“So, Angeles is gonna pull in our driveway any minute now?”
“Nope, I made him turn around. He was upset, but he knows I’m right.”
“Good,” I say. “I mean, I love the guy, but him skipping his finals after everything you two have sacrificed so he could finish school, like, nah.”
Whit nods. “I told him, ‘Angeles, I love you and I appreciate how supportive you are of me and Jamal, but I need you to keep your narrow behind at Northwestern for one more week and then you can come make my brother laugh and smother me, okay?’”
That word smother teleporting me to the beach. Autumn’s voice a razor. The pain in Q’s face at once vivid and fleeting—like the pinch from a needle.
“He’s a good dude.”
“He is. He’s the best. And he probably could’ve gotten his absence excused, and maybe I should’ve let him come, but . . . he already does a lot, you know?”
“I’ve hated all your boyfriends except for him. Like, seriously, he’s so cool I have to stop myself from asking him what he sees in you.” I laugh.
Whit punches my arm. “Oh, trust me, I’ve actually asked Autumn the same thing.”
Hearing Autumn’s name, it’s like another blow, except this one I feel inside. I nearly lost her on that beach.
“Whatever,” I say. I sit straight up, smooth the front of my shirt, pose like I’m in the middle of a cover shoot. “I think it’s pretty clear what she sees in me.”
“An abnormally large head? A penchant for jacking up punch lines? A person who refuses to use plates but goes through seventy-four glasses every day?”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” I shrug. “I guess we’re both hella lucky,” I say.
“And also, hella not,” Whit adds.
And no truer words.
“I swear the way this kid kicks, they’ll be a star on the pitch.”
“God, I hope so. I need someone to explain soccer to me.”
Whit scrunches her face. “Umm, I played all four years in high school. You came to my games, but you still don’t get it?”
“Correct.”
Whit shakes her head. “You’re like the dumbest smart kid alive sometimes.”
We both crack up. And it feels good. And no, not feel-better-about-Q good, obviously. But a tiny reprieve.
A temporary stay.
“Also, I’d like to reenter into the record that I strongly disagree with you and Angeles’s decision to not know the sex. Like, it’s wrecking me, for real. Plus, there are clear advantages to knowing. For instance, I could be painting the nursery.”
She punches me again. “What’s the sex got to do with the paint color?”
I tilt my head. “Fair. My bad.”
She rubs her belly. I swear sometimes I see the baby’s face peering out at me, their tiny hands poking out. It’s so weird that humans, women, can grow life. Weirdly beautiful. And I get that at the end there’s unspeakable pain—a pain men will never understand—but women keep doing it, you know. Because, wow.
And now Whit’s due date is only two weeks away.
She’d already scheduled a C-section for the following week, in case the natural thing doesn’t happen naturally, she’d said.
Which means the baby could potentially be born the same day Q re-dies?
What would it mean—that forever my niece or nephew’s birthday would roll in tandem with the anniversary of my former friend’s second death?
Whit stretches her arms. “I admit in the beginning I was curious, but now . . . I already love her or him more than I can explain, you know?”
“I didn’t know it was real, but you have it. That pregnancy glow.”
“You hang around a lot of pregnant people?”
“I swear your silhouette’s shimmering.”
“Stop it.”
“You’re going to be the best mom ever.”
She lowers her eyes. Ping-pongs her coffee mug the two inches between her palms. “Not the best. There was only one of those.”
“You stop it,” I say.
We sit there, silent, letting our parents wash over us. We used to resist it, ward them off. We took turns being overcome; we’d rifle through cabinets, suddenly gripped by a desire for fruit snacks, cashews, anything so long as it distracted us. And when we ran out of things to open, when only our tear ducts were left, we’d scurry away, a sobbing mess. But now, we mostly let the ghosts do their thing.
This entire house a blurry time-lapse of their lives, a continuous loop of their hazy outlines walking the floor, marching upstairs, opening doors, flopping onto the couch, brushing their teeth—Mom and Dad, burned in, like negatives.
How can I shave without Dad appearing beside me, showing me how to glide the razor and not bleed out? How can I sit at this table and not see Mom swiping through the news on her tablet, more lipstick on her grapefruit juice glass than her lips? Why did she do that? Put her makeup on first? Why didn’t she wait?
Why didn’t Dad wait? Hold the brake five more seconds and everything’s okay. I used to wonder if there’d come a day that memory no longer haunted me. But now I know, there are things that never leave you. Things that become you.
Height’s the only thing I have on my sister, so I stoop down, burrow my face into her cottoned shoulder. And her hands insta-grip the back of my head. We cling to each other like this kitchen’s a mountain face and we are dangling on its precipice.
And if we let go . . .
We can’t let go.
“I’m so tired of everyone leaving,” Whit says softly into my ear.
“I know,” I say. “Me too.”
“I wanna be a good parent, you know? But no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I wish otherwise, I’m not Dad. I’m not Mom.”
“No,” I say. “You’re here.”
64
My phone skitters atop the kitchen island.
“Jamal? Are you awake?”
If I wasn’t, I am now—why do people ask that?
