inevitable, that I accepted it.
That’s what this is like. I know it’s happening. I know I’m angry. I know my hands are shaking, and I’m nauseated. But all of that is as unimportant as the frantic shouting of my sisters muffled by the water.
I’m cold.
Encased.
Sinking.
I drift without moving as the sounds she makes become more frantic.
We could compare notes.
Is he doing that thing with his tongue, Mrs. Tomlinson?
Oh, he must have just scissored his fingers. That gets me, too
.
How many times have you done this? Did it start when he was your caddy?
How old was he then? How many different ways did you use him?
He’s using you now
.
They aren’t my thoughts.
It’s not my own ironic detachment, it’s just a random defense. A mouthy guard at the door. The real me is awash in rage and shame and sorrow so deep I’m not even allowed access to it.
I have to sink away. Let the water take me.
I’m annoyed when my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance at the screen and see that I have new texts from my dad and West.
In funeral home office, West’s first text says.
I’m going to be a few minutes still.
Wrapping things up w/ director.
If we were inside the funeral home, I’d have to feel something right now. That’s what they’re for, these places we create to receive grief, to allow it and mute it at the same time.
But in the cab of this truck, drifting down into the cold with the scent of tobacco in my veins, I’m protected from having to feel. Suspended, for now.
I read the texts from my dad while West brings Mrs. Tomlinson to orgasm.
I love you too, C.
What’s the word there—any idea when you’ll be home?
A third one arrives.
Let me know when, I’ll pick you up.
She’s noisy when she comes. I didn’t know people were that noisy outside of movies.
This scene is a parody, a terrible movie I can’t turn off.
Gravel clatters. West getting to his feet. He must see the interior of the truck illuminated by the screen of my phone. Her, too, now that her eyes are open.
The sounds they’re making probably mean something.
I’m supposed to care.
I’m supposed to say something when West opens the truck door and looks at me with nothing in his expression like surprise.
Looks at me with a blazing sort of pride, an arrogant tilt to his eyebrows that tells me he knew.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
I don’t say anything. Not even when he calls me by name.“Caroline,” he says—my whole name, which he hardly ever uses.
I refuse to speak even when he takes me by the shoulder and shakes me, “Fucking say something,” and Mrs. Tomlinson’s making soothing noises, “West, West.”
I’m sinking, and I don’t have to talk to him.
I don’t have to do anything.
He drives me to the airport in the morning.
Up the mountain. Down the mountain. Wordless.
It’s not until I see a sign that says we’re twenty miles from Eugene that I start thinking how this is it.
I mean, this is really
it
.
When West left Putnam last year, I took him to the airport, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. It was horrible, but not as horrible as this silent car ride, because what I didn’t understand last year is that everything about that departure was outlined in hope.
I didn’t know if I’d see West again, but I hoped I would.
He didn’t know if he’d ever get back to Putnam, but I know he hoped, too.
We hoped we could be friends. We hoped we could be more.
And the slow death of hope—the suffocation of a future—that’s hard to live through. It’s no wonder he couldn’t take it.
It’s no wonder he told me he’d met someone, just to give himself a reason to stop calling. To give me a reason to stop waiting for the phone to ring.
All of that was hard.
It’s not as hard as this.
This is the wasteland after a volcanic eruption—everythinghot and black, covered in sulfur, the sky the color of ash. There’s nothing for hope to feed on in this car. He took it all.
He
That’s what this is like. I know it’s happening. I know I’m angry. I know my hands are shaking, and I’m nauseated. But all of that is as unimportant as the frantic shouting of my sisters muffled by the water.
I’m cold.
Encased.
Sinking.
I drift without moving as the sounds she makes become more frantic.
We could compare notes.
Is he doing that thing with his tongue, Mrs. Tomlinson?
Oh, he must have just scissored his fingers. That gets me, too
.
How many times have you done this? Did it start when he was your caddy?
How old was he then? How many different ways did you use him?
He’s using you now
.
They aren’t my thoughts.
It’s not my own ironic detachment, it’s just a random defense. A mouthy guard at the door. The real me is awash in rage and shame and sorrow so deep I’m not even allowed access to it.
I have to sink away. Let the water take me.
I’m annoyed when my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance at the screen and see that I have new texts from my dad and West.
In funeral home office, West’s first text says.
I’m going to be a few minutes still.
Wrapping things up w/ director.
If we were inside the funeral home, I’d have to feel something right now. That’s what they’re for, these places we create to receive grief, to allow it and mute it at the same time.
But in the cab of this truck, drifting down into the cold with the scent of tobacco in my veins, I’m protected from having to feel. Suspended, for now.
I read the texts from my dad while West brings Mrs. Tomlinson to orgasm.
I love you too, C.
What’s the word there—any idea when you’ll be home?
A third one arrives.
Let me know when, I’ll pick you up.
She’s noisy when she comes. I didn’t know people were that noisy outside of movies.
This scene is a parody, a terrible movie I can’t turn off.
Gravel clatters. West getting to his feet. He must see the interior of the truck illuminated by the screen of my phone. Her, too, now that her eyes are open.
The sounds they’re making probably mean something.
I’m supposed to care.
I’m supposed to say something when West opens the truck door and looks at me with nothing in his expression like surprise.
Looks at me with a blazing sort of pride, an arrogant tilt to his eyebrows that tells me he knew.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
I don’t say anything. Not even when he calls me by name.“Caroline,” he says—my whole name, which he hardly ever uses.
I refuse to speak even when he takes me by the shoulder and shakes me, “Fucking say something,” and Mrs. Tomlinson’s making soothing noises, “West, West.”
I’m sinking, and I don’t have to talk to him.
I don’t have to do anything.
He drives me to the airport in the morning.
Up the mountain. Down the mountain. Wordless.
It’s not until I see a sign that says we’re twenty miles from Eugene that I start thinking how this is it.
I mean, this is really
it
.
When West left Putnam last year, I took him to the airport, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. It was horrible, but not as horrible as this silent car ride, because what I didn’t understand last year is that everything about that departure was outlined in hope.
I didn’t know if I’d see West again, but I hoped I would.
He didn’t know if he’d ever get back to Putnam, but I know he hoped, too.
We hoped we could be friends. We hoped we could be more.
And the slow death of hope—the suffocation of a future—that’s hard to live through. It’s no wonder he couldn’t take it.
It’s no wonder he told me he’d met someone, just to give himself a reason to stop calling. To give me a reason to stop waiting for the phone to ring.
All of that was hard.
It’s not as hard as this.
This is the wasteland after a volcanic eruption—everythinghot and black, covered in sulfur, the sky the color of ash. There’s nothing for hope to feed on in this car. He took it all.
He
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