These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  The third album holds photos Zain remembers taking. Strangely lit pictures of the zoo, more restaurants, and some with just faces. Zain marks some of the photos for his piece, many of which he isn’t even in. His parents and Aunt Mellie and his grandparents looking younger, but familiar and free.

  By the time they open the fifth book Aunt Mellie is three wines deep. Neither of them talk much, mostly just hum, each waiting until the other is ready to turn to the next page. Zain flips through the first few pages of the sixth book in silence, no longer bothering marking ones he might want to use. Each picture of his father stings like a skinned knee. Fresh, tingling pain spreads and retracts and surges again with each page. His aunt is silent as he turns. They visited more last year, he thinks. How had he forgotten the trip at Labor Day? Then again in October? He remembers now, though. Each picture brings it back, pain like tiny pins pushed into his arms and chest. “Zain,” Aunt Mellie says, “maybe we should stop, take a walk.” Zain flips on to last Thanksgiving, gathered around the kitchen table with his grandparents. Then to Christmas. “Let’s take a little break, Zain.” He flips the pages, faster now. Searching for something he hopes he’ll recognize when he comes to it. But the family pictures end. The last shot, at the bottom of the page is Zain squeezed in his father’s arms, holding his new phone, his favorite Christmas present. He stares at the picture, at his father then his own smiling face, so different than the one he sees in the mirror now. Aunt Mellie sniffs through her fingers. He can feel her eyes on him. Zain flips on. The last page of pictures in the album is Aunt Mellie with some friends, smiling over beers on a brown tabletop.

  The two sit in silence, Zain breathing deeply.

  “I don’t know why those are in there. I have separate albums for those,” she says.

  Zain turns through the last six pages of the album, the plastic covers holding nothing but white emptiness. His face feels hot. The afternoon feels wrong, too warm for November.

  “I don’t even remember putting those last ones in. I didn’t want the album to end like that, I guess. I must have put them in to remind me…” Aunt Mellie’s voice fades.

  The light falling across the living room floor feels more like spring than fall. Like a promise of too many months of insufferable heat yet to come. The light spreading across the room is way too bright, like at any minute the floor will sprout bright black flowers, wilted and dry. The photo album in his lap feels like an anvil crushing Zain’s thighs. He slams the back cover closed and lifts the album, with all those pictures of everything from the before and nothing after, from his lap. He sets the book unevenly on the pile on the footstool. He shuts his eyes but his father’s face is burned onto the backs of his eyelids like he’s been looking at the sun too long.

  “Go away.” Zain doesn’t know if he has said it out loud or just thought it. Either way, the image doesn’t go away.

  His eyes watering, Zain stands, to escape, to move away to his room, to get out. Fingers, gentle and strong, wrap his shoulders, and pull him back to the couch. Aunt Mellie pulls him in to her chest and wraps her arms around his head. Zain falls into her, crying. “He’s gone,” he says between sobs. The photo album slides off the footstool, bouncing on the carpet.

  “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  Zain shudders as his arms and chest loosen. Aunt Mellie clutches him tighter, holding him up as his body goes limp, as the day keeps pouring in through the closed windows, its heat so unforgiving.

  32

  Seester Talk

  On Friday morning, Charlotte wakes earlier than usual. She sits up, thumbing through the feeds on her phone. All the same shit, she thinks. Nothing interesting on Twitter, and a snap from Toni. She is blowing a huge cloud of smoke into the air, the boy next to her has his mouth in an O, his sclera more red than white. Charlotte pops her neck, stiff from being in bed so long. As the sun rises through her curtains, she hears her sister’s door close across the hall. Probably on her way out for her morning jog. The air in the room is stale, thick with an entire night of closed door and dreams she can’t quite remember. At one point she was running, from what she can’t recall, her legs barely moving through some kind of sludge. She throws the covers off her legs and swings them onto the floor, crossing to her door. Her sister is just about to descend the stairs when Charlotte whispers, “Chloe!”

  Chloe jumps, “Jesus! You scared me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry I woke you, I’m just headed out for a run.”

