“Your mother tells me you aren’t doing the school paper or the yearbook anymore?”
“No.”
“You were the editor of the paper, though, yes?”
“One of them.”
“What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“I’m still writing. Short stories.”
“Does your school have a literary journal?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be submitting?”
“Yes.” (Undecided)
“Any special boys in your life?”
“Not right now, grandma.”
“You are so pretty, so smart.”
It’s amazing how a sentence can sound both like a compliment and a statement of shame, Charlotte thinks. She is sure which of the two sentiments her grandma really means, though. “Thank you, grandma,” she says. With a sad smile, her grandmother turns away, immediately engrossed in a story Chloe has started too late to help Charlotte.
Charlotte sips her tea, most of the ice melted, half listening to Chloe talking about a particularly engaging class. “Just one of many successes to come,” her grandma says to the rest of the group. “Probably,” Charlotte says to herself.
While his mother and Aunt wrap complete meal plates in foil for kids left back at the dorm, Zain stuffs greasy plates into a trash bag. Some of the guests have left, but a group of people still lounge around the living room laughing, drinking wine or beer. Zain moves to the leftovers they haven’t wrapped, scraping them into Tupperware containers. As he starts loading the dishwasher Aunt Mellie turns off the water and wraps her arms around his neck. “We can get the rest later,” she says.
“It’s no problem,” Zain says.
“You are quite the young man,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. She smells like tequila and sweat. “Let it lie for now. Come hang out,” she says, unwrapping him. Zain pulls a paper towel from the holder screwed into the bottom of the cabinet and wipes his hands. He pulls his phone from his pocket. Three unread messages. A fresh fit of laughter bursts from the living room. “Text her back and come join us,” Aunt Mellie says, walking out of the kitchen. Zain reads through the texts.
Oh no, he thinks. Charlotte isn’t having a good day. Her last text is short, “how was your day?” Where to start? he thinks. Crazy? I cooked peppers? I met a bunch of cool people? My Aunt is drunk? People are still here and it’s kind of awesome? None of that sounds okay, though. Zain slides his phone back into his pocket. The kitchen is mostly clean and empty, the only light on is the one above the stove. The room feels weird, warm but lonely. Like only the person who lives here should see it in this light.
Someone shouts over the swelling voices in the living room, “Charades!” Everyone sounds like they are in agreement. “Now that’s a plan!” someone says. It’s a plan, alright, Zain thinks, a terrible one. Acting out clues he has probably never heard of in front of a bunch of older, cooler college people? No, thanks. His room is just down the hall, he’ll just have to slip past. But how? he thinks. The hall is on the other side of the living room. Escape is impossible without detection. Zain would have to melt into the floor like a puddle and hope for the house to tilt. As soon as he walks into the room they’ll all look at him, all those eyes on him, his mother’s (if she doesn’t find her own escape plan), his aunt’s, Aisha’s. Zain looks around the kitchen, the window over the sink is too small to fit through, the garage door sticks and creaks. In the middle of the room, settled on the table, bottles of liquor and wine reflect the stove light, huddled like forgotten guests. Zain sneaks to the kitchen doorway, peaking out across the bodies packed into the little room. There are at least fifteen people, on the couch, on chairs, seated on the floor, spilling over each other. Zain tiptoes to the fridge and pulls a glass bottle of coke from the door. He takes a plastic cup from the stack by the sink. Liquid fortitude, isn’t that what Charlotte says? One problem at a time, he thinks. Twisting the whiskey cap carefully from the bottle, he listens as the living room guests break into teams. Pouring a few glugs into his cup, he replaces the whiskey bottle softly onto the table, careful not to bump any of the others. He leaves the opened coke bottle on the outside of the huddle.
“Zain!” Aunt Mellie calls from the living room, “You’re on our team.” Zain swirls the mix and gulps down half the cup, pausing long enough to let the burn stop before draining the rest. He fills the cup with water from the tap and takes a deep breath before crossing into the living room. “Get into this room, Zain. We need a song,” Aisha says, patting the empty seat beside her on the couch. Zain burps and puffs his cheeks as he moves around the arm of the couch. “Let’s do this,” he says.
