I Suppose I Should Tell You Something About My Life Now

by KYLE SEIBEL

Leila died last week, that’s the big update around here. We knew it was coming, but it was still hard when we heard it.

I went for a jog right after we got the call, which is something I never do. Abbie had to ask me twice where I was going.

I was down along the beach, that multi-use path parallel to Cabrillo, because I thought it would be nice to watch the waves crash, you know? I was looking for something that could plug me back into the universe, if that makes any sense. The truth is I wasn’t really jogging per se. It was more like a shuffle.

I’m not, if you must know, in great shape. And yes, I was making sure to not bump into anyone or step in any dogshit, but I was elsewhere. You know how I get. My own little world.

Of course I was thinking about Leila. This one time specifically. She had come to stay with us during the summer when we were kids. Dad got tickets to the ballgame and even back then—25 years ago at least—she wasn’t so good on her feet and our seats were way up there and this was before they built the new stadium with the escalators, so all we could do was walk the ramps, one step at a time, to the upper deck.

A thirteen-year-old me hung back and walked with Leila. I held her hand. She was unsteady on the incline. I needed to hold her hand, yes, but I also wanted to. That’s what I was thinking of, shuffling along the path. I was remembering the wanting to.

A white shape in my right peripheral became a large car, a cream-colored SUV, rolling through the crosswalk at Bath Street and coming one centimeter away from smashing right into me. I mean seriously. The closest call I’ve ever had. You could smell the tire skid. My leg hair was touching the bumper for god’s sake.

The end of me, I was sure of it. Or very nearly, anyway.

The fucking nerve.

In the space of a nanosecond, I went from daydreaming about walking hand-in-hand with Leila to screaming in the face of the driver of the car who almost killed me. I had that high-chested hollow tingly feeling of too much adrenaline and I knew that people were stopping to stare at the lunatic in red running shorts yelling his head off, but I simply couldn’t help myself.

I was, I think, unloading something that couldn’t be carried any longer.

And this driver, this woman—huge sunglasses, that’s all I remember about her face, these gigantic plastic goggles—didn’t even flinch. She was smiling, in fact. She put the car in park. I was still shouting, mind you, though the intensity had waned somewhat. And yes, there was some other emotion mixing in beyond pure rage at this point. I was crying, to say it honestly, which is another thing I never do, which is probably part of the reason why it felt so strange and yes, admittedly, even a little good.

To me, I spent a week screaming at that woman, accusing her of attempted murder, standing on that corner near the restaurant I always forget the name of—Chad’s? Conrad’s?—but it was likely only a minute or so.

The lights changed and the woman drove away and the flood of adrenaline receded. I was suddenly freezing. Eighty degrees, not a cloud in the sky and my teeth were chattering. I sat on the curb and wiped my face with my shirt. I tried to stop shaking but couldn’t. Something else too. Between my legs a wild erection had sprung. The Washington Monument, no kidding. A pole of blue steel soldered onto the front of me.

There was no hiding it. Not in those shorts.

I was a mile away from where I parked. A mile at least. My thinking was that moving around may help redistribute the blood surge, but really I had no choice. I stood up. My penis bobbed ahead of me. I waddled behind it on our way back to the car. Made it halfway before the police officer stopped me.

He wanted to know what the hell I was doing. And had I seen all the families and children out today? And did I think it was acceptable to run around like I was? A grown man in a state of extreme arousal—is that what I wanted kids to see when going to the beach on the weekend? He was doing his best to look me straight in the eye to communicate that he really meant business, but his gaze kept returning to my crotch.

Stop looking at it then, I wanted to say, though I was hardly in a position to issue demands. He was angry and embarrassed and how could I blame him?

My grandma, I said, gesturing to the boner as if it could explain everything. I had one last grandma and she died today.

Abbie has since referred to this as my getting arrested, which is more than misleading—patently untrue, I’d term it—because the only thing that happened is the cop took me half a mile down the road in the back seat of his squad car to where I’d parked the RAV4. Before he let me out, he told me to take care of myself and to go straight home and you know what? I almost did. I had my keys in the ignition and was about to turn it over when I saw the balloon, which is really what this whole thing is all about.

Just this regular Mylar balloon. It had escaped a group of them tied to a picnic table for someone’s birthday party near where I had parked. Taking its time disappearing into oblivion. Lingering in the wind. Flashing in the sunlight. Reminded me of you, weirdly enough. Except not you exactly.

It was this thing Brooke put together the week after they found your body. I wasn’t invited to your official funeral, but I went to this other thing. I guess you’d call it a memorial. Neptune Beach at sunrise. Mostly people from your office and the Jax Beach bar crowd. You can probably guess who.

Everyone was given a balloon. We went around in a circle and each person said something nice about you. Then they let go of their balloon. I don’t think they let you do that now because it’s basically littering, but this was ten or so years ago and we didn’t care anyway.

Brooke said you had a generous spirit. Mandy said your laugh was a miracle. Other people said other nice things. Everyone was laughing and crying.

When you went missing, I kept thinking I’d be a suspect or a person of interest. I was waiting for the call, but none came. I was almost offended to not be considered. Okay, I was definitely offended. I think it made me realize that the time we had together accounted for such a small part of the total person you were. And how that’s true for so many other people in my life as well. And how I’m not sure what to do about it.

On my turn, I fumbled around and said something about your inextinguishable joy, which was stupid because that’s precisely why we were there—the extinguishing of your joy. I let go of my balloon and followed it among the crowd of others and even after all theirs had become dots against the clouds, mine stayed at a lower altitude, stuck in the coastal wind churn, and I stayed too, watching it after everyone was long gone.

Now, I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know it wasn't you telling me you’re in heaven or whatever. I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is seeing this other balloon down by the beach like that after the SUV and thinking about Leila—well, it reminded me. And it felt nice even though it was also pretty sad, which is a thing that’s been happening to me more often.

Leila died last week. That’s when all the SUV and balloon and boner stuff happened. We’re still in the aftershocks. Shows up in unexpected places. Abbie opened the door to the fridge to load in some groceries the other day and started crying. Oh, what’s the point, she said and went off upstairs.

Things like that.

Things like this, too. Waking up in the middle of the night. Drinking too much. Thinking too much. Writing imaginary letters to you, mumbling out loud to myself.

It’s been suggested, by Abbie herself no less, that what I am is still in love with you. But I firmly disagree. In fact, I suspect I never was.

Or maybe it’s like this. The person who loved you no longer exists. I am a different being entirely. You would not recognize me if we passed each other on the street. And maybe that’s why I found it so jarring to be transported so fully to that morning at Neptune Beach. And why I felt compelled to tell you, even though I’m not, really. Because I can’t, of course.

I was sitting in my spot, on the stools facing the kitchen, when Abbie woke up and scratched my back for a second as she went to start the coffee. She asked me how I slept. She does this every morning. It signals the start of the day’s official events.

It occurred to me just now that if she dies first, I can’t imagine how I’ll ever survive. But I will though. Isn’t that awful?

What are you doing?, Abbie asked me, measuring out the grounds. Who are you talking to in here?

Nothing, I said. No one.

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KYLE SEIBEL is a writer in Santa Barbara, CA. His work has been featured in Joyland Magazine, New World Writing, and Wigleaf.