by An Na
She wouldn’t budge from her spot, waiting anxiously to inspect the muffins. Miraculously, they were not burnt. Brown and slightly darker on the edges. But not burnt.
Mama set the muffins on top of the stove. “You didn’t have to pull on my arm so hard.”
“The timer was ringing, Mama.”
“I heard it. I did.” Mama pointed at the muffins. “Look, they came out just fine.”
“You were going to burn them again. Like all the other times,” she accused.
Mama’s smile melted drop by drop. First her forehead, then her eyes, her cheeks, and finally her lips. Mama’s chin dropped into her chest and she blinked rapidly. She spoke in a soft voice. “But I didn’t burn them.”
Mama turned suddenly and shuffled in her slippers over to the back kitchen door with the oven mitts still on her hands. The way she just stood there, looking out the window of the closed door without moving to open it or even bothering to take off the oven mitts, filled the air with unease.
The strangeness of Mama made her feel guilty and mean. She walked over to Mama and grabbed her around the middle, laying her cheek on the small of Mama’s back.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. “The muffins are not burnt.”
Mama’s cartoon hands slowly lifted up and patted her arms.
“It’s starting to snow,” Mama whispered.
Outside, the first snow of the season gently drifted down, then swirled back up, caught in a breeze. Her mother swayed back and forth as though she was trapped by the same wind. A low guttural moan escaped Mama’s lips. “The train is coming.”
Spring
The sun, low on the horizon, illuminates the last lingering drifts of spring snow as the harsh wind swirls it high into the air until the tiny flecks of white are lost to the oblivion above. The streets are empty save for a few hurried people who walk with their heads down, their coats cinched tight. I pull my hat over my ears and start toward the parking lot behind Genentium. It’s not late, but most everyone has cleared out to celebrate after signing the paperwork. I shove my hands deep into my pockets. For years they had believed they were getting closer. First they had identified clusters, but there had to be a gene. I stare ahead of me, the street stretching off into the distance. Dad has been waiting for this news for over a decade, and the last thing I want to do is talk to him. I veer left, walking away from the lab.
A lone figure stands under the concrete eaves of a building, off to the side behind the bus stop bench. Hood pulled down low, head swaying to the beat of the music emanating from the phone held in one hand. With each movement, I can see the music like waves of heat floating above asphalt summer streets. Bass smooth and deep, peppered with guitar riffs that speak to the feet. Each beat. Each crest. Each slide. The notes are flames, flickering warmth against the windswept streets. As I approach, the music becomes clearer and I begin to hear a voice, low and strong.
“Did you die last night only to be reborn with dawn’s light?
Into this skin you wear.
Eyes that can’t see. Ears that can’t hear. A mind that holds no truth.
You died but forgot to leave.
The past crawls into the present, birthing the future.
Shell-shocked. Shell locked. And all the answers.
On the inside.
Your mind mirrors.
A kaleidoscope.
You inside you inside you.”
I step quickly, but in that second before I pass, before my next footfall carries me away, rendering this moment a blade of grass in the landscape of my memory, the hood falls back. All the seasons of her life in those eyes.
“Mama?” I step forward in shock.
The woman glances down and the resemblance disappears instantly.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and stumble back. “I thought you were someone else.”
I walk away quickly, trying to shake off what just happened. It was the announcement, I tell myself. The announcement and what it would have meant to her if she had been around. But even as I try to convince myself, the words that the woman spoke have already stolen inside and my body shivers in recognition. Fate is but an encrypted code of genes. Your chromosomes a map of the future that cannot be changed. Only fought. Battles lost. Battles won. Reprieve. Parlay. A deep ache of loneliness overwhelms me, and I am almost brought to my knees in one breath. I turn around and walk back to the woman on the street, but when I return to the bus bench, the street is empty.
My vision blurs as I search for the exact place where she was standing, press my fingertips to my eyes and then lower my hands. There is no trace of her. Even her footprints have been erased by the windswept snow. I shiver and head back toward the Genentium parking lot. Within a block I know that I have missed it. How did I miss it? I peer at the street signs as though they are written in another language. How could I be on the wrong street? I’ve walked to this parking lot dozens of times now. I pull off my wool hat and let the cold night air seep into my skull. The freezing wind does nothing to shake my dizziness. Stop it. I know where I’m going. I examine the streets and buildings. This way. I step off the curb to head in the direction I believe is right, but I am seized by a fear. A sensation of falling. I am lost.
After walking and walking, trying to remember where I am, my body begins to protest. My hands have turned a bone white and my fingers refuse to move. I step inside a diner to ask for directions. The warmth hits me, solid as knuckles on cheekbone. How long have I been walking? I carefully ease onto a stool at the counter. A waitress walks over, her eyes lighting on my face.
“Hey, sweetie, you’re here pretty late. Want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” I say. I look around, unnerved by a sense of familiarity. It feels like I should know this, but I can’t remember. The waitress walks over with a coffeepot in her hand. She slides over a mug and proceeds to pour.
“It’s been a while, Grace. The lab keeping you busy?”
