“Okay.” He walks back to the table to collect the rest of the plates. “If you change your mind or need someone… I’m here.”
After a few seconds of trying to make myself say something to him and failing each time, I turn around to rinse the breakfast dishes instead.
12.
I have a ritual.
Each year that my birthday comes and goes with no word from my mother, I say that I’ll stop. I promise myself that I won’t rely on this like a temporary salve for a wound that won’t heal.
But just like last year and the year before and the ones before that, I pull out everything I own that reminds me of her.
And then, when I’m done with that, I go to my father’s bedroom and retrieve the small box of her things that he keeps hidden at the back of his closet.
This year, I don’t feel like being alone when I do it, so I ask Sabina to come over. She doesn’t know about it, not really. She knows that I kept a few things that remind me of my mother—like the blue dress I wore on my birthday, and the recipe cards stacked together in the kitchen.
Sabina frowns when she steps into my bedroom and sees everything spread out. “Are you having a garage sale?”
“Have you ever known us to have a garage sale? My father would rather cut off his tongue than haggle with people over shit he doesn’t want. This is my mom’s stuff, Sabs.”
“Oh.” Her voice is soft as she slowly approaches the bed, looking but not touching. “Do you remember all of it?”
I do. There’s the blue dress, of course, which I remember she once wore to a party because I was there. She and Dad brought me with them, and when it got late I was tucked into a guest room with a huge bed and a TV. I woke up to my mother scooping me into her arms, the lace scratchy against my cheek.
I show Sabina the gold bangles that used to tinkle from my mother’s wrists as she’d help me in and out of my car seat, or pour me a glass of water, or make pancakes on the weekends.
Sabina flips carefully through the yellowed pages of my mother’s favorite cookbook, the one filled with dessert recipes only. “I didn’t know she was a baker.”
“I didn’t think of her as a baker. I mean, she did bake.” A lot, actually. “But I always felt like my dad did the cooking, so that’s why she baked. Not because she loved it.”
“This has notes in the margins,” Sabina observes, stopping on a recipe for gingerbread cake. “And she clearly used this book a lot. She was a baker, Yvonne.”
I think of a few days earlier, when I took a homemade carrot cake to Lou. He sliced into it immediately and ate two pieces right in front of me, praising the texture of the cake and the chopping of the walnuts and the consistency of the cream cheese frosting. Lou is softer around the edges than my father, but he isn’t one to bullshit. He was so effusive and kind that I was almost embarrassed, listening to him talk about my skill.
My mother’s CD collection is expansive, and she left the whole thing here. Sabina crouches over the box and rifles through, marveling at the stacks of clear plastic cases stuffed with liner notes. “She really liked hip-hop.”
“She loved it. All her ticket stubs are from hip-hop shows.”
Sabina slides a Brand Nubian CD back into the box. “Do you still think about looking for her?”
“Sometimes. Not like I used to.”
Something has always stopped me. I’m not sure what. Maybe knowing how it would upset my father if he ever found out. He doesn’t offer up a lot of emotions, and I don’t want the one he does show me to be anger. Also… there’s a part of me that thinks maybe I won’t like what I find.
And now, especially since this big birthday went by with no word from her, I’m starting to wonder why I should bother. She’s the one who left, not me. Besides, we haven’t moved out of the house she lived in, and even if we had, my father would be easy enough to find.
“Do you still miss her?”
I sit on the floor next to Sabina, cross-legged. “I don’t know. I guess I miss having someone around here besides my dad. But I don’t… I don’t feel like my memories of her are real.”
“What? Even with all this stuff she left?”
“That’s the thing. It made me feel better at first… the memories. But now they feel manufactured. Like, I look at the bag she left, and I know she carried it every day, but I don’t feel anything when I see it or touch it.”
Sabina is quiet and when I look over, her eyes are sad. “You know that Mom and Mama Jess love you.”
I nod, looking down at my lap.
