Between Then & Now || Currently Editing for Wattys 2022

44.

I am not sure where I stop that night when I eventually do. On some random street, next to some random curb, in some random city in Washington. All I know is the path of the dark wooden pattern on my ceiling as it stares down at me, and I stare at it, the pressure of the mattress underneath my body a little too present. For a moment, I think about picking up one of the Virginia Woolf books I had bought at the bookstore, but my mind instantly caves under the thought of having to read such heavy material. Right now, I couldn't possibly care less about women having enough money to write fiction or having to listen to the burdens of men or whatever else.

The ceiling stares at me. I stare at it.

My mattress is lumpy under my back.

I trace the dark brown pattern in the light wood.

Nothing prepares you for death. Not other deaths, not distance, not lack of communication. Losing someone you love isn't exactly something you can rehearse, practicing the lines through your mind, tracing the footsteps, embracing the demeanor.

Each death is just as heavy as the last.

I blink. The ceiling doesn't blink back.

An exasperated breath leaves my lips, and I rub my eyes. I'm not sure what time it is. I am not sure I care. When I look up at the counter where my phone sits, I see it's just out of arm's reach. Too far. 

Just as my eyes are about to return to tracing the patterns in the ceiling, envisioning the grand canyon or rivers or anywhere but here, in this empty van, I see it.

The cover of the book is a light, watery blue. I sit up, reaching over the counter to pick it up. There are graphics of multi-colored sticky notes on the cover, doodles of flowers and birds. I remember reading the back cover in the young adult aisle of the bookstore on one of my detours.

Everyday he thinks of ways he might die.

...her aching grief in the wake of her sister's death.

I flip it over and reread the synopsis. And read it again. And, opening the front cover, I delve into a different story about death, one different than my own but maybe one that will give me an excuse to cry about mine nonetheless.

I read and I read and I read. Hours pass by and I don't care because time doesn't exist within this van of mine. I am not sure if there are crickets chirping outside, if cars are passing by in rush hour, if someone has been eyeballing my van like who's this weirdo that's been parked outside of my house for however long. Because I am not here. I am Violet Markey and I am Theodore Finch, and I am worried about things that are not my problem but simultaneously are. I am traveling across Indiana and becoming comfortable in a car again and I am falling in love and I am crying, and crying, and crying because how could he do that, how could he just leave like that, how could he just leave me here with this empty spot in my heart, a hole that just grows and grows and grows, and I am crying because I am Violet Markey but I am also myself and everything fucking sucks.

When I finally close the book, my eyes are swollen, and I still do not know what time it is but I am finally tired. Thelma is putzing around on the bed, and I know I should take her outside to use the restroom but I don't have the energy to get up. So, I toss the book at the end of the bed, and I close my eyes. Because I do not have the energy to dwell on Theodore Finch's death or my grandfather's death or Tata's death, anymore.

Because I am tired.

And, as I fall asleep, my mind drifting to another place that is my own yet isn't, Theodore Finch's voice rings in my mind.

"I know life well enough to know you can't count on things staying around or standing still, no matter how much you want them to. You can't stop people from dying. You can't stop them from going away. You can't stop yourself from going away either. I know myself well enough to know that no one else can keep you awake or keep you from sleeping."