I stare at her name card, Stephanie. Stephanie. Why can’t I remember her? She knows me. Knows my name. Where I work. My heart races in panic. I live in Jericho, Illinois. My father is Joseph King. I am Grace King.
“Stephanie, where is Genentium?”
Stephanie stares at me for a moment and then smiles. “Funny, Grace.”
She turns around and heads back to the kitchen, pushing open the swinging door and stepping past as it sways like a pendulum, moving back and forth, back and forth. And with each pass, I see less and less of Stephanie.
She walks around the kitchen filled with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Talks to the cook holding a frying pan. Picks up a few plates. Pivots around. Sees. Me.
The door returns to its resting position and the world beyond my world is closed. And in that moment of yearning for just another glimpse, I remember what I had forgotten. I remember. Being here with Dad. Stephanie laughing and pouring us coffee before going back to the kitchen and bringing out our food. The way Dad always remembered to bring her M&M’s from the corner store when he got his cigarettes. The realization doubles and folds, origamis inside me until I have to lean my cheek against the cool counter, refusing to see what I already know.
Genentium is across the street.
Autumn
The swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room swayed back and forth. She pushed it again, trying not to bother Mama about when the muffins would be cool enough to eat. They were still in the tin, sitting on top of the stove. She stared at Mama just sitting there at the oval table, the oven mitts still on her hands. Mama kept glancing around the room, every now and then quietly whispering as though she were speaking with someone. How much longer would Mama be there? she wondered. But if she asked again, she knew Mama would get angry. Maybe even yell at her. She pushed open the door again, before letting it go and watching Mama’s face appear and disappear with each pass.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway took her away from studying Mama. The back kitchen door opened.
“DA
DDY!” she yelled in surprise and delight.
He walked in and set down his bag before picking her up under the arms and swinging her high into the air. Weightless joy swept back her hair, and she grinned as she reached for his face. Only he was strong enough to carry her like a baby again. He kissed the top of her head and released her back to the earth as Mama walked into the kitchen.
“What are you doing home?” Mama asked as he walked over to her. Dad leaned forward and gathered her in his arms. For a moment, watching her parents like that, it seemed nothing in the world mattered to her mother and father except standing there, in each other’s arms.
Mama pulled back and whispered, “It’s hard today.”
“Daddy”—she pulled on the sleeve of his shirt—“Mama made muffins.”
Dad smiled down at her. “Enough for me, too?”
She nodded. “We made twelve. Twelve muffins are more than enough for three people.”
“I don’t know,” Dad joked. “I’m pretty hungry.”
Mama moved quickly then, setting out a plate, placing a muffin in the center, and bringing it over to the table. “Bug, come sit down and eat your muffin while your dad and I talk.” Mama turned and walked back through the swinging door to the living room. Her father picked up his bag and followed her mother.
Her parents disappeared so fast it left her breathless for a moment. She stood in her place and for that space in time, it felt as though she’d never had parents. That she had always been alone in an empty room her entire life. Waiting to be found.
She knew it couldn’t be true, but the feeling of it stayed with her as she walked slowly over to the table and sat down. All her earlier excitement and anguish about the muffin had cooled. Yet still, she had said she wanted the muffin and she was not a girl to go back on her words. Carefully she peeled back the wrapper, noticing the way the grooves in the paper were almost etched into the side. The buttery crumbs coated her fingers and she raised them to her lips to lick them off. They tasted strange, not as sugary as the ones from the bakery in town, but maybe homemade ones were not as sweet. She peeled the rest of the paper off and lifted the muffin to her lips for her first bite.
The gagging was immediate. A reflex of disgust. She spat. Coughed out the soggy pieces of muffin onto the table and glared as though they had just bitten her tongue. Maybe she had picked a bad spot. She wondered if muffins, like bananas or pears, could be pockmarked with bruises. She turned the muffin and timidly took another bite. The sharp, bitter sting of salt flooded her mouth again. She smashed the muffin onto her plate and then marched over to the swinging door, pushing it open with all her strength.
Her parents were on the couch in the living room, just beyond the dining room table. Her father’s back blocking her view of her mother.
“Mama, I want some milk.”
In his hand, the thin shaft of a needle gleamed and caught a glint of light.
“Bug,” he said, “why don’t you get me a muffin?” He spoke without turning back to look at her.
Her anger immobilized her. How could her parents just forget about her? How could her mother have baked such a monstrosity? The unfairness of it all crested over her until she felt that she would cry.
“NOW!” Mama yelled.
She jumped and ran through the still softly swinging door. She glanced back and saw her father take her mother’s hand. Place Mama’s palm against his cheek. The door finally stopped swinging. She was alone once more. An orphan of time.
Spring
The light flickers before my eyes as a hand moves back and forth across my vision. I blink and meet his eyes. The blueness sinks into me, cutting off all my thoughts. Move. I need to get up from this diner counter, but the eyes are on me. He sits right next to me, but I have no memory of how he came to be beside me.
“Hey, Grace,” he says.
I stare at him.
“It’s Will.” He makes a gross smacking sound with his mouth.
I smile.
“You were completely zoned out. I thought you were sleeping with your eyes open.”
