Grayland

1

Rachel? Where are you? I say. Rachel?

My shouts are lost, funneled into the ground where no one can hear them. I keep calling her name, calling for Rachel, trying to find out where she’s gone. Again I shout but keep walking, making sloppy tracks through the snow.

I come across several things in the field: a house that feels as flat as a painting, a big empty barn, some rickety fence posts, and boulders that look like white turtle shells resting on the ground. There’s a lone, barren tree. I approach it and place my hand on its trunk, feeling the coarse bark. I inspect the tree, hoping to find something. A clue, perhaps. But I don’t, which is disappointing.

What was I thinking, that this tree would tell me where Rachel is? Of course not, that’s stupid. I step away, looking up at the branches that race each other upward, veins spreading through the air.

When I look down, Rachel is standing inches from my face. I jerk back, nearly falling.

Where have you been? I say. I’ve been looking for you.

She stares at me, unmoving, with eyes as dull as dirt. Her dark hair hangs straight down either side of her face, flowing over her shoulders. Her hands dangle at her sides, and her jeans cling to her skinny legs. I scowl when I see her bare feet.

For Christ’s sake, I say, why aren’t you wearing shoes? I scoop air with my hand, implying she should come along with me, come my way. Let’s go, I say.

No, she says, I can’t.

I turn on my heels, pivoting in the snow. Stop being so difficult. Come on.

She refuses again, so I offer new reasons she should change her mind: It’s dinnertime, so we should go home and eat. Mom made brownies. Don’t you know how good those are? Oscar will eat them all if we’re not there. And hey, the snow’s getting bad: the storm will be here soon. Don’t you care? Well, when we get home I’ll make some hot cocoa and we can sit by the fireplace. Warm up. Get cozy. None of this works, though, and each failed attempt makes me feel weaker.

Please? I say, as I have no more arguments in me. My arms are heavy, no good for gesturing or tugging. Just for me, I say, because I’m asking? Come on. Please?

No, she says, and she means it.

Since she won’t budge, I lunge at her, counting on the element of surprise. Instead, I stumble, feeling physically confused, as if I’ve reached for a stair step that doesn’t exist, because Rachel is still standing, still out of reach. I push myself up onto my knees and tell her I don’t want to fight right now, but she needs to come home.

I sigh, frustrated and tired. I look up at her, meeting her eyes. To be honest, Mom’s really worried, I say.

I’m not going back.

God, you’re such a bitch sometimes, I say. I get up and brush the snow from my knees and jacket. To make my hands warm again, I shove them in my pockets, and I glance at Rachel. She hasn’t left again—she’s still there—but the air between us is brittle. It could fracture if I’m not careful. I admit that I’m tired, very tired, and I want her to follow me home.

Marina, I can’t come with you.

Yeah, you can, I say. It’ll be easy. Remember the time you snuck into the movies with me? It’s like that—just act like you belong, I say. I stare at her, waiting for her to smile, to blink. I wait for her to say yes.

But Marina, she says, I’m dead. Rachel tilts her head slightly—it’s the only move she’s made. Deader than a doornail, hombre.

I reach out to touch her forearm, to graze it with my fingertips, but I can’t reach. I’m not close enough. So I take a step, then another and another, never getting close enough. She is slipping away in pieces.

A tremor rattles my body, purging any shred of sleep. But the panic is brief, so after a moment I adjust my breathing, open my eyes, and stare at the ceiling. I force a swallow to uncoil my stomach.

I close my eyes. If I cinch them shut, maybe I can see her face, a clear image. I try to remember her dimples when she smiled. And the premature wrinkle between her eyebrows that she was so worried about. I cover my face with my hands and then turn over, laying facedown under the covers, trying to make it dark enough to recall her face. But nothing I do blots out enough light.

My throat is dry and my head heavy. The pressure building around me won’t go away until I quit bracing myself against it, until I give in. And each day starts the same: I have to say the words.

Wincing, I whisper into the mattress. Rachel’s dead, I say, because she slit her wrists and bled.

Simple words for a simple fact. After letting them out, though, after letting them loose in the world, I feel nauseous. They’ve left my mouth full of dust.

For a hundred days I’ve replayed this scenario. Seeing Rachel, talking to her, testing my memory of what she looked like, what she really looked like. I’ve pounded and stretched the same memories and made them so tough they won’t ever break down. Like the time we got happy hour with her friend Ashley and went to a movie downtown. By the time we got to the theater, I’d lost my ability to keep quiet—Rachel kept elbowing and shushing me to shut up. According to her I was being obnoxious, but she couldn’t say obnoxious right. She’d had too many margaritas too.

