NICOLE ZHU
cw – mental illness and suicide
@AudreyTCWrites Mentioned You In Their Story
working on an exciting interview! can’t wait to share it!
She hit “tweet” to her 2613 followers. Two likes came in quickly. After a minute, another three. Only one seemed to be a bot.
The CEO of a CBD herbal tea company buzzed in her headphones. Still, transcribing was better than responding to pitches in her inbox for detox energy drinks (counterintuitive) and fart-inducing cheese balls made from peas (horribly named Pea Balls).
At five o’clock, the cafe turned off their wifi. The barista brought her a chocolate muffin, studded with huge walnuts. Jonathan’s favorite.
Joanne remembered one of their debates, how he didn’t know what walnuts looked like. Jonathan had stalked to their pantry, yanked out the Costco-sized container of mixed nuts, and with an embarrassing level of confidence, held up a fucking almond. She lorded this over him ever since, as older siblings do.
Joanne pulled out her phone. Refreshing her feed, she saw a tweet from Audrey T. Chen. Did a collaboration with Moleskine on a special edition of notebooks! A dream come true, excited to fill them with more stories
The notebook was bright yellow, the cover etched with the petals of a chrysanthemum, which featured heavily in Audrey T. Chen’s memoir. The memoir was a familiar story to Joanne: child of Asian immigrants to parents both tender and unknowable, families cleaved by displacement, diaspora, and mental illness. She purchased the notebook from the Moleskine website and quote tweeted the original to show her support.
Of course there was no reply. She was just one of Audrey T. Chen’s 86.4k followers.
“Why do you look like you just ate a bag of Pea Balls?” Her friend Daniel interrupted her thoughts, hurling himself into the chair across from her.
Joanne shrugged, “Transcribed an interview with this woman who discovered CBD after her mom died and then turned it into a tea company.”
“I heard on a podcast that grief can have physical impacts on the body. Like fatigue or confusion.”
He had been doing this a lot lately—intellectualizing grief. Spewing facts from some essay or interview, as if that was the same thing as intimately knowing it. Really, it felt like he was grief-baiting her. Joanne thought it was weird she hadn’t cried yet, but she hadn’t gone searching for answers. There wasn’t any answer that would bring Jonathan back.
“Has that kind of thing happened to you?” Daniel peered at her.
“No,” she bit out. She didn’t mention how difficult it was to sleep through the night, that she couldn’t stomach the free food the baristas left. She pushed the muffin towards Daniel.
“You want to get some real food?” he nodded towards the ramen place across the street.
Daniel offered to get the bill, like he always did. They’d gone to college together, but he was the one with a 401(k) living in a building with a doorman.
One bite and Joanne realized how ravenous she was. Daniel eyed her with barely contained horror as she vacuumed noodles and enoki into her gaping mouth.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“Let a girl fucking eat.”
“It’s not the food. I’m…concerned about you.”
“What do you mean? Nothing has changed. I wake up, put on pants, and go to work. My landlord still won’t fix that hot ass pipe in the bathroom.”
“But that’s it. Things have changed. I mean aren’t you…” Daniel trailed off and he suddenly looked sheepish.
Devastated? Furious? Confused? Wishing you’d done or said things differently?
“Sorry, I just wonder if it’d help if you talked to someone.”
“Not seeing a therapist,” she said flatly.
“It doesn’t have to be a professional. Or me,” Daniel clarified. “Your parents maybe? Or another friend?”
Joanne rolled her eyes. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in five years. At the funeral eight months ago, they’d simply stood side by side in silence. Her dad was probably on another casino cruise, never content to stay anywhere long. As for friends, who else could understand? While she’d been researching involuntary psychiatric commitment laws in various states, her friends were out at hungover dim sum comparing Tinder matches. The period of public grief had lapsed, and only Daniel still asked how she was doing.
“For your information, I’ve been rereading this book. Inflorescence by Audrey T. Chen, have you heard of it?”
Daniel shook his head but leaned closer. Joanne bet that he would read it immediately.