“And I know you and your dad do okay. But if you ever need anything—”
“I know. Sorry I’ve been so needy lately. I guess it’s just a tough time of year.”
“It’s not like this is some trivial shit, Yvonne. It’s your mom. I get it.”
We leave my mother’s things spread around my room and go out for ramen in Little Tokyo. The restaurant is busy and loud, with the staff’s voices intermingling as they shout out orders and hellos and good-byes.
Sabina surveys the restaurant, sipping from her glass of water before she looks at me. “Do you think it’s weird that I’m a virgin?”
I almost spit out my own water.
She sighs. “I guess that answers my question.”
“No, Sabs. I wasn’t expecting that. It’s not weird,” I say firmly, looking into her eyes. “Why?”
“The other night, at Damon’s, everyone was telling stories…. So many of them have already slept with more than one person. You texted then, and I was glad to get away because I didn’t want to say I haven’t had sex yet.”
“Well, you’re not the only person who isn’t having sex,” I say. There’s a whole group of girls at Courtland who flaunt their purity rings as if virginity is the hot new thing. They mostly stick to themselves, but nobody shuns them.
“I’m not like those girls,” she says. “It’s not religious for me. And it seems like some of them do it for the attention. Like, they want to be known for not having sex… like that defines you.”
Our server slides huge bowls in front of each of us: spicy miso for me, and pork belly ramen for Sabina. I look at her through the curls of steam rising from our dishes, waiting for her to continue.
“I guess I just want to wait for marriage.” Sabina swirls her chopsticks through her bowl. “That seems so antiquated, right?”
“No,” I say quickly. I never considered that for myself, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. “All that matters is what you want. And anybody who cares if you’re having sex is stupid. It’s pretty overrated.”
“But you haven’t slept with anyone you care about, right? Doesn’t that make a difference?”
“Maybe.” I guess that would have changed if I’d been with Warren. “It was fine with Cody and Henry…. Better with Cody, but I didn’t see fireworks.”
I met Henry at a Courtland party. He’s the cousin of a girl who was in my English class. We didn’t so much as kiss that night, but we talked for almost the entire evening and I liked him. With Cody, there was an almost animal attraction, like we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. Henry was more experienced than Cody, but there was no chemistry between us. I didn’t feel much of anything when he touched me; it was all sort of mechanical, and I wondered how that was possible when we were so compatible in other ways. We went on a couple of dinner-and-movie dates and slept together twice, and that was that.
“You don’t wish you’d waited for Warren?”
I shake my head. “I’ve thought about it, but that would have felt like too much pressure. Like, what if it wasn’t good because it was my first time?”
“I can’t believe you’ve already been with two guys,” she says before slurping up a spoonful of broth. Her voice is thoughtful and free of malice, but the words still stab me.
I frown. “What does that mean?”
She looks at me, surprised. “Oh. I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I just… I can’t imagine letting peop
le touch me who I don’t even talk to anymore. And disease and pregnancy… there’s so much to think about.”
“Sabs, I use protection when I have sex…. I’m safe. And people break up. Or get divorced. Marriage doesn’t mean you’re going to end up with the same person forever.”
She may have good role models in her parents, but I know firsthand that promises and legal papers mean nothing if someone decides she doesn’t want to be there anymore.
“I know.” She pauses. “Sorry. I’m not judging you. We’re just different that way.”
“I guess we are.”
I don’t want to be annoyed with her, but it’s hard not to think she’s judging me after that comment. If she’s weirded out by the fact that I’ve slept with two guys, what will she think when that number increases? I’ve never thought of sex as shameful. Our school and friends are pretty progressive, and even my father clearly understands that abstinence is a choice, not a way of life for everyone.
“The pork belly is delicious,” she says, trying to smooth things over. “Want a bite?”
She pushes her bowl toward me, and I tear off a bit of the meat with my chopsticks.
“So good, right?”
I nod as I chew, and I force myself to give Sabina a smile. Her words came out wrong, that’s all.
But it doesn’t stop me from feeling like shit.