  “I know. Wait for me?”

  “Sure,” Chloe says, more than a bit confused.

  Charlotte rifles through her drawers. All her runs with Zain have been impromptu or on the way to or home from parties. Always in jeans, always leaving her thighs chafed and raw. Does she even have anything close to running clothes? she thinks. At the bottom of her pajama drawer she finds a pair of purple sweatpants from her middle school PE uniform. She tightens her bra, and pulls the neckless shirt she slept in back over her shoulders. Chloe stands in her doorway as Charlotte laces up her shoes.

  “You run now?” Chloe says.

  “Sometimes.”

  Chloe is in a sporty pink zip up jacket and Nike running shorts. Her long legs are tanned and tone. Aren’t people supposed to gain weight their first year in college? Charlotte thinks. “Since when?” Chloe asks.

  “Since a while.”

  “Okay,” Chloe says, looking at her watch.

  “If you don’t want company, it’s no big deal.”

  “Of course. I would love that, it’s just…”

  “What?”

  “Your shoes.”

  Charlotte looks at her tattered Chucks, then at her sister’s running shoes, sleek and sturdy, the swoosh along the side matching perfectly her pink top. “I’ll be fine,” Charlotte says.

  “Okay. How exciting! You really should get something with better arch support, though. Oooh—”

  “No—”

  “We could go shopping.”

  “No!”

  “We’ll see,” Chloe says before bouncing down the stairs. “Let’s go,” she calls back over her shoulder. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Charlotte thinks.

  Chloe’s form might not be as smooth as Zain’s, but she is just as fast. She talks nonstop the whole first mile, Charlotte keeps her responses to a single syllable when possible to conserve her breath. When they reach the freeway, Chloe jogs in place at the crosswalk signal, waiting to cross under the overpass. She looks over at Charlotte, “You doing ok?”

  “I’m fine,” Charlotte says.

  “While we have a second, I wanted to talk to you.” Chloe stops jogging in place.

  Oh god, Charlotte thinks. She can hear what’s coming in her sister’s voice. It’s time for a-heart-to-heart. Chloe’s heart to Charlotte’s face is more like it. Seester talk, Chloe calls it. There is so much that Charlotte misses about her sister when she is gone. And so much that she hasn’t missed, but has been reminded of over the last few days. The night drinking in Chloe’s room was great, mostly. Except for when she did her fake worry shit when Charlotte told her about quitting the paper. And, here, at the crossroads to the frickin’ freeway—glowing with just a misting of perfect sweat— Chloe has the look again. “Seester talk?”

  “The light is about to change,” Charlotte says.

  “You don’t have to respond, just listen.”

  Get out of your room, Charlotte. Clear your head, Charlotte. Take a sunrise run with your sister. Idiot, she thinks. The light changes and Charlotte takes off across the street.

  “Yesterday was rough,” Chloe says, catching up easily.

  Stepping up on the opposite curb, Charlotte considers turning around, sprinting back the way they came just as the signal changes. Leave her too-perfect sister standing on the corner, unwilling to cross against the light. Then, run like a wild woman toward home. Of course, the light would eventually change and her perfectly persistent and
in-shape sister would catch right back up and start the seester talk right up again.

  “You don’t have to be mean, you know. It doesn’t make it better,” Chloe says.

  “What?” Charlotte says, breathing between words, “how was I mean?”

  “I know they can be hard on you, but sulking doesn’t help.”

  “I wasn’t sulking.”

  “Whatever. You could at least engage. Be a part of the conversation.”

  “Because they wanted me to?”

  “They did.”

  “Right.”

  “There’s a difference between what they want from you and how they express it.”

  “You’re so wise. Thank you.”

  “They care, they’re just tired of—”

  But Charlotte doesn’t wait for Chloe to finish. Anger pumps adrenaline through her legs and she speeds up. Nobody at that table expected Charlotte to say anything because they don’t want her there. Treat her like a ghost, maybe she’ll turn into one. What does Chloe know anyway? Maybe she’ll catch up again and they will run through the rest of the morning in silence. Maybe not. Hopefully not, she thinks.

