy, invincible Nordic people!
“Celsius,” he reminded me. “That is maybe . . . sixty for you.”
“Oh. Right. That’s not bad.”
He overturned his laundry sack on the lounger. Inside was a set of bedding and some big, fluffy pillows . . . I started daydreaming about sleep again. I helped him try to make up the bed—impossible, really, to make rectangular sheets fit on a round bed. But we tried.
He smoothed out the comforter one last time, then stood up straight and started working the elevator key off his key ring. He also gave me a magnetic key card. Apparently, there’s a spa downstairs with a restroom and showers and a huge, heated pool. It’s closed after five, but he told me I could come and go as I pleased after hours as long as I didn’t invite any of the other hotel guests along. He apologized a few thousand more times and finally left. I crashed, taking a blissful eight-hour nap under the warm, Icelandic sun.
Why do I keep writing to you? I guess I still have things to say. And I know that writing things out can help cement memories. For a long while now, I’ve been living in this black, colorless void. Bedroom. Kitchen. Cabin. Couch. Food. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. I couldn’t name one interesting thing that’s happened in the past year. I’m starting to worry that the part of my brain that’s supposed to hold on to stuff—good stuff, pretty stuff, whatever—might not be able to latch on to new things anymore. Mom says that can happen. Trauma can steal your memories. Like if a person is having a really hard time, sometimes their brain will just block out that whole time period a year or so down the road. She says Mamochka once told her she can’t even remember her ex-husband’s face. I don’t think I’ll ever forget yours.
I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you that I’m wearing your boots. Those Docs you had your heart so set on, and I hated that they were leather, but I bought them for your birthday anyway, cows be damned. Now I’m wearing them because you aren’t and they might as well be put to good use.
I just got done chatting with Mamochka. The Camp kids have arrived, and everyone’s in bed now. It’s late, there and here. The sun didn’t set until after eleven. I’m wide awake under the sparkly Christmas lights, Reykjavik twinkling back at me in the distance. The hotel’s off in a vacant field, with no other buildings very close. I’m eating Icelandic potato chips, which aren’t any different than American ones, but . . . Man, don’t even get me started on this lousy excuse for Mountain Dew. It tastes like Mello Yello, so screw that. What am I going to do with myself? I don’t even know what I’m going to do for tonight, like, entertainment-wise. I hear the nightlife in Reykjavik starts super late, so I could go wander around, but I’m not feeling up to the noise and lights of the bars yet . . . or the people. I’ll get there. Just not tonight.
I wish I were more of a drinker. Or a better one. All it does is make me sad and sleepy. Remember when you tried to get me drunk for the first time? You had this great plan to get me shitfaced and make me fun, as if my first tequila sunrise would not only change my life, but yours as well. I told Mom and Mamochka I was staying over at Brian’s, but I spent the night at Camp with you instead. You made me try a bunch of different mixed drinks, and I didn’t like any of them.
“Quit photographing your booze and drink up!” I can still picture you sitting across from me in the empty Camp mess hall. Violet lipstick and that big yellow bow in your hair.
“But they’re so pretty!” Okay, I did get a little drunk.
“I just don’t understand how the two most amazing people on the planet raised this.” You waved your hand all around my face. “You’re like a blanket stuck in the mud.”
“What? I think you mean either a wet blanket or a stick in the mud.”
“No, it’s a combination of both. You’re just this sad, muddy security blanket that some kid tossed out the car window when he finally decided to be cool.” Looking back, it seems like such a mean thing for you to say. But that’s just kind of how we communicated. We teased each other a lot.
But that night I was a little too tipsy to get clever and catty with you. I just smiled. “Lucky you found me, huh? ’Cause I turned out all cute and snuggly once you got me home and cleaned me up.”
I hope you know I always felt that way about you. Grateful. So fortunate. Even though it was my family that took you in when you had no place to go, I think it’s safe to say that me, Mom, and Mamochka all thought it was the other way around, that we’d been adopted by you.
You moved from your side of the booth and slid in next to me. Colorful half-finished drinks dotted the tabletop, and your lips were on my throat. “I’ll show you lucky. Let’s get out of here.”
We walked back to your cabin and fooled around a little bit, then you surprised me with a gift, for no reason at all. It was that big Sandman omnibus I’d been wanting. I squeed over it for a little bit, and you said, “You want to read it right now, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I shouldn’t have given it to you until the end of the night.”
“That’s what she said.”
