Jillian Bateman

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Kneeling here, beside him, my eyes burn. It’s not from lack of sleep. Enduring long nights, I have huddled into myself, a restless fetus on a small couch, searching. It’s not dryness. It’s not that the steady stream of tears that has run down my face forming puddles on my pillow has finally dried out. It’s not the cloud of smoke that has invaded the house—the father that fills the silences with uneasy drags of his cigar, watching his daughter fearful that she is losing herself. It’s the darkness. As I kneel here, it’s the darkness of my own closed eyes that burns. It’s the crucial longing to look. As this yearning slowly overpowers my fear, my tired, throbbing eyes begin to open. A magnetic force within my stomach urges me forward. I need to see it, the cold, stiff body. I need to look over his pale, swollen lips and at the makeup that colors his cheeks pink. I stare at his closed eyes, knowing they won’t open, but I stare just the same.

Something within me is urging to reach out and touch him. My clammy palms are clasped, like his own bruised, laced fingers resting on his still stomach—never rising, never falling. I lean forward and then resist. My fingertips fear the cold shock of his face and the stiff thump of their collision with his chest. Kneeling here, I’m frantically storing this image away, the last image I can hold onto. I’m scrambling for ways to preserve him—gripping memories so tight they explode. And I am left with the tiny black flakes of ash that float and fall like small feathers—the aftermath—particles that melt into the black soot in my clenched hands. In this moment, I forget what he was wearing when he left for vacation and what he smelled like when he pulled my face close to his chest. I forget what his voice sounded like when he said, “I can’t wait to see you again,” and the way the “talk” button felt on the pad of my fingertip as I quickly hung up the phone.

When I become frustrated because I can’t visualize the freckles in his eyes, when I miss his smile and the way the very tip of his right tooth over lapped his left, when I need to collect these images, I stare. I stare at a computer screen, knowing it won’t fix anything, but I stare just the same.

There are times when I need to indulge—stop the world around me from whirling forward and dive into a space to remember him like being submerged in water, with every inch me surrounded and soaked in the stillness.

At these times, I stare at the screen. I have two choices. I can click on the Florida newspaper article, “Dead Pedestrian is from Massachusetts.” I can scan the dry, black text,

“Nolan, a native of Mattapoisett, a coastal town in southern Massachusetts, made it across the eastbound lanes of the divided highway, but was struck as he tried to cross the westbound lanes, which were closed for about three hours.” With this, I remember the artificial pink of his cheeks and the somber pick of Eric Clapton’s guitar to “Tears in Heaven,” the beat urging us to waddle slowly to the casket, fading out the moaning and panting. I’m taken back to the manipulated images of him that I hated, but needed to see and document. I can run my mouse over this article that names him “the pedestrian” or I can click his Myspace.

“Last Login: 12/26/2006.”

It’s been exactly two months since Ryan last signed onto his Myspace account. Immediately I hear what was, at the time, his favorite song. He only knew 10 words, but he sang them loudly, repeatedly.

I see a picture of David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez and I remember him assuring, “right after this inning. We can go pick up the food right after this inning. I promise.”

I stare at the picture of him in his favorite Patriots hat and his blue and white striped polo. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days. He’s smirking. I look down at the comment I made on October 13, 2006: There’s trouble. I’ve spent hours staring at these pictures, reading the comments. I know what the images look like. I’ve memorized what the text reads. Yet, something in my stomach flips each time I look. I gaze until something in me collapses and I can’t stare through the tears.

I scroll down the page he made, not knowing how much it would mean. He had no idea how long I would spend sliding over the creases in this fingerprint he left.

Tell Me About Yourself –The Survey

Name: Ryan

Birthday: Nov. 8

Eye Color: Blue

Hair Color: Brown

Your Perfect Pizza: Cheeeeeese

Thoughts First Waking Up: I’ve gotta pee

Your Most Missed Memory: Little League

Do you Sing: In the car, in the shower, in my sleep, just not any good

In the past month have you eaten Sushi: Nah, I love it though

In the past month have you been on Stage: Does standing up in front of class count?

How do you want to Die: Don’t wanna, stupid question.

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