“It’s her memoir about the death of her older sister during her senior year of college,” Joanne paused. “Also suicide. Addiction though. She’s also Chinese—from the province next to where my parents are from. She talks about her family’s experience immigrating to Kansas and how they all coped with the loss. Well, how some did.”
“Wow, you two have a lot in common. Minus Kansas.”
“Yeah, it’s eerily close to my life. I read her newsletter for years, back before she was famous, when she started writing about her sister and then…well, you know.”
Daniel nodded.
“Except she’s gotten a book deal out of it,” Joanne joked.
“But it’s been helping?”
She considered the question, remembered the ache in her chest reading the book. The shared longing for a simpler childhood, before diagnoses ruled their lives. The recognition in having to play mediator between parents and sibling. Memories of Jonathan had flitted through her mind: him constantly strumming his guitar even when their parents ranted about how creative careers weren’t “realistic,” their weekly phone calls after she went to college, the flash of fame he’d had with his band that sent him down a dark spiral where she couldn’t follow.
Stop trying to control me, he’d told her. I don’t want to talk to you for a while.
Chen’s agony called out to hers. It didn’t tell her neat platitudes or offer comfort. It enveloped her and offered the raw truth that things would be horrible for a long time. Brutal. Repetitive. It just had to be lived through.
* * *
When the yellow notebook arrived a few days later, Joanne held it in her hands, enjoying the heft of possibilities. Filling it with stories rather than interview notes, journaling on vacation rather than in the coffee shop. This one, she decided, would be special.
She took a picture of the notebook against her windowsill and posted it to her Instagram Stories, being sure to tag @moleskine and @audreytcwrites.
Her phone buzzed and she let out a breath.
@audreytcwrites mentioned you in their story
Was she hallucinating? Audrey T. Chen had reshared Joanne’s story in her own, adding a row of hearts. Warmth bloomed in her chest, buttery like the yellow of the notebook. She took a screenshot, proof after their stories disappeared. In many ways it was a small, puny moment. It happened to thousands of people a day. Still, today it happened to her.
Joanne debated telling Daniel about it. He’d torn through Audrey’s memoir and they’d been talking about it over text.
Daniel: i had to wipe so many tears off my kindle it was so annoying bc i kept losing my place
Joanne: You kindle freak
Although she liked revisiting Inflorescence, Daniel slipped in questions a therapist would ask, like how did that chapter make you feel and could you relate. The latest link he’d sent was Audrey’s Vogue interview. In it, she was asked how she navigated social media, especially when she was so open with her grief and emotions.
The good and the bad collide a lot, which can make for a disorienting experience. But I’ve found it important to keep things that are just for myself.
Having followed Audrey for so long, the statement was odd. She seemed to share so much—late night snacks, old family pictures, days when grief took her by surprise. The ambient details that made up a person’s life. It left Joanne wondering about the kinds of things that Audrey kept for herself. If they were the same kinds of things that Joanne kept tucked away. Joanne pasted the quote into her Notes app and continued reading.
* * *
“Did you know Audrey didn’t eat an egg until she was in high school?” Joanne asked, sopping up her yolk with toast.
Daniel and his girlfriend, Anna, had invited her over for brunch. Joanne brought orange juice and cheap champagne but she was the only one drinking.
“I can’t imagine not eating eggs for more than three days,” Daniel sighed, staring at his empty plate.
“We know,” Anna smirked. “Who is this again? A friend of yours from college?”
“She’s an author,” Daniel said, then belched.
“So you know her?” Anna asked Joanne.
“I know of her,” Joanne said carefully.
She knew that Audrey met her husband (Oliver, nickname Ollie) while working at a secondhand bookstore. Since her sister had been an alcoholic, Audrey didn’t drink. A creative writing professor told her she didn’t have what it took to be a writer. (Like Joanne, Audrey found spite to be a powerful motivator.) In YouTube recordings of interviews, she noticed Audrey always turned her head away from the microphone when she laughed, as if she didn’t want the sound to compete with others onstage.