Football blares from the TV downstairs. Her grandparents left early, thankfully. After goodbye hugs, Charlotte promised to email her grandma a story (never gonna happen), and escaped to her room. She considers loading another bowl, but decides on a sober Netflix night. She checks her phone again. Her latest unanswered text sits at the bottom of the screen, “Going to bed. Hope your day was good.”
Zain’s first charades turn was easy, even if he’s never seen the movie Psycho. It took just a downward stabbing motion with his hand. He even added a crazy look before his team started yelling out the answer, all but Aisha, who didn’t understanding (but laughed all the same). The next turn was a song he’d never heard of and he couldn’t get them to guess it. His team gave him a hard time, all but Aunt Mellie, who patted his back when he sat back down, and Aisha, who smiled at him, “that was a hard one.”
Midway through the third (and hopefully last) round, Zain escapes to the kitchen, asking if anyone needs anything. Three beers for his teammates, one for an opponent. He sets four cans on the kitchen table and mixes himself a warm Mexican Coke and whiskey. Before risking taking a drink, he walks to the doorway. Everyone in the living room is guessing or laughing, no one looking to the kitchen. Aisha has pulled her hair back, a bright blue scrunchie straining to keep all that thick hair in a ponytail. Zain walks back to the table and grabs his cup. His phone dings in his pocket. He sighs and gulps down most of the drink, then gathers the beer cans. He finishes his drink, not bothering to fill the cup with water.
Midway through the movie, Charlotte’s phone dings.
“Really fun day! Sorry I couldn’t text earlier. So busy. How was yours?” Couldn’t text? He read the texts and didn’t text back, she thinks. Charlotte underestimated the kid. She pauses the movie, already sure of who the killer is (so obvious). She needs to think and the violence of the movie is not helping her mood like she thought it would. She tosses the remote and her phone across the bed, out of arm’s reach. Here again, she thinks.
How does she always end up lying in bed, pissed about everyone and everything? Unable to enjoy the solitude she so looked forward to just a couple hours ago, when she was surrounded? No matter who the group is, or how long she has endured (a single dinner, or night, or a whole month), she ends up right back in her frustration and anger. It’s stupid. It is juvenile. There isn’t enough to be pissed about, nothing really, she knows. She sure as shit never wants to be the obsessive girlfriend (or whatever she is to Zain). But, no matter who the boy, or the situation, she always ends up sunk in the covers, sulking and checking texts.
Charlotte knows if there is anyone who deserves a break it’s Zain. But does that mean she doesn’t need one too? Good breaks are for the lucky, though, she thinks, and her whole day was nothing but bad breaks. Her whole life. Born too early and SMACK, the doctor slaps her skinny ass to start her second place life in a too-perfect family as second best child to a do-everything-right big sister. The sister who used to at least give her an encouraging look at Thanksgiving Dinner before distracting the family, but not even that today.
Last year was bad, the prodigal daughter’s last Thanksgiving living at home. The entire meal’s conversation was everything Chloe needed to know before leaving. All the stories about everyone else’s last years before leaving home. But
this year was worse. And not just because of the morning of forced servitude or grandma’s questions. It was how they asked and talked about everyone and everything but Charlotte. Not that she needed or wanted them to talk to her. She didn’t have to engage, which was nice. But she was almost completely ignored. Last year they expected her involvement at least. Her father pulling her in, encouraging Charlotte to remember bits for when she leaves. Not this year, though. He never even looked at Charlotte. Hasn’t for months.
Has she grown that distant? she thinks. Enough for her grandma to be the only one to talk to her? And only as the dinner ended? Like some pitiful duty? Just what had her mother mentioned to grandma at their weekly lunch? Charlotte can just hear her, “Charlotte is hopeless. Ditching school all the time. She doesn’t even write for the paper anymore.”
