Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

Caroline came over to my house after school yesterday, and we sat in the backyard working on a new poem. It was about opening your mind, lowering your walls, and finding friendship where you least expect it.

“Everyone’s got something. Some people are just better actors than others.”

“He was a patient of mine many years ago. He had synesthesia. It’s a disorder where, in essence, your five senses have their wires crossed. In this case, Anthony could hear in color.”

Just like Cromwell in A Wish For Us!

“Don’t be. I’m incredibly proud of you, Sam. You’re doing great.”

But I’m still not about to tell AJ my secret.

“Stop worrying. This is a good thing. Don’t twist it into something else,” she warns.

“Wait.” AJ stands and addresses the room. “Did everyone read?”

“Everyone but Caroline,”

“Depression,” she’d told me the first time we sat together in the dark theater. “Sometimes it feels like it’s getting worse, not better.”

Like the crazy person I now know I am.

Caroline saying good-bye to me in her own way.

“And again, Sue. Not. Fucking. Real.” “She was real to you.”

“Based on what you’ve told me tonight, I think Caroline becomes real to you in moments of extreme anxiety.”

“You met her on the first day of school. You were already highly anxious, but you became even more troubled about something Alexis said, and that might have sent your mind looking for…a new way to cope.”

“Crazy,” she finally says, her eyes still fixed on the water. “Do you know the dictionary’s definition of ‘crazy’?” I shake my head. “It means both ‘insane’ and ‘a bit out of the ordinary.’ That’s a pretty broad scope, don’t you think?”

“Do the same for Caroline—not the girl you learned about today, but the girl you’ve come to know over the last few months—your friend, Caroline.”

“Will you please start calling me Sam?”

“She loved writing poetry,” the quote from Caroline’s mom had said. Caroline was a Poet.

The air feels thicker and it smells dank, like dirty socks and mold, but I breathe deeply and take it all in like I’m experiencing it for the first time. I let my fingers skim the dark gray walls as I walk down the hallway, feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins, recognizing how terrified I am right now, and forcing myself to experience every sensation, as if I need to prove to myself I can do this. That I no longer need her help.

Dear Mr. B— You’re going to think that what I did was your fault. It wasn’t. And this room didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, it saved my life for a long time. You created a place for me to go and helped me fill it with words and people I could trust. It was the kindest, most generous thing anyone has ever done for me. When I was inside this room, I was happy. If I could have captured how I felt on Mondays and Thursdays, and carried it around in my pocket for later use, I would have. Believe me, I tried. You don’t owe me anything more. But I hope you’ll consider honoring this last request. Words are beginning to gather here. Just think of what these walls could look like if everyone who needed this room found it. Can you picture it? I can. Here’s my key. Pass it on? Love, C

Caroline’s Corner.

He knew Caroline. He built out this room for her, hid the door, and camouflaged the lock to keep it a secret. She asked him to pass the key along, and he honored her last wish. He’s been doing it ever since she died.

It’s called “Every Last Word.” I read to myself this time.

These walls heard me when no one else could. They gave my words a home, kept them safe. Cheered, cried, listened. Changed my life for the better. It wasn’t enough. But they heard every last word.

It’s written in threes.

This was her last poem.

I picture Sydney, sitting alone in fast-food restaurants, writing the funny things she reads to us and the deeper thoughts she never shares. And Chelsea, writing poem after poem about the guy who broke her heart. Emily, sitting at her mom’s bedside, watching her slip away and trying to hold her here a little longer. AJ propped up against his bed, playing his guitar and trying to find the perfect words to match the notes. Cameron, watching his parents fall apart and trying not to do the same himself. Jessica and her booming voice in a tiny body, full of contagious confidence. And Abigail, whose poems are deep and astute, who had me at “As if.” Now that I know her better, her poetry no longer surprises me.

And, while it doesn’t say it in so many words, it’s also a poem for my new friends, promising that from now on I’ll be a lot braver with my words than I was before.

Did my words remind him of Caroline, the founder of his beloved poetry club? She grabbed the yoke.

I force myself to walk down the hallway, trying to think about him and nothing else, ignoring the intense urge I’m feeling to sprint back to the car and park correctly.

“My mind messes with me,” I say, talking in that unfiltered way he likes, not measuring my words and not quite certain about what’s coming out until I hear myself say it. I scratch the back of my neck hard three times, no longer caring if he notices. “It’s been happening as long as I can remember. I can’t turn off my thoughts. I can’t sleep without being drugged into it. My mind just…never stops working.

“I was diagnosed with OCD when I was eleven. I’ve been on antianxiety medication ever since. I have this amazing psychiatrist named Sue who is, like, my lifeline, and I see her every Wednesday afternoon.”

“Caroline was my friend,” I say as the tears slide down my cheeks. “And now she’s gone and I can’t quite decide how I’m supposed to feel about that. I’m embarrassed that I made her up in the first place, but I’m also so sad that she’s not part of my life anymore.”

“It was as if she knew it was time for me to tap into this better person. So she showed me where to find you. All of you. These seven amazing people who seem to know how to pull her out of me.”

I should have, but all my life, I’ve just wanted to be normal. You made me feel like I was. I was afraid that if I told you, I wouldn’t feel normal anymore.”

“I like you too much, too,” he says. “Still?” I ask. “Still,” he says with a huge smile on his face. “Way, way too much.”

“I pretended to be happy because I knew it meant a lot to my dad, but now coming home from school every day is absolute torture.” As soon as she says it, her eyes grow wide and her whole face turns bright red. She covers her mouth. “That sounded so horrible. I shouldn’t have said that.”

What kind of person says that about her own mother?”

“A good person,” I tell her. She catches my eye and gives me a trace of a smile. “Someone who loves her mom and doesn’t want to see her in so much pain.”

“That sounds nice and…” She pauses for a moment, as if she’s searching for the right word. “Normal.” Normal. She’s right. It does sound normal. My life might not be perfect and my brain might play tricks on me and I might be overwhelmed by my own thoughts, but now that I think about it, I’m lucky to have as much normal as I do.

I look at Emily, wondering if I could do for her what Caroline did for me. Wondering if I could pay it forward.

I’ll gauge it, but if she comes over today and it seems like she wants to talk, I’ll ask her questions and listen—really listen, like Caroline listened to me—and keep her talking until she has nothing left to say. If she wants to, I’ll help her write a happy poem about her mom. Something positive. Something she can read to her. And if the moment feels right and she wants a change of subject, I’ll tell her my secrets. I’ll l...

how much I want to be h...

I remember the first time I sat up here, staring at these total strangers, feeling terrified about how much of myself I was about to expose. Things are different now.

So before I read this poem, I just want to say thank you for letting me stay, even though I probably didn’t deserve it and some of you didn’t think I belonged.”

I bring my left hand to my shoulder, exactly where Caroline’s was the first time I sat on this stool and read aloud.

You’re still here stitched into me, like threads in a sweater. Feeding me words that break me down and piece me back together, all at once. Tightening your grip, reminding me that I’m not alone. I never was. None of us ever are. You are still here stitched into the words on these walls. Every last one.

“Thank you, Caroline,”

“Your call, but I’m wondering if that poem of yours is in the right home.” He hands me a glue stick. He has a point. I step back inside, remove the page from the wall, and apply a fresh coat of glue to the back. Then I walk over to Caroline’s Corner and find a new spot, right next to her collection. “Much better,” he says as he anchors my hat on my head.

AJ grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs, back into the real world.