“I’m a big fan,” she added, even though the words felt gummy and awkward coming out of her mouth.
“Oh shit, that reminds me,” Daniel elbowed Joanne. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“Audrey T. Chen lives in our building. I’ve been on the co-op board with her husband this whole time.”
“Are you serious?” Joanne exclaimed, her mimosa sloshing over the rim of the glass.
“Yeah! I didn’t make the connection until you mentioned her husband’s name the other day. I don’t know what unit though.”
“Who’s her husband?” Anna asked.
“Oliver.”
“Ollie,” Joanne interjected.
“Oh yeah, he’s nice. He helped us with our packages the other day.“
The conversation shifted to mutual friends and elaborate explanations of TikToks that were met with vacant smiles until Joanne finally pulled out her phone and showed them the videos. Once half the bottle of champagne was gone, Joanne left.
Stepping out into the hallway, she contemplated knocking on some of the doors. Behind one was Audrey. Audrey, who had answers to the questions she’d only just started to ask herself head-on. The main one being, How do you forgive yourself?
A delightful buzz took root in her head as she waited for the elevator.
* * *
Joanne found herself going to the bagel place Audrey frequented, the dimly-lit gastropub where Audrey had celebrated her book contract, and the East Village dive bar where Audrey first got the idea for the essay that turned into the central chapter of the memoir. These were details Joanne had gathered from interviews, now laid out like a map she could study and trace. It was a pilgrimage, as if by going to these places she could somehow soak up Audrey’s wisdom and wit. She wanted to be where Audrey was. No longer in the daily throes of grief, thrown about by its whims.
At the dive bar, Joanne ordered the burger Audrey raved about. She’d brought with her the yellow Moleskine in the hopes that inspiration would strike. She laid it out flat, pen poised to begin.
Her eyes fell to the basket of nuts on the bar. Joanne rifled through it until she caught the bartender staring. She sank down into the stool.
She hadn’t found any walnuts anyway.
* * *
haven’t seen you at the coffee shop lately Daniel texted one day. still want to get dinner?
Joanne tapped her phone against her chin, then a brilliant thought occurred to her.
Takeout at your place? We can watch that new dating show where people dress up like their childhood fears.
After a subtle survey of Daniel’s lobby and lingering in the elevator bank, she showed up with Thai in tow. Anna was at a yoga class.
“How’s your writing been?” Daniel asked, grabbing chopsticks.
“Nothing too exciting,” Joanne admitted.
The truth was, she hadn’t been working lately. She was too preoccupied with Audrey. And like Audrey, she was itching to write about her own experiences, to sublimate the grief into something beautiful. But when she sat down at the blank page, there was that tightening in her throat again. Her eyes burned as she remembered the day she and Jonathan stopped speaking. The teasing, easygoing brother she knew had been replaced by someone colder, harsher. A few months later, he was gone. It was like she had lost him twice.
Daniel started the reality show. The host talked about how fear and arousal were the same physical reaction. Joanne kept glancing at her phone, checking Audrey’s Instagram. There were only a few reposts about her paperback release.
She sank back into the couch as Daniel began live tweeting his reactions. A man dressed up as a clown bared his soul about his depression to a woman in a spider costume.
wow they really found pagliacci irl
After finishing half the season (Joanne was rooting for Pagliacci), Daniel offered to call her a car home.
“By the way, Anna and I are throwing a little party for the building next week. You should come.”
The sleepiness that had set in suddenly dissipated.
“Really? For like, everyone?”
Daniel shrugged, “Yeah, it’ll help us get to know the new tenants. Plus I figured you wouldn’t be doing anything.”
His words almost soured the invitation but Joanne couldn’t argue against their truth. Besides, she wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.
* * *
The night of the party, Joanne tried on three outfits but none felt right. Daniel unhelpfully supplied the dress code as “whatever u want idk.”
As she walked from the station, a stomach-roiling combination of excitement and nervousness radiated off her in waves. Daniel’s place was booming. Standing on his doorstep, she saw Audrey’s latest Instagram story.
