Oliver Ausman Lives Again

sixteen

I thought it was chilly on the streets, but that was nothing compared to how it feels on the ferry as we head back towards the city. The breeze is stronger on the water, and my fingers feel frozen even as they're shoved into my jacket pockets.

Charlie suggested we go sightseeing, and considering we have time to kill and a credit card to use on whatever we want, I didn't see why not. His audiobook seemed to pay off, since he knew all about where to go and what he wanted to do first. He suggested we skip the ride to the crowded Ellis Island and instead pass by the Statue of Liberty on the ferry from Staten Island.

It all seemed a little underwhelming at first, just a big green statue sticking out of the water and a bunch of people looking up at it, taking pictures with their phones and cameras. I couldn't help feeling like it was nothing more than another part of life that seemed cooler in movies and daydreams.

Thankfully, having Charlie around is basically like having your own personal tour guide, and as he started spewing history, something in my perspective seemed to shift. It's still just a statue, sure. But as I watch it get smaller as the boat travels away, I can't help thinking about all the other people who must've experienced this same moment in a million different ways. 

I turn to Kat, watching as she looks out at the water, the sun reflecting off of every small wave. I can't help but wonder what she thinks-- what she really thinks, beyond the awe she expressed at face value. Is there some part of her that felt unimpressed too?

The thought makes me feel uneasy-- it's easier believing I'm the only one messed up enough to feel that way. The idea that other people are the same as me is anything but comforting. If the way I feel is the norm, then what's even the point?

I try to shake the thought from my mind, glancing to Charlie to remind myself that at the very least, there's one happy person in the world right now. His eyes are wide, matching his smile as he snaps picture after picture of the shrinking monument. His feelings are unmistakably genuine, and I shouldn't question that Kat's are as well. 

I turn back to her, surprised to find that she's looking at me now. She raises an eyebrow in question, as if it was her who caught me staring instead of the other way around. 

"Can I ask something?" I start, not wanting to let the opportunity of silently invited conversation go to waste. There are still so many questions I want her to answer, so many things I want to know. 

She shrugs. "Yeah, shoot."

"If you weren't happy at home, why didn't you leave until now?" It's a question I've had on my mind for a while now, unable to fathom the idea of living with Mom for any longer than necessary. "I mean, as soon as I graduate, I'm out. There's no way I'm sticking around."

She emits a short scoff and a hostile roll of her eyes. It catches me off guard and makes the question immediately feel like a mistake. "You think it's that easy?"

I give a small shrug, nervous to answer such a closed-off question. "Probably easier than the emotional toll of living at home."

She leans against the bright orange railing of the ferry, her hands dangling over the edge. There's a moment of silence before she raises a shoulder, shaking her head. "I thought it would be easy. Senior year I thought, this is it, one more year and I'm out on my own. Then I graduated and realized I didn't know anyone, I didn't have anywhere to go, and I had no idea how to be an adult."

I nod, her words shattering my previous optimism about leaving home. There's no denying that they apply to me, too. When I take a realistic look at my future, even the most basic areas are shrouded in uncertainty. 

Her eyes move to the other side of me where Charlie is standing, but if he's listening to our conversation, he's good at pretending he isn't. His head is turned the other way, towards the nearing city. 

"I finished high school, left behind all the premade schedules and plans, and suddenly I was on my own," she continues, voice an octave lower despite Charlie's apparent disinterest. "It's like... like life keeps you in this tiny room until you graduate, and then pushes you out into this world that's filled with things you've never had to deal with before. And everyone acts like you're supposed to know what you're doing-- even if they don't, either." 

"I'll be honest, Oliver. It's been two years since then, and at this rate, I don't know if I'll ever know what I'm doing." She looks down at her beaten up boots, which are side by side with my dirty Converse. "Don't listen to me though-- For all I know I'm probably just an outlier. Maybe it'll be easy for you."

"Maybe it wasn't easy for you, but you did it, right?" I try to encourage, not liking that I'm responsible for the slight pout on her face. "You came here. You left."

She nods, looking out over the water. "Yeah. But that's what's scary, I guess. I mean, staying with my parents... it was safe. Sometimes I hated it, but at least it was a familiar feeling. I knew what to expect."

"Isn't it better to be scared than miserable?" 

"Maybe. It's hard to see it that way, though. Sometimes it doesn't matter if the situation you're in is draining the life out of you-- if it's safe, and familiar, you tell yourself staying is the smart thing to do."

I get what she means, as much as I wish I didn't. When it came to my attempt, it's not like I didn't have other options. I could've left home, I could've dropped out, I could've made any change possible in an attempt to shake off the constant cycle of sadness, fury, and numbness. But those options didn't feel like actual options, too polluted by fear for me to take them seriously. Fear of the unknown met with fear that even if I made the changes, the cycle might not go away.

"I took my situation-- my sadness-- and convinced myself to like it," she continues, voice once again dropping lower. I almost can't hear her over the bustle of other passengers. "Romanticized it, I guess. Now I'm worried that if things work out and I end up happy... it'll feel like somethings missing."

"I get it. When you get used to feeling bad, it's hard to remember the person you were without that feeling." It's easier than I expected to talk about something like this, and I know it's partly because she's seen my scars. I know there's probably not much I could say that would shock her more than they did. "It feels impossible to get that person back."

"Sometimes I wonder if it's even still possible for me to just be happy. Just happy, no melancholic strings attached, you know?"

I want to tell her I think it is, but I also want to tell the truth. "Just because you don't think it is right now, doesn't mean it never will be," I hypothesize, uncertain if the words apply to me, too.