You laughed and kissed me, then you asked if you could drive my car. You hadn’t had anything to drink, so I handed over my keys, and we went out to that cemetery you always liked. I remember we sat on the back bumper and kissed, but we didn’t linger there too long. We hardly ever kissed in public like that. That’s one thing I really regret. One thing I couldn’t find a way to change or control. I never figured out how to make us feel safe.
You took the long way home, gravel roads. I brought the Sandman book along and had it open on my lap. The moon was full, and occasionally there’d be a break in the trees, just enough light on the pages for me to catch a glimpse of Desire and Delirium. You plugged your phone in and played a song for me. “Tonight and the Rest of My Life.” I’ll never forget it because it’s the sort of song you only need to hear once. The lyrics just sink into your heart.
I rolled the window down. The air was so cold, and it ruffled the pages of my new book. When the song was over, you pulled onto some dark side road, and you had that little container of stuff to make glow-in-the-dark bubbles. We made a huge mess mixing the glow-stick stuff into the bubble solution. It was all over my pants and your hands. You smeared it on my cheeks like war paint. We got out of the car, some country road in the middle of the night, and blew radioactive bubbles in a tilled-up cotton field. It was fun. It was so fun. I think about that night a lot because it’s the last time I remember things between us being really, really good.
Seems like after that day, winter hit hard. The royalty checks from the Mixtape anthologies started coming, and you could hardly believe that you were out on your own and getting enough money to pay the bills by doing stuff you loved. It seemed like a dream come true until your parents cut you off their insurance and the public health care system decided you were rich enough to afford your own damn meds.
Two days before Thanksgiving, you cracked one of your wisdom teeth. On a cheese quesadilla of all things. The dentist convinced you to go ahead and have all four of them pulled. On the way home from your surgery, I dropped off the prescription the dentist had given you for pain meds. I took you home, tucked you in, then headed back to the pharmacy in case you were in pain when you woke up.
“It shouldn’t be so much. It’s only Vicodin,” I said when the pharmacy tech rang me up and an exorbitant amount of money flashed on the cash register screen.
The tech did some typing around and told me there was a second order, a monthly auto-fill. “It’s been ready since last week.”
“Uh, just the one from today. She’ll pick up the other later.” I didn’t have enough cash to pay for both. Painkillers were the only thing on my mind at the time.
When I got back to the cabin, you were awake. Messy hair, tired eyes. Wearing a little strappy top and those plaid pajama pants you stole from me. You’d probably hate to hear this, but you looked really pretty. I liked the no-makeup Vivian as much, if not more, than when you were all dolled up. I plopped down beside you on the bed and asked if you were in any pain. You said no, but took one of the pills just in case. We missed the part where you’re supposed to eat first, though, so it made you sick and dizzy. You put the rest of the bottle in the cupboard and said, “Never again.”
When you were feeling better, I asked about the other prescription.
“It’s nothing,” you said. “Just a bottle of antiandrogens. I’ll be fine without them for a few more weeks.”
I took a moment to kiss your bare collarbones. Because they were there and I liked them. Because I forgot that you did not. They were a part of you that the hormones had yet to soften up. You tried to shake me off, but I just cuddled you a bit more. “You sure?”
“Yeah. It was them or Christmas presents—no, shhh! Don’t argue with me. It’s no big deal. Just don’t be alarmed when I”—you dropped your voice all low and manly—“develop a sudden interest in football and kung-fu movies.”
And I laughed a little because I could not have cared less if you butched up a bit. But it did kind of surprise me that you were okay with it.
It was only later that I started to notice that things with you weren’t totally okay. After you decided to come out as trans on Mixtape and we watched our readership shift from cis teen girls to a new crowd, mostly LGBT.
After that day I came home to find you crying, and you said, “Real girls don’t like me anymore.” And I didn’t think to correct you. You are a real girl.
After I found that overstuffed folder in your email marked Haters.
After the Christmas dinner where your parents didn’t show.
After the fight where I told you that you should “just give up” (on your parents, Vivian—I swear to Christ I meant give up on your unsupportive asshole parents).
After I found you blue in the face.
After the doctors said the odds weren’t looking so good.
That’s when I went to the pharmacy and picked up that bag of meds you’d decided to skip that month, citing financial reasons. (Despite having thousands and thousands of dollars secretly hidden away—what the hell???)
And I found out they weren’t antiandrogens or hormones.
You’d stopped taking your antidepressants.