And then, with all of that, not a single text from Zain. Not that Charlotte needed Zain, but it would have been helpful to have a lifeline. A few words on her screen to know someone cared.
Charlotte leans over and grabs her phone and the remote. She sets the phone on her nightstand, not bothering to check the blank screen again, and turns off the TV. She clicks off the lamp and pulls the covers over her shoulders. Who cares if she’s being dumb? Who cares if it’s not Chloe’s fault? Or Zain’s. Or no ones. Or hers. Or fate’s. Who knows? Who cares. She sinks deep into the covers. A whistle blows downstairs, and the game blares on and on.
Zain dumps a handful of empty cans into the recycling bin in the kitchen. He checks his phone. Nothing. Someone whistles from the kitchen doorway. Aisha takes a sip of her wine, then tipping her cup at Zain. Other college students mill around the kitchen, grabbing foil wrapped plates from the fridge for their friends or finishing their drinks at the sink.
Zain takes Aisha’s cup and downs the rest of the wine. He sets her cup on the heap of others in the trash. “Walk me outside?” Aisha says. She takes Zain’s arm as they cross through the living room into the hallway. He doesn’t see his mother or Aunt Mellie on the way out.
Outside, people get into their cars, some of them yelling about where they’re off to next. Zain and Aisha walk to a bright white car parked on the opposite side of the street. It is sporty and cool. He recognizes the BMW emblem in the grill. Aisha releases his arm and leans against her car door.
“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Zain,” she says.
“You too, Aisha.”
She laughs a bit at his pronunciation. No matter, he thinks, her name feels good to say. Like a secret he knows he will keep forever. Aisha takes his hand and moves her face to his. Before Zain can think how to react, she presses her big, soft lips against his cheek. Before letting go, Aisha squeezes his hand. She unlocks her car door and slides into the driver’s seat. “Good luck with the rest of your high schooling,” she says, grinning down at the dash display. She grabs the door handle and shuts the door. Zain steps back and watches as her car disappears up the street.
31
Mixed Memories
When he finally wakes up, the midmorning sun is parallel with the window. Zain rubs his eyes and reads the clock on the bedside table, 9:30. When he walks into the kitchen, his mother and Aunt are just pouring their coffees. Zain considers asking for a cup, but decides on his usual morning water. He meant to set an alarm, get up for a run, but too distracted when he got into bed, he forgot. He can still feel the tingle of those large lips on his cheek, and the guilt and wondering about Charlotte (who still hasn’t texted).
“Good morning,” Aunt Mellie says.
“Morning.”
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Aunt Mellie asks, “Hike up to the Aztec caves, maybe?” Zain grabs his water glass and gulps, looking over the rim at his mother. She is thinking about the prospect of a hike, too, but looks more like she’s considering crossing a murky swamp. Aunt Mellie laughs, “you two look so much alike right now.” Zain’s mother smiles and sips her coffee.
“Well, what then?” Aunt Mellie says.
“I was hoping I could look at some of the photo albums, if that’s okay?” Zain says. “I’m working on a new collage and I wanted to use some of the family pictures.”
“That is a fabulous idea!” Aunt Mellie says. “How about some eggs first? Scrambled for you, Zainy?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sister dearest?”
“Just coffee for me.”
“Maybe you could show us some of your other work, too?” Aunt Mellie says.
“Sure,” Zain says. He thinks of Charlotte’s portrait, her face lit with the sun off the banks of a river that he wasn’t supposed to be sitting next to on a school day afternoon. He can skip that page when they’re looking at his work. Then again, Aunt Mellie already knows about Charlotte and that day, and his mother probably won’t be joining them anyways. She didn’t even budge when her sister said “show us your newest works.” Just sat there, like she is now, sipping her coffee, looking out the little kitchen window over the sink with that look. The distant look she had when he interrupted her wine drinking in bed last weekend to lie about where he was going. The same one she’s had since last spring. Her new look, even if it doesn’t feel all that new anymore. Just her look, Zain thinks.
