Turtles All the Way Down by John Green

It wasn’t even that cold—maybe thirty-five—but the wind was howling outside. I got up, dressed, ate some cereal, took a pill, and watched a bit of TV with Mom. I spent the morning procrastinating—I’d pull out my phone, start to text him, and then put it away. Then pull it out again, but no. Not yet. It never seemed like the right time. But of course, it never is the right time.

—

I remember after my dad died, for a while, it was both true and not true in my mind. For weeks, really, I could conjure him into being. I’d imagine him walking in, soaked in sweat, having finished mowing the lawn, and he’d try to hug me but I’d squirm out from his arms because even then sweat freaked me out.

Or I’d be in my room, lying on my stomach, reading a book, and I’d look over at the closed door and imagine him opening it, and then he would be in the room with me, and I’d be looking up at him as he knelt down to kiss the top of my head.

And then it became harder to summon him, to smell his smell, to feel him lifting me up. My father died suddenly, but also across the years. He was still dying, really—which meant I guess that he was still living, too.

People always talk like there’s a bright line between imagination and memory, but there isn’t, at least not for me. I remember what I’ve imagined and imagine what I remember.

—

I finally texted Davis just after noon: We need to talk. Can you come over to my house today?

He replied, Nobody’s here to look after Noah. Can you come over here?

I need to talk to you alone, I wrote. I wanted Davis to have the choice whether or not to tell his brother.

I can be there at five thirty.

Thanks. See you then.

—

The day moved agonizingly slowly. I tried reading, texting Daisy, and watching TV, but nothing would make the time speed up. I wasn’t sure whether life would be better frozen in this moment, or on the other side of the moment that was coming.

By four forty-five, I was reading in the living room while Mom paid bills. “Davis is coming over in a little bit,” I told her.

“Okay. I’ve got a couple errands to run. You need anything at the grocery store?”

I shook my head.

“You feeling anxious?”

“Is there any way we can make a deal where I tell you when I have a mental health concern instead of you asking?”

“It’s impossible for me not to worry, baby.”

“I know, but it’s also impossible not to feel the weight of that worry like a boulder on my chest.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too. So much.”

—

I scrolled through my endless TV options, none of them particularly compelling, until I heard Davis’s knock—soft and unsteady—on the door.

“Hey,” I said, and hugged him.

“Hey,” he said. I motioned to the couch for him to sit down. “How’ve you been?”

“Listen,” I said. “Davis, your dad. I know where the jogger’s mouth is. It’s the mouth of Pogue’s Run, where the company had that unfinished project.”

He winced, then nodded. “You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure,” I said. “I think he might be down there. Daisy and I were there last night, and . . .”

“Did you see him?”

I shook my head. “No. But the run’s mouth, the jogger’s mouth. It makes sense.”

“It’s just a note from his phone, though. You think he’s just been down there this whole time? Hiding in a sewer?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But . . . well, I don’t know.”

“But?”

“I don’t want to worry you, but there was a bad smell. A really bad smell down there.”

“That could’ve been anything,” he said. But I could see the fear on his face.

“I know, yeah, totally, it could be anything.”

“I never thought . . . I never let myself think—” And then his voice caught. The cry that finally came out of him felt like the sky ripping open. He sort of fell into me, and I held him on the couch. Felt his rib cage heave. It wasn’t only Noah who missed his father. “Oh God, he’s dead, isn’t he?”

“You don’t know that,” I said. But he kind of did. There was a reason there had been no trail and no communication: He’d been gone all along.

He lay down and I lay down with him, the two of us barely fitting on the musty couch. He kept saying what do I do, what do I do, his head on my shoulder. I wondered whether it was a mistake to tell him. What do I do? He asked it again and again, pleading.

“You keep going,” I told him. “You’ve got seven years. No matter what actually happened, he’ll be legally alive for seven years, and you’ll have the house and everything. That’s a long time to build a new life, Davis. Seven years ago, you and I hadn’t even met, you know?”

“We’ve got nobody now,” he mumbled. I wished I could tell him that he had me, that he could count on me, but he couldn’t.

“You have your brother,” I said.

That made him split open again, and we cuddled together for a long time, until Mom came home with the groceries. Davis and I both jumped to a seating position, even though we hadn’t been doing anything.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mom said.

“I was just headed out,” Davis said.

“You don’t have to,” Mom and I said simultaneously.

“I kinda do,” he said. He leaned over and hugged me with one arm. “Thank you,” he whispered, although I wasn’t sure I’d done him any favors.