Stories

In response to Good Form, by Tim O’Brien

“I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why the story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.” -Tim O’Brien

I write to remember.

I do it so I know it is real.

I include every single detail,

Each smell, taste, texture, sound, and thought.

People must see the images,

They must know what I felt.

I remember a time I visited a dear friend.

Her name was Rebecca.

She was 5’3 with slender, pale legs.

Her hair as black as an abyss and eyes as blue as the sky.

Her laugh lingered in your ears.

She always smelled like roses and though she loved tulips.

Now the story begins...

I have not seen her for eight years. The last time we saw each other she was crying. I could feel her tears seep through my shirt as she griped the back of it, embracing for what seemed like the last time. I was going under the Atlantic Ocean in a submarine; I had joined the Navy. While I was down, I often looked out the window. Each time a whale happened to pass by I lamented over the memories of our childhood and how she would dress up like a whale every Halloween. After my voyage was done I often moved around a lot, traveling from state to state. Eventually I settled in San Francisco and somehow she found me.

On the way to my room I saw a letter on the ground near the door. I knew the handwriting. In it, she wrote about how she missed me. I missed her too. She included her cell phone number for me to call. I ran to my phone but when I went to dial the numbers I froze. I have not heard her voice in years. What would I say? Eventually, I hit dial. Each ring sounded like a century had gone by.

“Hello?”

Her voice was the same but somehow disenchanted. It seemed lower, no longer full of life. I spoke to her and I could feel her enthusiasm though the phone. We decided to meet on a hill near the Golden Gate Bridge the next day. When I woke up that morning, all I could do was stare at the clock. I waited for what seemed like centuries. Tick tock. Tick tock. The clock enjoyed torturing me. Eventually 6:30 came along and I rushed out. I didn’t know whether she would be there or not. Then suddenly I saw hair blowing in the wind, the same color that blended in with the night. She was staring at the water. My mind went blank and my throat closed  up. She turned around and for a moment all we could do was stare at each other. Music played in my mind like it would in the movies. We ran to each other and when we touched, it was like lightning had struck our bodies. We talked about our lives then moved on to our childhood history. Our “castle” at the secret lake, our night adventures as teens, but that’s not what mattered. What was important is what happened next.

When we said our goodbyes I was the first to leave, she stayed behind. The next morning I turned on the television and saw her name in bold letters and a man being interviewed, talking about how he saw her body in the water. He said she was dead when he got to her. Her body was punctured, like she hit the rocks below. I dropped the remote. I fell to floor and hit the ground hard. I screamed, just screamed. I choked on my tears. She didn’t seem so sad. I couldn’t tell. How could I not tell? Then I remembered what she said.

“Don’t ever forget how much I love you. You mean the world to me. I’m leaving but I just wanted to say our final goodbye first. I’ll never forget about you.”

It confused why she said it but I ignored it. Why the hell did I ignore it?

This story is not fully true. I did have a friend named Rebecca and she did have eyes as blue as the sky, but she was more than that. We had been dating for three years. The night before I left we got into an argument. She hated me for leaving and told me she had been seeing other men since I told her I joined. The only person to shed tears that night was me. I never got a goodbye. Instead, I got a phone call from my mother. She was trying to keep her voice balanced when she told me that Rebecca had shot herself. No note, no explanation.

I tell the story truth,

Everyone believes it.

Some cry for Rebecca, some cry for me.

Most wish for a friendship like ours.

The story truth allows people to feel how I did,

Or at least something close to it.