It’s hard to believe I’ve thought the same thoughts over a hundred times, but I can’t remember a day when this didn’t take place, when I didn’t remind myself of what happened. It’s become part of my routine; it’s become something I have to do.

Although I just woke up, I’m already tired, but I can’t go back to sleep. I couldn’t if I tried. Besides, I can hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen downstairs—that means Claire is awake already.

When I’m ready I get out of bed and walk downstairs. In the kitchen I see Claire, and I meet her eyes when she looks up from the stove. Good morning, she says. I hope I wasn’t too noisy, but I made coffee.

You’re fine, I say. I pour myself a cup before walking toward the front door. I grab my cigarettes and lighter off of the coffee table in the living room. Over my shoulder I tell her I’ll be back.

I set down my coffee on the front stoop and lower myself onto the first step before opening the pack. There are only two cigarettes left, which doesn’t seem right. It takes me several tries to get my lighter working, since it’s almost out too.

While hunched on the doorstep, I sip my coffee and smoke. Even though it’s pointless, I think about the missing cigarettes. Where did the other eighteen go? Last night before bed I had two smokes. No, I had three. Before that, I had one on my way home from work. At work I had one on each break, and in the morning I had one with my coffee, then one on the way to work. That was Friday. So, Thursday? I bought this pack that morning, which means…I smoked nine that day? Maybe that’s right, because I’d finished the other pack with my morning coffee and then stopped at the store on my way to Beaverton. It wasn’t a short drive, and since I like the feeling of smoke and cold air whipping past my face, I had two smokes in the car. When Max called to cancel on me, I’d just crossed the city boundary, passing the bright white Welcome to Beaverton sign. Sorry, he said, but something came up. He said he wanted to do breakfast another time. But I know my brother, and it wasn’t a rain check: it was a rejection. Sometimes you just know.

During my drive home, I thought about the effort I’d put into working around his schedule, driving all the way out to fucking Beaverton because it was easier for him, asking Shell to take my morning shift. I did all that, and he waited until ten minutes before we were supposed to meet to bail. The whole way back I smoked, lighting another cigarette when one was gone—that accounts for the rest of the missing pack—because at least smoking feels good when nothing else does.

And when I got back into Portland, I felt spontaneous enough to skip my street and keep driving. When I arrived at the cemetery, I sat in my car in the parking lot for a while before getting out. I felt like a foreigner, looking around, feeling out of place. When I found the grave, I stood there waiting for something to happen. Not like zombie hands ripping out of the ground or ghosts whispering, but I anticipated feeling something else. Would it be relief? Closure? Acceptance? It was naive to expect any of that, I learned. Instead I felt surprised at how quickly I left, because visiting a grave isn’t anything more than that: visiting a grave.

What was a relief was being at work, surrounded by chlorine and goggle-eyed faces in swimming caps. I dressed down, put on my windbreaker, and spent most of the day sitting in my chair, watching the pool. The college swimmers didn’t expect me to talk or smile or be friendly. They expected me to blow the whistle, to catch them breaking rules. They expected me to be a lifeguard, nothing more.

I can’t reconcile how many cigarettes I had on Thursday before I’m done smoking on the stoop. I put my cigarette out on the porcupine shoe scrubber we have by the door—it’s entirely nonfunctional for cleaning shoes, but it works pretty well for putting out cigarette butts. I get up and go back inside. When I start getting dishes out, Claire shoos me away. I got this, she says. Just relax, okay? I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

I shrug and walk into the living room, where I sink into the couch. I reach for my computer and check my bank account balance, my work schedule, and all the other sites I go to. There’s nothing really to see in the social sphere, but I read through the newsfeed anyway.

Krista’s name appears in a post, so I read it. She talks about getting trashed and being hungover, which isn’t a surprise. That’s all we ever did when I used to hang out with her, except for the one time we went camping together. We borrowed her dad’s tent, and putting it together took an eternity. Poles going in the wrong way, taking them out only to do it wrong again, forgetting the tarp goes underneath, losing the bag of stakes—it was a fiasco, but we succeeded. We finished an entire bottle of Jim Beam and a pack of one-dollar hot dogs that we roasted on sticks over a fire. At least we got a fire made. It helped that Krista had brought a road flare.

Pancakes, Claire says. Get in here, woman. I close my laptop and peel myself off the couch.

It smells amazing in here, I say, sitting down at the table. I pick off a stack of pancakes and riffle through the bottles and jars of condiments on the table. I remember we have strawberries in the fridge, so I get up to grab the carton. I pick three good ones, rinse them off, and slice them, careful to make them the same thickness.

