Things I'm Seeing Without You Page 13

  ‘This post is dated yesterday,’ I said.

  He nodded.

  The message said simply, ‘So so many new planets!’ and then it linked to a recent article about new planets discovered by NASA’s Keppler telescope. It looked like any other post from a Twitter user.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Are you still pretending you’re him?’

  Daniel shook his head.

  ‘I’m writing an app,’ he said. ‘It was our first assignment in computer science. I started out making a game. But then I switched to this.’

  I tried not to meet Jonah’s eyes in the photo.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s called Post-Life. It allows you to stay active on social media after you’re gone.’

  ‘Gone? As in . . .’

  ‘As in dead,’ he said.

  I looked at another of the Post-Life tweets.

  ‘When I eat two chilli dogs in a row, I usually hear the Braveheart soundtrack in my head.’

  ‘Who’s writing these?’ I asked.

  ‘He is,’ he said. ‘I mean, kind of. The program surveys his entire online persona, filing away all his likes and dislikes, interests, and the speech patterns of his previous posts. Then it uses that information to generate new ones, which it sends to his friends.’

  I stared at the screen.

  ‘How can he eat chilli dogs if he’s dead?’

  Daniel pushed the hair back from his forehead.

  ‘That’s a bug I haven’t quite worked out yet. It doesn’t seem capable of distinguishing what a dead person can and can’t do. An ideal version would just keep up his interests, you know, as if he were still alive.’

  ‘But he’s not still alive.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And he didn’t ask for this.’

  ‘I get that,’ he said.

  There was a current of irritation in his voice for the first time.

  ‘It’s not done yet. And the service would be for people who actively subscribe. People who want to keep posting after life. Jonah’s profile is just a test. For me.’

  He snapped his laptop shut, and the room went dark again.

  ‘You think it’s creepy, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘A little,’ I said.

  He wiped his hand over his eyes.

  ‘That seems to be the consensus,’ he said. ‘My teacher suggested I switch projects.’

  It was starting to rain lightly outside. More like a heavy mist than a storm.

  ‘It’s not the same,’ I said. ‘You can’t keep him alive that way.’

  I watched as a small puddle slowly pooled against the windowsill.

  ‘I have a problem,’ he said, ‘don’t I?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He looked at me.

  ‘You have a lot of problems.’

  He smiled, but only for an instant.

  ‘I knew it was wrong to write to you as him,’ he said. ‘But I did it anyway. I wanted to keep him here.’

  He rolled over in bed so he was facing me. But we were still miles of bed apart.

  ‘The starlings,’ I said.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Did you write that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You wrote most of it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Jonah was always better in person. At least when he was feeling good. I’m better online, I guess.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t get any messages for a week or so before he actually died.’

  ‘After that day in the Public Gardens, I couldn’t do it any more. I think the truth of everything finally became clear to me. It wasn’t a game. Jonah was a real person, and something was seriously wrong with him.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I interrupted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t write as him after the Public Gardens?’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

  ‘Positive. Why?’

  I sat up and opened Daniel’s laptop. I signed into my email. I should have known from the beginning, I thought. The problem was that Jonah didn’t send too many emails by the end. It was rare. But, still, I should have known that this one wasn’t Daniel’s. I searched my messages and finally came upon it, alone in a sea of advertisements and Quaker school newsletters. I opened it and handed the computer to Daniel.

  ‘Did you write this?’ I asked him. ‘You have to be honest.’

  It read:

  Hello, Tess Fowler,

  The internet tells me that the swans in the Public Gardens are named Romeo and Juliet, but that they’re actually both female. People like a good love story on their terms, I guess. The swans there are mute swans, but that just means that they’re ‘less vocal’ than other kinds. Part of the way they communicate is through the fluttering of their wings in flight. I wish I could do that, don’t you? I think I might like it better than talking. There are so many things I like better than talking.

  It’s odd that we never saw each other after that night in Iowa. I make so many plans, Tess Fowler. I see them so clearly in my head. The way they’re supposed to go. You and me are in there, in one of the plans. We’re walking along somewhere and it’s really nice and casual and everything is so easy like it was when we were talking that night.

  It takes so much energy to make things easy for me. I have to go a thousand miles an hour to make it seem like I’m going ten.

  The new plan, the one I’m making right now, is a retroactive plan. When we meet at the farmhouse, this time I wake up the next morning and I miss my ride to the airport in Des Moines. I miss my flight back to Boston. And instead I stay with you a couple of days. I live in your dorm like a stowaway and you smuggle me food from the cafeteria. I only come out at night, and no one else knows but you. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. But it seems like enough. Doesn’t it, Tess?

  Yours,

  J.

  I read the email along with Daniel, and we stopped around the same time. Daniel looked at the desktop of his computer, a swirling galaxy of tiny white stars.

  ‘I didn’t write it,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t bullshit me,’ I said.