“Yeah, Mr. O. Just enjoying a bowl of flavored milk. What’s wrong?”
“Relax. All will be fine.” Except the long pause that follows seems to contradict his reassurance. Also, am I the only one who hates being told to relax? In the history of Homo sapiens, no one’s ever been told to relax and then actually relaxed. Plus, it’s hella condescending, no?
“We do have a new development.” I can feel Mr. O weighing his words. Cycling through what to say, how to say it, and in what combination—like a slot machine called How to Not Freak People Out in Otherwise Extremely Freak-Out Situations.
“What is it?”
“As I explained during your visit, we needed to rewind Q’s memory.” He waits for me to acknowledge this factoid.
“Okay. Sure. I remember.”
“Our initial reset target is no longer viable. We need to rewind Q a bit more.”
“I don’t understand. How much more?”
“He’ll remember the house party, but not the beach,” Mr. O says.
“Wait, does this change—”
“It means . . .” Mr. O cuts me off. “Quincy’s reanimation could be more . . . eventful than anticipated.”
“What does that mean? More eventful?”
“It means we would like you to be there when he awakes.”
“Me? What about Ms. Barrantes?”
“Ms. Barrantes is having a hard time this morning. We need you there, Jamal. Can you do this?”
Why is it Mr. O strikes me as the kind of person who calls in sick to a doctor’s appointment?
“I’m heading over now.”
“Whitney is there with you now, no?”
What does that have to do with anything? “Umm, yeah, why?”
“Perhaps I should speak with her. Confirm that she is okay with—”
My turn to interrupt. “It’s fine. There’s no need for that. But I’m a little lost about what you want me to do here?”
“Nothing, Jamal. Your presence will merely help stabilize the r
eawakening. All of our data points indicate you as an important figure in Quincy’s life. When he sees you, sees his mother, he will be more firmly cemented into our reality. You were his best friend, after all.”
Were. Damn, how does he know to use the past tense?
But then I recall the twelve thousand personal questions I was asked, the majority centered on my relationship with Q, and yeah, of course he knows.
“I’m on my way.”
“You’re on your way where?” Whit asks, as I drop my phone into my pocket. She follows me into the hallway, watches me zip my jacket.
“Q’s reawakening.”
“Wait, I’m confused. I thought . . .”
“Yeah, I thought so too, but I guess after all that’s happened, nothing should surprise us.”
“So, what are you supposed to do? Just sit there until . . .”
“He opens his eyes, yep.” I open the front door. “I’ll call you in a bit.”
“What do you say to someone when they’re headed to a reanimation?” Whit asks. “Good luck?”
I nod. “I’ll take that.”
I’m nearly to Dad’s car—when my chest starts to burn. Just the idea of driving this car makes me want to vomit again, twists a million daggers into my heart. Maybe it won’t even start up.
Except I know it will.
Whit drives it from time to time for this very reason. She even took it for a tune-up the other day. Whenever you’re ready, it’s there, she’s said more times than I can count. Not even blinking when I’ve turned down the keys, when I bummed ride after ride from her, as if she didn’t have a thousand other commitments.
The front door swings open. Whit teeters down the walk. “Are you okay?”
I turn around, walking backward down the driveway. “Yeah. No. I’m not sure. Am I?”
“You’re driving Da . . .” She catches herself, probably afraid to jinx it.
I shrug. “Miracles just happening all over the place.” I slip into the seat and nostalgia floods me. It smells like Dad. How many times had he sat where I’m sitting now?
I don’t even want to adjust the rearview mirror; which is silly, because Whit’s driven it, has probably adjusted it, but still. I don’t want to disturb a single thing. I just want to sit here a moment. But a moment, the one thing I don’t have. I press the Start button, the engine growls to life. Whit’s still walking toward me, nearly at my window, but far enough away that I throw the car in reverse without fear of hurting her.
I just need to take my foot off the brake.
I just need to—
Suddenly, I’m in the passenger seat and I look over to my left and there is Mom, and she’s reaching across to pinch my cheek in that way that I absolutely hate, except she’s smiling her I love you no matter what even if you killed someone which I naturally wouldn’t condone but I’d certainly give you the benefit of the doubt I’d definitely hear you before rushing to judgment smile and who can resist that smile?
“Jamal, my love,” Mom says. “I’m proud of you. For doing this. For making it right.”
“Mama, I don’t know if . . . what if I can’t . . .”
She nods slightly, in that way she does when she’s assessing the situation, when she’s giving you all of her attention, funneling her energy into this singular moment in time with you.
“Baby, you are made for moments like this. Don’t you see?”
“Mama,” I say, softly. And then my hand is moving up to her still-cheek-pinching hand, except then my hand goes through hers and like the snake-shaped smoke that curls away when you blow out a candle, she disintegrates into a wisp.
“Mama,” I call out.
But she’s gone and I’m back in the driver’s seat.
And my hands are shaking on the steering wheel, and c’mon, J, get it together, Q needs you, just release the brake, man. Just lift your heel, your toes. Just—
“You got this, Jamal,” Dad says from the passenger seat.
And now I can’t stop the tears.