Marina, Claire says. Getting cold. Her mouth is full of food. She finishes chewing and swallows. They won’t be as good.

I’m just about done. I position each slice on my plate, then I rearrange them to be like flowers, all petals attached in the center, facing out. Then I make them into a spiral, and it’s better. After I add maple syrup and powdered sugar, I take a picture with my phone.

You’re doing it now, too? Claire says. She takes another bite and keeps talking, still chewing. Everyone’s taking pictures of their food. I don’t get it.

Food is pretty sometimes. I put my phone down and rotate my plate slightly. You’re just jealous because my pancakes are prettier.

Yeah, but I’m actually going to eat mine. She swallows. Her plate is a mess of peanut butter and brown mush. It’s all the same to me.

You know what they say, you taste first with your eyes.

Who says that?

"Food Network people. Experts. They have all sorts of secrets."

I cut into my first bite when the hourly news report comes on the radio, and they say there’s been another suicide bombing in Iraq. For a long time I brushed off news reports of suicide bombings—they have become so frequent, how can they not be considered normal news? But this one was really horrendous—it was at a wedding, with at least thirty people reported dead.

While I stare at the big strawberry slice on my pancake, Claire gets up and changes the radio station. Sorry about that, she says after sitting back down.

What are you sorry for? I say. I push the strawberry around with my fork. It’s the news. Sometimes people die.

I just… she says, trailing off. She frowns and looks down at her hands in her lap. I don’t know, I’m sorry. For everything.

I play with my fork, twirling it in syrup. I know. You’re sweet.

It’s been a terrible summer for you, your family. I don’t understand a lot of it, but I’m just trying—

You’re good, Claire. Don’t worry, okay?

She is silent. The chair squeaks when she shifts her weight.

I put down my fork and fold my hands in my lap. You’re doing a lot for me, I say. I know it’s not easy to be my friend right now. The backs of my hands look old and blotchy, like they aren’t my hands. Veins and tendons bulge from under the skin. Thin skin, like that of someone older. Maybe I am older already—I definitely feel that way.

I look away from my hands, glancing at Claire. I’m looking forward to going to the beach today, I say.

Claire nods. A break will be good, I think. I was planning something laid-back, relaxing. Give you a chance to get your mind off things.

Yeah, I say out of kindness. Too bad Claire doesn’t understand it really doesn’t work that way. I’m always thinking about it; there’s no room for anything else. It’ll be fun.

We finish eating, and I gather the plates and clean up. Then we pack up and get on the road.

Some people are sad the summer is over. No more going to the river. No more barbecues on the porch. School’s now in session. Camping season’s almost up. But me, I’m not sad, not one bit. Work will pick up since the swimming season’s starting officially at the pool, and when I’m not working, I can be at home, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, eating chips and watching TV with no shame.

We pass through several valley towns, following the road signs for Oregon beaches. In the mountains the highway traffic slows down because of the casino there, so when we finally pass it, I speed up quickly, punching the gas pedal, making Claire’s head jerk back. Along the way I take note of all the same markers—the yards cluttered with dead cars, the handwritten sign advertising pony rides, the snapshot glances of the river ducking around the highway, and the billboard for the Newport wax museum. I can’t believe it’s still there—they haven’t changed the ad since I came to the beach as a kid.

When we pass the sign for Devil’s Lake, I know Lincoln City is close. We drive through more traffic before arriving at our hotel at the south end of town. We enter the lobby to check in, get our key cards, and climb one flight of stairs to our room. As soon as I turn the door handle, I feel a weight lifting, letting me step into a different life for the next twenty-four hours.

Inside, the curtains are drawn, so I cross the room, dropping my bag on the bed. When I pull back the thick beige curtain, the room brightens and I stand in awe of the view. We can see the ocean, right here in our room.

Claire sets her bag down on the bed. I look back at her and see her smiling. She walks toward me, her hands on her hips and her head high. You can tell me how good I am, she says.

I laugh. "You are amazing. I think this is better than the beach house."

You still have to take me there, you know.

You want to come down with us for my mom’s birthday? I say. That’s when we always go. It’s just a little house we rent from Oscar’s friend, but it’s still like my second home. You’ll love it.

It’s not far from here, is it? she says. I tell her it’s close by, but accesses a beach farther north. This is perfect, though, I tell her: staying at the beach house would require jumping through more hoops (having to ask my mom to ask Oscar to ask Gene about when the house is available), so staying in a hotel is nice for a change—nobody has to do laundry or clean the kitchen or make sure all the garbage is taken care of before leaving.