I stare down at my coffee mug. I don’t want him to know how disoriented I feel. “Yeah, I’m pretty tired.” I command myself to flash him another smile as I dig out a few dollars from my pocket. Smoothing out the wrinkled bills, I leave them on the counter and stand up.
“Are you leaving? Want to walk to the parking lot together?”
“I know where my car is.”
Will squints at me. “Okay. Well, I’m headed home. Let’s walk together.”
There is a prickling of annoyance itching the back of my neck, but I try to let it go. He’s trying to be nice, I remind myself. “Sure, whatever you want.”
As we head to the door, Stephanie waves to us. I raise my hand just as Will raises his, and our elbows collide.
“Oww.” Will laughs. “Are you sure you don’t have a dagger hidden up your sleeve?”
A memory flashes through my mind. The way Dad would touch my mother’s elbows, teasing her gently about the sharpness of her bones.
“Engineered for self-defense,” I say, repeating my mother’s line before I can stop the moment of déjà vu.
Will touches my elbow and then pushes open the door to the diner so that I can step outside.
The cold forces us to walk quickly, shoulder to shoulder. The blue-gray Genentium sign looms over us from across the street like a billboard. I try not to think about how I could have missed it. We quickly cross over.
There are only a few cars left in the parking lot when we arrive. Will points to one in the distance. “I’m over there,” he says, glancing at me.
I see my black Lincoln in the corner.
“You good to drive home? I could give you a lift,” he says as if I have been drinking or something.
“I’m fine. Why? Did Stephanie say something to you?” The prickling is now a full-blown heat rash. “Jesus, I got cold. It made me groggy. I don’t know why she was making such a big deal. Why can’t you people just leave me alone?” I say through gritted teeth.
Will holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, wait. Don’t be paranoid. Steph just suggested that I walk you to your car because it was so late. We’ve all been celebrating.”
“I haven’t.” I narrow my eyes and choose my words carefully. “Why would I want to celebrate something that is nothing but a fantasy?”
“Or the beginning of an arduous but incredible chance for treatment and hope.” Will gestures with one hand like a game show host.
“You sound like my dad,” I scoff.
Will grins. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”
I turn around to head to my car. Will taps me on the shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?” The intensity of his stare makes me feel like I am being examined.
The spark of annoyance blazes into anger. What does he want? I feel myself trembling. I want to explain how being disoriented doesn’t make you crazy, but if I start talking, I know I am not going to make any sense. I shift back and forth on my feet and take a deep breath. Keep it together, I tell myself.
“Have a good night,” I tell him, then move as though I am being chased and jump inside my car, slamming the door behind me. Calm down, I order myself. Calm down. Quickly I turn on the ignition and cup my hands over the heating vent. Slowly my fingers regain their feeling.
Every time I blink, I see the concern in Will’s face. He knows something is wrong. I glance over my shoulder at the spot where we were standing. He is still there, watching me.
He holds up his hand as though placing it against a pane of glass. The invisible wall that separates him from me. From who I am and who he is. I place my palm against the freezing glass in response and he finally turns, jogging off toward his car. His slow, easy gait reminds me of summer days and the way I would run on the beach along the edge of the water.
• • •
The house is dark when I get home.
“Dad?”
I walk into the kitchen from the mu
droom after hanging up my coat and call out again. “Dad.”
The cold permeates my entire being. It’s got to warm up soon, I think, and flick on the lights in the kitchen before filling the kettle with water for some tea. As I watch the electric coil of the burner slowly begin to glow from black to red, I think about Stephanie and Will. Their eyes wide with worry. I brush away the memory and remind myself, I was just taking a walk, burning off some steam. Except for my trembling hand as I take the kettle off the stove, I am convinced.
Dad’s full cup of coffee sits cold on the counter next to his laptop. Every morning I pour him a cup and every morning he takes two sips before he forgets everything, staring into the screen. I pour the black liquid down the drain and search the counters for the pizza carton. I sigh. It’s soup again. He is probably asleep in the living room.
I walk into the dark room and listen closely for his breathing. At first I hear nothing, but after a moment of concentration, I hear him breathing softly from the couch. And with that sound, all the cold disappears. I stand there, just listening, letting all the sounds of the house and Dad’s breathing calm me.
I reach over and turn on the light. A pair of black-socked feet, crossed at the ankles and propped up on the armrest of the couch, peek out at me. The side lamp casts shadows, half illuminating the wall of photos above the woodstove. I glance up at the frozen memories.
The three of us on the beach in Los Angeles. Mama looking to the side as she lounges back in a chair, her hair windblown and messy. Dad holds me on his lap and cups the roundness of Mama’s shoulder as she leans away from him. That was the last photo we took together before Mama disappeared. . . .
Dad had immediately shifted into military mode, working with the police and a private detective. Not to mention all his army buddies coming and going. The house was transformed into a mission base. I hid, mostly under the kitchen table, playing chess against myself.
Dad and I waited for years in that house by the train tracks. Waited for her to come home or the police to find her. All those Sundays in the car, driving across the city. I knew every single neighborhood in Los Angeles. Until the day he read that article on Huntington’s, which was when he decided to leave and find her a different way. We moved so many times for all his leads on different labs and scientists, I stopped counting.