Posted thirty seconds ago, the location at some bookstore in Philadelphia. Audrey wasn’t going to be at the party.
The door swung open and Anna leaned in for a tipsy hug, “You came!”
Dazed, Joanne followed her into the kitchen where Daniel was mixing drinks. Someone complimented her earrings. She laughed at one neighbor’s imitation of Daniel’s messy eating. Another suggested an intriguing essay collection about grocery supply chains. The disappointment about Audrey faded slightly with every introduction.
After using the bathroom, a woman introduced herself. She was slightly younger than Joanne and her boldness had not yet been tempered by reality.
“I follow you on Twitter,” the woman beamed. “I love your writing.”
“Oh,” Joanne chuckled weakly, feeling bad that she’d immediately forgotten the woman’s name. “Thanks! And uh, sorry? My Twitter is pretty boring.”
“No, it’s great! I’m trying to break into the wellness space and your articles are like, exactly what I want to do. The CBD tea CEO was fascinating.”
As fascinating as a pastel subway ad for a monosyllabic startup.
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
“I’m also watching Scaredy Cat! You’re right, it’s trash but I can’t stop.”
Joanne paused, wondering how this person knew that. Then she remembered retweeting Daniel’s reactions. It was an awful lot to keep track of. She wasn’t quite sure how to continue or stop this conversation, feeling at a disadvantage that she couldn’t anticipate what this person did or didn’t know about her.
She made a movement to return to the kitchen but the woman stopped her.
“I’m new to the city and I was wondering if we could grab coffee sometime? I’d love to hear more about your freelance career.”
A “freelance career” that Joanne had all but abandoned. Hearing someone else say it made it sound even more ridiculous.
An exchange of phone numbers mercifully ended the conversation.
The mood soured by the interaction, Joanne moved towards the door. She’d text Daniel once she was outside.
One shoe was tied when the doorbell rang. She angled her body away as the door swung open. When she looked up, she was looking at Audrey T. Chen.
Not in Philadelphia, not in posts, not in pictures. But here.
Joanne shot to her feet. Audrey must’ve noticed her staring because she gave Joanne a small nod. An acknowledgement, but not an invitation.
“Hi,” Joanne blurted. “You’re Audrey T. Chen.”
Fuck, way to sound creepy.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “I’m just a—“
Reader. Follower. Admirer. Acolyte.
“—big fan.”
The furrow between Audrey’s eyebrows disappeared.
“Oh. Always so nice to meet a fan. Thank you.”
Her words were gentle, practiced.
There were so many things Joanne wanted to say. Things that would inspire a friendship, or could perhaps heal her. For someone who truly knew what she was going through to sit with her.
But looking into Audrey’s pleasant but bland smile, Joanne could see no hint of recognition. By saying she was a “fan,” Audrey had switched on a persona and now it was irreversible.
Joanne’s fingers twitched, wondering if she should pull out the notebook in her bag to show Audrey. If she should tell her about Jonathan. If any of those details would make a difference.
The conversation with the eager-eyed woman in the hall floated back to her. How strangely difficult it was to conceal all the things you knew about a person that you hadn’t learned the proper way. You had access to information, but admitting your knowledge was too much, too direct.
“Thank you for writing your book,” Joanne said at last. “It helped me through a really tough time. Also Daniel’s got a bunch of mocktails in the kitchen if you want to—”
But Audrey had already brushed past her.
Joanne debated following her back inside. But the air now felt clogged, her chest tight. She pulled her other shoe on, not bothering to tie it, and stumbled out onto the street. She collapsed on the curb, not caring that it was probably covered in layers of dirt, dog piss, and grime. Tears slid down her cheeks, the salt collecting in the corner of her mouth.
She missed Jonathan.
Nicole Zhu is a writer and developer based in New York. Her writing has appeared in Catapult, Eater, Electric Literature, Jellyfish Review, and elsewhere. She writes a biweekly newsletter about writing and creativity at nicoledonut.com. Find her at nicolezhu.io and @nicolelzhu on Twitter.