So far, so good.
So far, so good.
So far, so good.
The only problem is, well, things don’t actually feel that good anymore.
The ground is coming up fast.
If I blink, I’ll be there.
And my body will shatter.
And there’ll be no one left to piece me back together.
Because I will have burned them all.
Ch.30
We’ve been traveling for over a month now, but as of today, well, it’s finally over. It seems fitting, somehow, that the last city on our tour is San Francisco, the place where this all kinda started in the first place.
Of course, I’d like to say that I’ve returned here feeling triumphant—you know, having beaten the odds or whatever—getting a book published, being interviewed by NPR, appearing on live local news, having my meals and taxis and everything paid for. It’s all pretty crazy. I mean, the last time I was here, I was eating out of garbage cans, breaking into people’s houses. Now I have a swank hotel in Union Square where I can order room service and the people here call me “sir” and “mister.”
But even more incredible than that is the fact that I haven’t actually had to sleep at the hotel at all because my dad and stepmom and little brother and sister all decided they felt comfortable enough to let me stay at their house instead. That’s really the biggest miracle of all. There was a time when I thought I’d never even see any of them again, let alone be allowed back in their home. So, yeah, being here, well, it is a triumph in a lot of ways. But for some reason I still don’t feel all that triumphant. If anything, it’s like I’m just being reminded again and again of all the fucked-up shit I put my family through. There are ghosts haunting every corner of this house. I shudder from remembering. And I know that as much as they all smile and tell me everything’s all right, my family will never truly forgive me. I mean, how could they? My little brother and sister were given this totally perfect-seeming, protected childhood. Their parents stayed together. There was no fighting or belittling or weird sexual shit or anything. They were loved and encouraged and supported, no matter who they were or what they did. Everything seemed absolutely idyllic—and it would have been, too, if it weren’t for me. I exposed them to all this terror and took their parents away from them and robbed them of the childhood they were supposed to have.
Although it’s not like I ruined them or anything. I mean, they’re totally not ruined. They both turned out uniquely wonderful and kind and sensitive and brilliant and, being here, I couldn’t be prouder of them. We all play music together and draw together and take hikes out at the beach with their dog, Charles Wallace—who definitely makes me miss Tallulah. They tell me about school and their friends and their own feelings of isolation and uncertainty. They are beautiful, truly, and I’m so grateful to have them back in my life—in spite of the guilt I still feel. And, I don’t know, being with them, it does give me hope that maybe I haven’t fucked all this up beyond repair.
After all, I am here, aren’t I? Lying curled in my sister’s tiny bed, staring up at the drawings and paintings and collections of images torn from magazines taped on the wall above me.
It’s early morning—my last day—the light gray and oddly bright through the slatted window.
The alarm on my phone goes off a second time, and I force myself to get up, supporting my weight on a wooden chest of drawers piled high with little sculptures and stones and dried flowers and hand-sewn dolls my sister made herself. I steady myself. A heavy, weighted sadness makes my arms and legs ache.
I don’t want to leave.
I want to be part of this.
I want to belong.
I want to be my little brother and sister’s real brother.
I want to be their age.
I don’t want to have to go back to my own life.
I want to stay right here.
But I can’t. I never could. I was always on the outside looking in, and that’s never gonna change, so fuck it, right? I get dressed and walk out onto the heated concrete floor.
I make coffee and toast with jam and butter.
None of it matters.
I’m just fine.
It’ll be all right.
I remind myself that there’s an eighth of pretty decent weed stashed behind the refrigerator for me back in Charleston, so at least I have that. I mean, that’s one thing I can rely on—one thing that’s never let me down.
So I drink my coffee down fast.
The town car my publisher sent to drive me to the airport is already waiting outside and I feel bad, you know, holding ’em up.
I eat the toast and go to collect my things, just trying not to feel anything at this point.
I press the palm of my hand against the cold window.
I can’t feel anything but cold.
There’s nothing else there.
I grab my bag and hoist it onto my shoulder.
I’m ready to leave now.
But then I hear the door to my parents’ room creak open, and my little sister comes walking softly up the stairs, followed by my dad. Her eyes swallow me up, absorbing everything and missing nothing. I give her a hug, and she hugs me back.
“It was really good to see you,” I tell her.
She lets out a little noise like a laugh and nods. She hugs me again.
And then my dad tells me good-bye, and the sun is starting to burn through the thinning gray sky as I carry my bag out to the car.
I still feel nothing but the cold.
And everything is still.
Driving through the winding, twisted roads, there is nothing but stillness.
This past month has been so full and crazy.
But now I’m still.
If it wasn’t for Tallulah