Aunt Mellie has set two stacks of three photo albums each on the footstool in front of the couch. When she sits down next to Zain, he reaches for one, but she stops him. “No. Not until I see your newest work.” Zain starts to argue, but Aunt Mellie slams her hands on the two top books. Zain rolls his eyes and gets up to fetch his sketchbook from his room.
Aunt Mellie takes the sketchbook from his hand before he can finish his apology for so many of the pieces not being finished. Taking her time flipping through the first few pages, she asks a few questions, floating her fingers over the lines and faces without ever touching the paper.
“Most of them are from dreams, but the later ones are different,” Zain says.
Aunt Mellie turns to the piece of the man over the boy. She balances the book in her lap and sits back, taking in the whole piece, “this is the one you’ll be entering in the contest?”
“Ya.”
“I love the color composition with the coupons you chose.”
“Thank you.”
“Excellent work, nephew. Truly. You have talent, and you’ve obviously put in the work.”
Aunt Mellie flips to Charlotte on the river bank. She pauses and holds the book out, looking over the page from the corners of her eyes, “your lady.”
“From when we went to the river last week. She doesn’t know I drew it. I don’t think.”
“Hmm,” Aunt Mellie says. “Granted, I’ve only seen the one picture, but this doesn’t quite capture her. Not yet.”
Zain looks at the piece. At arm’s length it looks different. His aunt is right. Each of the details he obsessed over, separately, don’t add up when he looks at them all together. It doesn’t do Charlotte justice. He makes a mental note to step back from his work, hold it up every once in a while as he works. “Ya, I’ll keep working on it.”
“Cool. What’s next?” Aunt Mellie turns the page to the dashboard.
“This is the one I wanted the pictures for. I’m thinking a retroactive piece. Fill the window with pictures.”
“Retrospective,” Aunt Mellie says.
“Right, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s a great concept.”
Talking to Aunt Mellie is easy, even when she corrects him. She doesn’t make problems into big deals, she’s just helpful. Kind of like Mr. Zapata, he thinks, but more experienced. Zain looks over his aunt’s face, eyes scrunched, and head nodding, like she’s got all the time in the world. Never caught off guard, always ready because she’s always thinking. It’s the same look she had last night, anytime he listened into her conversations with any of the different groups of people, like no one else was around and she was interested in their unique perspectives only. She cares. About everything left out or not c
onsidered. Maybe considering is something you learn, Zain thinks. If anyone considers it all, it is his aunt. Because she cares about every detail, every line, every person.
“And you want to fill the window with pictures from the past?”
“As I look forward or something like that.”
“Zainy,” Aunt Mellie says, “you don’t know how right that is.”
The afternoon passes flipping through photos. First, the ones only his aunt remembers, then of the memories they share. Zain listens as his aunt reminiscences over the first two albums’ pages. His parents smiling with a chubby little baby, then toddler, in their arms, in the snow, at Aunt Mellie’s old house on the west side. So many of the pictures of him as a toddler feel familiar, even if he can’t quite remember taking them. He feels each memory more than recalling them. One picture is of the family gathered around a table at La Hacienda restaurant, Zain gripping a smashed grilled cheese in a plump little hand. Aunt Mellie tells him the restaurant shut its doors forever a year after the picture was taken, but something about the walls in the background of the picture seems fresh to Zain. The familiarity of the place haunting without him actually remembering being there. The last photo in the second book is one without baby or toddler Zain. It is of his parents, hand in hand, his father at the end of a joke, his mother’s young face laughing up at her bright and youthful husband, happier than Zain has ever seen her. Despite the pure joy in his parents’ faces, their smiles are sad, but only because Zain is seeing the picture now. Because there is nothing familiar in his mother’s face and too much familiarity in that of his father. People hope pictures will last forever as a reminder of a moment, but that isn’t always the way they end up, Zain thinks. Sometimes they end up as regrets for people not even in the picture.
These Dreams Which Cannot Last Page 15