I unlock the sliding glass door and walk onto the balcony. Claire follows, shutting the door behind her. She rests her forearms on the railing next to me while I smack a new pack of cigarettes against the butt of my hand. Claire and I both stare at the ocean, silent. The wind makes it seem peaceful. That, and the seagulls far off. Like we’re in some foreign life.

What you feel like doing? Claire says. We have the day to do whatever.

I don’t know, I say. After patting all my jacket pockets, I find my lighter. There’s a ton of things, but when I think about doing any of them, it makes me feel tired.

Like what things?

Well, I say, trying to light my cigarette, but the wind and my crummy lighter make it a challenge to get going. Kites could be fun. Or sand castles. I get it lit and take drag. And a beach fire. Maybe some saltwater taffy.

Why don’t we finish settling in here, she says, wrapping her arms tight around her sides, and get a quick bite before going to the beach. After, we’ll get dinner. Sound good?

I say yes.

After having a cup of clam chowder, we walk into the stores nearby. I buy a pound of saltwater taffy in a candy shop. Then there’s a store full of everything tie-dye: just from the window I can see shirts, pants, socks, hats, handbags, reusable shopping bags—stuff I’d never imagine anyone purchasing, even as a souvenir. Claire and I walk into a jewelry shop, but it’s hard to even call what they have jewelry. Everything is covered in seashells or dried-out sea creatures. Again, more shit I have a hard time believing anyone ever wants to buy.

On the beach it’s surprisingly warm—we definitely hit the weather right, and so has everyone else. Everywhere I look there are families with small kids or packs of teenagers huddled around clusters of backpacks and beach towels laid on the sand. There are also a lot of kites in the air, their skins crackling against the wind. We walk for a few minutes, looking for a place to rest, before going with a spot near a driftwood pile. After we roll out the blanket and unpack our stuff, Claire lays down and pulls out her phone. I take off my shoes and tell her I’m going on a walk. She nods and puts on her headphones.

With each step I grip the sand, wishing my toes could dig deep enough to keep me rooted in place. They can’t, though, so I keep walking along the beach, taking in what I see. Some kids I pass are making a castle using hot-pink buckets and bright-yellow shovels. One group is busy covering a boy with sand, dumping tub after tub of it over his legs and slapping it down with open palms. It reminds me of when my parents took us to the beach, how the coast was also our getaway place. I don’t know why it always felt special for us; it’s a common vacation destination for many people. We did what lots of people did and still do: Rachel and I made castles from sand and mussel shells. Sometimes we buried each other too, and a few times even Dad volunteered to be buried. Max had a remote-control car that he brought to the beach. He drove it all across the sand, testing how far it would go before the radio-control signal grew too weak.

Just last February I was at the beach with Rachel. It was cold and gray and drizzly when we got to Seaside—a different city on the coast, an hour or two up Highway 101—with our cousin Pamela. She was visiting from Spokane, and even though we told her it’d be cold, that there was no chance for sunbathing or anything without a rain jacket, she was insistent on going anyway. She wanted to get away, to see the ocean, so we slipped into Rachel’s car and left, not even bringing a change of clothes—it wasn’t going to be a long trip.

The condo we stayed at was owned by Pamela’s coworker, who leased it out for much of the year. Pamela made it sound complicated, how someone else had booked it for the weekend but couldn’t go or reschedule, and even when our cousin told the story again, the circumstances didn’t make sense. Pamela was describing the social dynamic at her workplace that she thought was essential to understanding why she was the one getting the condo and why she had driven eight hours to get there. Meanwhile, Rachel’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel and I kept saying, Uh-huh, totally, and Pamela said, I know, right? And we finally got onto another topic.

The condo was tiny but cozy, and the previous tenant had left behind a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream. Rachel and I slept on the pull-out couch and joked around all night because Pamela passed out after having half a glass of wine. Rachel and I polished off that bottle before sneaking out to get another one. We passed it between us while sitting under a pile of throw blankets, camping in the living room and basking in the glow of late-night TV.

That’s just one of the days at which I look back, studying it for scratches, for breaks and cracks. Had Rachel already decided then that she wanted to die? Is that something you think about for five months? Five days? Five minutes? Fuck if I know.

On the horizon over the ocean, the sun flattens, shrinking into a point. I know it’s bad to stare directly at the sun—they always say so. But it’s so beautiful, so peaceful, and I can’t help but gaze at it. When I look at the ocean I’m reminded that the world is very big and I, on the other hand, am very small. A blade of grass. An ant. A fleck of dust, microscopic and weightless in the air that’s always