  Instead of defending himself again, he just got quiet.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You got a goodbye.’

  At some point, we had moved closer together, maybe a foot apart. The drop in temperature had made the room chilly, but I didn’t want to get up to shut the window.

  ‘Is that what that is?’

  Daniel frowned.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know I shouldn’t be jealous. It’s petty. And I’m not proud.’

  ‘I get it,’ I said.

  Then I sat up.

  ‘Why don’t you write yourself one,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘What’s the point of your stupid app otherwise?’

  With my free hand, I clicked on the Twitter tab and Post-Life flashed back on the screen. Daniel looked at the screen in front of him. He slowly brought his hands to the keyboard. But he didn’t type anything.

  Looking at Jonah’s picture, it was possible, for a moment, to pretend that he was really still out there somewhere, sending back updates from the unknown. But it didn’t last long, that feeling of contact. It was just another trick, some digital sleight of hand. Daniel closed the laptop.

  I expected him to get up and wander back downstairs. But he stayed where he was. And instead of moving further away, he reached out his hand across the bed. I watched it there in the dark.

  ‘I liked them,’ I said. ‘The things you wrote to me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘It kind of complicates things, though.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘I thought they were coming from him.’

  ‘I know.’

  The rain outside was picking up, pinging against the screen. I mov
ed my hand across the bed and set it on top of his.

  The next morning I woke up in an empty bed.

  The sun was up and Daniel was gone. And when I got up to pee, the whole house was quiet. I’ll admit I panicked a little. Maybe, I thought, as I sat on the coldest toilet seat in human history, Daniel had gotten what he came for. We talked through a few things and that was all he needed. When I finished in the bathroom, I pulled on some pyjama pants and went downstairs.

  The couch was empty.

  His computer was gone too.

  I stepped through the quiet hallway of the house until I reached the kitchen and let out a deep breath.

  There was Daniel at the kitchen table. A neglected bowl of cereal sat in front of him, along with a cup of my dad’s burnt coffee. He was fully dressed, for once, in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a light-blue shirt. His hair was combed in a loose parting.

  I hardly recognized him. He looked older and younger at the same time. He was looking over a bunch of documents and brochures. When I stepped closer, I saw they were materials from my dad’s business.

  ‘Your dad is a seriously weird guy,’ he said. ‘A science fiction dog funeral? Holy shit.’

  I wanted to tell him I was glad he was still here. What I said instead was: ‘Why are you dressed like a host at a bad chain restaurant?’

  Daniel glanced down at his shirt. He smoothed it over his chest.

  ‘I thought maybe we could go for a walk,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen anything but a strip club since I’ve been here.’

  I looked down at the pyjama pants I’d been rocking for the last few days. They hung on me more than usual. I was getting skinny.

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ I said.

  I lingered by the table. Daniel watched me.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Give me a minute.’

  Outside, the sun was high and the blue sky glowed like it was backlit. We squinted against the brightness after days inside. I had yet to retrace my steps to the lake since the day I followed my computer into the water, and I wasn’t quite sure why I felt compelled to go there now. But, since my father was gone again, and my car was on Empty, there were few other attractions of note.

  Daniel didn’t seem to care. He shuffled along, a step behind me, pleased to be out of his self-imposed captivity. He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and held his face up to the light, like he hadn’t been in the sun in years.

  ‘So why are you doing this?’ he asked with his eyes closed.

  I watched his face.

  ‘Walking outside for no reason?’ I said. ‘Because you asked me to.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Helping your dad with his business.’

  ‘I’m his partner,’ I said.

  I could hear the flatness in my own voice.

  ‘I didn’t ask what your role was. I asked why you’re doing it.’

  For a guy who didn’t love talking, Daniel had a way of asking pointed questions.

  ‘It helps just to do something,’ Daniel said, after a moment. ‘Is that it?’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘When I first came home from school after Jonah died, I helped my dad repaint the garage. Then I did the whole house by myself, even though it looked fine. Every day, I climbed up the ladder and slapped on another coat. Dad was happy to provide the paint. The only thing he believes in is hard work, even if it’s meaningless. It worked for a little while, though. I felt better. Maybe it was the endorphins. Or just having a sense of purpose. But I think mostly it was the distraction—’

  ‘And that’s what you think my life is right now,’ I interrupted. ‘The symbolic painting of a garage?’

  My voice came out louder than I’d hoped, but Daniel didn’t flinch.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m asking.’

  We moved down the hill where the lake was quiet. There were no people on the path. And for a second, I felt that summer vacation sense of being alone and unsupervised in a daytime world. But I couldn’t help thinking about my last time here.

  ‘Tess?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Just zoning.’

  The calm lake appeared before us, divided in half. One side was dazzling white with reflected sunlight. The other half had the darkened aura of an abandoned bog.

  ‘It’s not a distraction,’ I said finally.

  Daniel turned towards me.