  Chloe doesn’t understand. Never has. And the way she looked at the table yesterday, like she was one of them. She used to be Charlotte’s link to escape, but not anymore. She was too immersed, not just bragging to appease like usual, Chloe was holding her own, among peers. Charlotte feels Chloe’s steps on the sidewalk behind her, closing in. Charlotte stops and turns, “Did they ask you to talk to me?”

  Chloe passes Charlotte before slowing to a stop, “What?”

  “Is that why you’re telling me all this shit?”

  Chloe turns back, pinching the buttons on her watch, “What?”

  “You already said that.”

  “They’re worried about you. I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

  “Well, I’m fine,” Charlotte says, breathing out of her mouth. She feels like she might throw up. She knows “I’m fine” is exactly what people who aren’t fine say to avoid a longer conversation. Right before the conversation gets longer. She isn’t fine. None of it is fine. None of it or them has ever been fine. But a talk with her once (at least somewhat) trusted sister, at her parents’ request, is definitely not going to make it any better. The Hansons are a complete (one dad, one mom, two kid), traditional, and fully dysfunctional family that insists on what every other family insists on: appearing fine.

  “None of us is fine,” Charlotte says. “None of you, none of me.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry,” Chloe’s look is worried but warm. Equal parts pity and care. Charlotte can already see Chloe giving that look to her own kids someday. They’ll probably have a difficult time deciding if they want to slap her or hug her, too.

  As they stand on the uncharted sidewalk, the tingle in Charlotte’s legs from the run settles to a warm glow, “you don’t know how it’s been.” Her breathing slowed from deep and fast after stopping, but is speeding up again. She hopes her sister will think it’s just from the run. She feels like crying, instead she swipes her arm across her cheeks, wiping away sweat. Chloe pinches her running jacket at the shoulder, readjusting her sports bra, “then tell me. How has it been?”

  Cars pass on the freeway behind them. Charlotte looks around. They ran quite a way before stopping. The house they’ve stopped beside has a chain-link fence pushed up against the sidewalk, so Charlotte sits on the curb with her feet over the storm drain. She can feel her sister standing on the sidewalk behind her, unsure of what to say or do.

  “They don’t talk to me,” Charlotte says.

  She thinks her sister will stand in the street, posed with hands on hips, ready for the jog back home, but she doesn’t. “Ever?” Chloe says, sitting beside her, extending her legs over the gutter.

  “Just when I fuck up.”

  “Char…”

  “I skipped too many classes for a bit, but I’ve been better.”

  “With Anthony?”

  Because of Anthony is more like it, but close enough. “Ya.”

  “That guy sucks.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m glad you dumped him.”

  That’s not the whole story and Chloe knows it. She is just being nice. It was one of the only things Charlotte shared about her own year in their night of sisterly bonding. Even if Chloe was waiting to talk again, she listened as Charlotte gave most of the details. The show where they met, the first kiss and so on. Charlotte laid out most of, but not all, the details. And, like always, Chloe didn’t push for anything more. Just told her to forget about that clichéd fool, not worth your time. Then she continued with her own stories about classes, challenging but worth the work, the occasional hook ups at dorm parties, and her new friends from all over the country.

  “I guess,” Charlotte says.

  “I’m telling you. You’re better off.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I know. I remember him.”

  “What?” Charlotte looks at Chloe looking away down the street.

  Chloe sighs, “I should’ve told you.” Chloe looks back at Charlotte now, a bit of guilt in her eyes. She rubs her legs, nervously. “I remember him. He was a dork.” She looks up at Charlotte, briefly, “Dented Fenders. Please.” She rolls her eyes, “dented dick is more like it.”

  “Chloe!”

  Chloe laughs. “You remember, Theresa?”

  “Student council vice president Theresa?”

  “Ya. She dated that guy for a minute. Said when she finally agreed to it he came in like eight seconds. Said it was bent like a broken chopstick.”

  Charlotte yells and they laugh together.

  “He told me it was from wrecking his bike,” Charlotte says.