I can’t bring myself to look at him. Not straight on.
Not just to watch him dissolve, disappear into nothing.
“Jamal,” he says. And now his hand is on the radio. “Listen, I know Mom says you shouldn’t listen to music while you learn to drive. But it’s relaxing sometimes. Like, you want your mind on the road, but also you don’t want to overthink, overcompensate, okay? It’s important not to overreact, okay, son?”
I’m not going to look.
I can’t.
His heavy hand covers mine. “Son, you’re gonna be fine. Just lift your foot, okay?” A commercial ends, and a song slides into the car. “Jamal, why won’t you look at me, son?”
“Dad, you’re not there. It’s not really you.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s me. Jamal, who else would I be?”
“Dad, I’m going to stop talking to you. Please, stop talking to me. I can’t . . . I can’t do this . . . please. Not now.”
“Just look at me, son. Just look. One look . . .”
And I give in and he grins wide enough I can see his gold molar, bottom row, right side. “See,” he says. “Not so hard, right? Not so—”
He starts to fade, flicker.
“Not so. N-n-n. Not s-s-s-so.”
He smiles harder, and then he’s fainter, a dissipating cloud. Until only his outline is left. Like if he’d lie down on paper and you traced him, and then you cut out the outside of the shape and then you cut out the inside, too, and all that was left was your thin line. This Dad shape.
And then that’s gone too.
My head falls against steering wheel, and there’s a sharp horn blare.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because I can’t do this.
Why did I think I could do this?
Any of this?
And then a chime is repeating itself. My driver’s side door is open, because Whit is standing there, looking in at me.
“It’s okay,” she says.
And I can’t stop my body from quivering.
From shaking.
“J,” she says, taking a step toward me. “I’ll take you.”
I try to say okay. Thank you. But my brain is still loading its language programming apparently, because it translates into a low grunt.
I slide over to the passenger seat.
Actually, I contort my body over.
And the car leaps backward, and I lower all four windows, the wind slapping everything as the neighborhood slips by faster, faster.
Because I don’t want to talk about it.
Because I know Whit will feel obligated.
Because I’m tired of talking to ghosts.
Because that’s what we’re on our way to do.
63
Ms. B fumbles with the latch, her hands trembling.
“I told them not to call you,” she says. Her voice is thin, eyes pink. “I’m sorry, Jamal. You should be at home with Whit.” She looks past me. “Is that her in the car? She knows she can come in.”
I shake my head. “She’s nauseated. And she said she didn’t want to have her head in the toilet when Q comes back to life.”
We force a laugh and I follow her into the kitchen.
“I know this sounds crazy but . . . I’m not sure I can watch.” She shivers. “I mean, I’m a nurse. I’ve seen a lot of wild stuff, but this is my son . . . what if it does hurt? What if he doesn’t . . . what if it doesn’t work? Maybe this was a mistake. I should call it off. Is it too late to . . .”
“Ms. B, do you have any tea?”
She looks at me wide-eyed.
I smile. “Mom always made me tea when I was nervous or afraid. She said it wasn’t only for soothing throats, it soothes your spirit too.”
And okay, it’s possible Mom didn’t actually say that.
But I think she’d approve.
62
Nothing prepares you for the moment your dead friend opens his eyes.
I must’ve missed that day in health class.
And while my parents fumbled admirably through the birds-and-the-bees talk, they totally bombed the what to do when your friend comes back to life chat.
So, yeah. Color me ill-prepared.
And yet here I am.
Sitting in a desk chair, staring at my dead friend lying still in his headboard-less bed, his thick arms casket-folded atop his chest.
There is a wake, after someone dies.
And this is a wait, before Q un-dies.
I hear Ms. B downstairs, moving around the kitchen. I exhausted every argument I had to convince her to come in the room with me, but in the end I promised her I’d be okay alone. That Q was gonna be okay. That when Q woke, I’d find her.
“I can’t ask you to do this,” she said, lips quivering like a divining rod.
“You didn’t have to.”
I was halfway up the stairs when she called my name. “What happened between you and Quincy?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. But I know what she means.
“Why did you suddenly stop being friends? He wouldn’t talk about it.”
I swallowed hard. “Respectfully, Ms. B, if Q didn’t tell you, I feel like I shouldn’t either. I’m sorry.”
She stared a beat, then tipped her head, like a guard waving me through a checkpoint.
I remember what the lady said in the Center’s video: “Rest assured, we’ll monitor the entire reawakening from a safe distance.”
What if I’m being watched right now?
The video hadn’t explained how they monitored.
I assume they have some kind of chip embedded into Q’s brain or something, but . . .
What if they meant literal monitoring? Like cameras, mics?
I glance around, looking for spyware, or anything I don’t recognize.
I used to know Q’s room like my own. I could pictograph it from memory, every detail, from the Mighty Moat: Live in Concert posters on the wall to what he keeps in all five dresser drawers. And even after all this time, not much has changed. Nothing obviously out of place. Or weirdly in place. Or monitor-y.
But also, if the Center could resurrect the dead, I don’t think they’d have a hard time bugging Q’s room undetectably.
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