  ‘I am perfectly capable of distracting myself in other ways I’ll have you know. For example: I enjoy books and recreational drugs and flirting with hot cowboys. So, I resent the implication that I would do this just to pass the time.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Then why?’

  ‘Well, because my dad needs help. That’s one reason. He’s not going to make it otherwise, and he’s at a point in his life where he might not have many more chances. He’s that much of a screw-up.’

  ‘And?’ said Daniel.

  ‘And . . . I’m actually good at it,’ I said. ‘I can plan somebody’s death party like a pro, and it feels good to not suck at something. I know you and Jonah were computer geniuses or whatever, but I’ve never really found my thing.’

  I looked at the water, clotted with patches of bright-green algae.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Daniel.

  I was heading towards the dock. I felt my heart rate increase as I grew closer and saw the sign cautioning against swimming.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  I imagined the feel of the slimy stuff on my bare arms, the way it had adhered to me like a second skin when I made it to the surface. I closed my eyes. The sunlight flickered orange and yellow beneath my lids.

  ‘I’m also doing it because I’m terrified,’ I said.

  Daniel watched me a moment.

  ‘Of what?’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Everything. But mostly my impermanence.’

  His eyes searched my face.

  ‘Some people are comforted by that,’ I said. ‘Not me. I like existing. At least most of the time. I like having a body. I want to keep it. But someday I won’t have it any more. That’s unsettling.’

  I looked at the chipped railing on the dock.

  ‘And I’m scared of being buried underground where worms and bugs will digest my remains. I know I won’t be conscious, but still. It doesn’t sound pleasant. Does that sound pleasant to you? I’m scared of being burnt into a pile of oxidized matter. I’m scared of rotting and decaying.’

  I was building up steam now.

  ‘I’m scared that I don’t matter, even a little bit, and that no one matters and nothing matters. I’m scared that it all matters and I’m fucking it up. I’m scared I’m living my short short life wrong in every possible way. I’m scared I’ve already made so many mistakes and I don’t have enough time to fix them. I’m scared I won’t die with the slightest amount of dignity, like on the toilet or watching Bravo. I’m scared no one will care when I do. I’m scared that the only person I ever loved wasn’t real. I’m scared I will never get over him. And I’m scared I’m making the same mistake again.’

  Daniel took this in. He took a step towards me. I didn’t want to look him in the eyes. I didn’t know what might happen. So I walked past him out on to the dock.

  ‘I live with all of this like lots of people do,’ I said, ‘and sometimes, I can keep it away. But when someone dies, there’s a rupture in all that, right? And all those fears come pouring back in at once. Maybe a good funeral can help people face it.’

  I looked down into the muddy water, hoping maybe I could see my dearly departed laptop down there shimmering like a tiny futuristic shipwreck. But, of course, I could only see down a couple of feet.

  ‘Maybe a good funeral can help people find enough order to keep going. At least it shows you that you’re not alone. I wish I’d had that. But I didn’t. So maybe I can help my dad give it to other people.’

  We were quiet for a moment after this. I looked deeper into the water.

  ‘Tess,’ said Daniel.
/>   He was by my side now.

  ‘No more questions,’ I said. ‘That’s all I have to say.’

  ‘Tess,’ he said again.

  I turned to him. His brown eyes were wide.

  ‘We need to plan a funeral,’ he said.

  I just stood there a moment.

  ‘For Jonah.’

  I pushed some blowing hair from my face.

  ‘I think it might help us,’ he said.

  I took another step towards him, and he put his arms around me. He held me tight. But it was OK. It felt good. I held him back. I don’t know what it meant, but it was good just to cling for a moment. Like we were two parts of the same broken thing.

  Me: This is it, Jonah: the person you left me with.

  My dad came home later that evening, and I watched him stand out in the backyard, smoking a cigarette. He had supposedly quit a year ago, and so far the only times I’d seen him cheat were when he was stressed about something. But his face looked calm now in the orange light of dusk.

  Which brought up another possibility. He’d probably been with Grace. He’d probably been with her all afternoon and all those other mornings when he’d disappeared with no excuse. And yes, he had probably been with Grace in the Biblical sense (insert very loud dry heave). When he walked inside, he held the scorched filter of his cigarette under the tap before tossing it in the trash.

  ‘Your fly’s unzipped,’ I said, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Jesus, Tess!’ he said. ‘What are you doing? Keeping watch?’

  He looked down.

  ‘My fly is fine.’

  ‘But you checked!’ I said. ‘You checked because you’re guilty! Guilty of having gross sex!’

  He ran his hands through his hair.

  ‘Don’t say sex,’ he said.

  ‘Sex,’ I said. ‘Screwing. Porking! Doing the nasty!’

  He stood there in the light of the kitchen, looking mildly ashamed.

  ‘Are you done?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  Then, before he could say anything else, I said: ‘If you want to spend your time with a traitorous floozy, that’s your business. But I’m not happy about it.’