  Chloe rolls her eyes again, “please. He probably jerked it too hard with the same hand, staring at himself in the mirror.”

  They sit laughing over the empty street. Chloe leans over and nudges Charlotte’s shoulder, “thanks for running with me,” she says, grabbing Charlotte’s hand.

  Charlotte holds on for a second and then lets go, “I’m still pissed at you. Doing their bidding.”

  Chloe stands, straightening her back as she rolls her shoulders, “you’ll get over it. I’m pretty impressed you’ve kept up this long.”

  “You’re not that fast,” Charlotte says.

  “Have you really been running?”

  “A bit,” Charlotte says.

  “Who is he?”

  “What?”

  “Please, Char. Like you would ever get into running on your own. Is it that cross country guy from a couple years back? Mitchell?”

  “Michael? No. That was a very brief mistake.”

  “He was cute.”

  “Knows it, too.”

  “That can be okay sometimes,” Chloe says.

  “Not with Michael.”

  “Who is it then?”

  “I don’t know if I want to get into this.”

  “Okay. But it is a guy.”

  “It is. Or was. I don’t know what it is. It’s dumb.”

  “It’s dumb, or he’s dumb?”

  “I’m dumb. After Anthony, I was going to be alone for a while and then this boy just came out of nowhere. Just fell into our pool.”

  Chloe looks confused.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Ok. You can tell me later, if you want,” Chloe says. She stands and pinches her watch, ready to start running. “Had enough rest?”

  “You’re not going to say anything, right?”

  “About what?” Chloe is already jogging in place.

  “To mom and dad about…anything.”

  “Please. I know the code. Seester talks are secret.”

  Charlotte looks at her, untrusting.

  Chloe rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell them you’re fine,” she says, drawing out the word. She takes off back down the street, towards home, not looki
ng back until Charlotte catches her at the crosswalk.

  As they round the corner onto Spruce, Chloe takes off. Charlotte’s lungs burn, but she kept up. Every step pounds like someone has been beating her heals with a hammer. She doesn’t chase Chloe down, just watches her pumping her arms, throwing her long legs out over the pavement, knees out high and strong. As Charlotte jogs in, slowing when she crosses the driveway, Chloe turns back from her walk down the middle of the street, checking her watch, “good run, sister.”

  33

  Leaving El Paso

  Coach Branson’s voice plays in his head as Zain stomps over another foreign El Paso street, “even shitty runs count.” This one definitely qualifies. Zain’s legs feel like jelly, his lungs useless shrunken sacks in a tight and heavy chest. His watch reads 20:06. That can’t be right, but he knows it is. He is running so slowly. On the next street Zain turns back toward Aunt Mellie’s. It’s cut losses time.

  When he gets back to the house, his mother’s bag is sitting in the open trunk of the car. As he walks up the driveway, she comes out the front door with a plastic grocery bag stuffed with waters and snacks for the road. “Pack your things,” she says.

  “I thought we were going hiking,” Zain says.

  “We need to get going. It’s time.”

  “Why?” Zain says.

  “Zain, not now.”

  What the hell does that mean? Not when? Like she has anything to get back to, he thinks. “I thought—“

  “Zain, please,” his mother says, tossing the plastic bag onto the passenger seat. She stands up straight in her don’t mess with me posture.

  “Can I at least shower?”

  His mother looks at her watch, “fine. Hurry.”

  In the kitchen, Aunt Mellie leans against the sink, cup of coffee gripped in both hands, zoned out. As Zain passes to his room, she doesn’t look up at him, doesn’t say anything.

  Zain finishes drying his hair and throws the towel over the closet door. He pulls the last clean outfit from his backpack and stuffs his dirty clothes in, pausing before he zips it up. What happened? he thinks. Two nights ago his mother seemed okay. Even around all those different kinds of people she seemed almost relaxed. She is in the driver’s seat when Zain comes out, car door open, feet already on the pedals. Aunt Mellie walks out behind him, not looking at his mother. As soon as he sets his bag in the trunk, she closes it and stands tall, looking up at him.