The house smells like weed. And my father shouldn’t be home this early, not unless something is wrong.
I hurry down the hallway to the sunroom, but it’s empty. I stop at his room next, but it’s dark. My stomach starts to sink when I see the light on in my bedroom.
He’s sitting on the floor—knees up, his back against my bed. There’s an ashtray next to him with a burned-out joint inside. My mother’s things surround him.
“You found the box,” he says. He taps his fingers against the one I lugged out from his closet. Sabina and I didn’t even get to it before we left.
“I found it a long time ago.” I don’t know whether to stand or sit. Finally, I drop down into my desk chair.
“I forgot about it.” His voice is tinged with disbelief. Almost like he’s saying he forgot about her.
I know what’s in the box without looking: the flip-flops she used to wear when she went out to get the mail or water the plants on the porch; a half-used jar of the cold cream she slathered on to remove her makeup each night; one lone, dangly earring, a gold-plated feather that’s lighter than it looks. There’s more, but none of it makes sense together. All of it could be thrown out.
“Why were you looking at this?” He doesn’t sound angry, just tired and curious.
“I look at it every year… to remember her, I guess. That she existed. That I’m not making her up.”
“Oh, Yvonne.”
“I meant to put it back before you got home, but you’re never home this early….”
“Slow night. I left Warren in charge.” My father sighs. “This isn’t the life I wanted for you—to have to look at a box of junk to remember your mother.”
“It’s not your fault.”
He’s quiet for a long time and then finally he gets up, clutching the ashtray with one of his big hands. He stands in front of me for a moment, looking out into the hallway at nothing. Then he pats my shoulder with his free hand. I wait for him to say something before he leaves, but he never does.
I look at everything spread around my room like some kind of pathetic vigil. It is just junk. Boxes of it.
I spy the cookbook Sabina was flipping through earlier.
Lou sent me home with another assignment: lemon meringue pie this time.
A challenge.
I clear a space on my bed, pick up the book, and flip to the table of contents.
13.
I’m standing outside the address Omar gave me, sure that I have the wrong place.
The street is near the beach, but it appears closer to what Mr. Gamble told us Venice used to look like than anything I’ve ever seen. The houses aren’t scary. Just neglected. Craftsman homes and bungalows with sagging porches and missing shutters that make me sad.
The yard of the house I’m staring at is in need of a good mowing. Weedy vines grow along the porch railing, curling up to the eaves. Light filters through the thin curtains on the front window, and I can see bodies moving inside, but I can’t make out if any of them are Omar.
He said to call him when I get here, but now I’m wondering if I should leave. I don’t get a bad feeling. Just different. It’s not like I live behind the gates in Bel Air, but even the oldest parts of my neighborhood look better than this.
Omar makes the choice for me—he walks out the front door as I’m still debating. “Hey!” he calls, beckoning me toward the porch. “Why are you standing out there? Come on in!”
“Sorry.” I step off the sidewalk and pick my way through the overgrown lawn, glad it’s still too light out for raccoons and skunks to be scuffling around in the long blades of grass. “I didn’t know if I had the right house.”
“Yeah, it’s not much to look at, but it’s home for now.”
“Oh, I didn’t—I mean—”
Omar grins. “Yvonne, it looks like a shithole. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t.”
He greets me with a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek that I feel long after he pulls away. His lips are soft and warm, and my skin burns when I think about how I’d like to feel them against my own. The earthy scent of sandalwood clings to him; I want to bury my nose in his neck. I had a quick attraction to Cody when we met, but it wasn’t the same as this. Being intimate so soon with Cody was primarily fueled by all the alcohol. I’ve been sober each time Omar and I have talked, but being around him makes me feel a bit drunk, like I’m never sure how I’m going to react.
He opens the door and ushers me in, and I feel like I’ve been transported to a different world. It’s not that there are so many people—but they’re all so interesting that my eyes are flitting about wildly, trying to take them all in. It looks like somebody wrapped up Venice Beach itself and shook it out into this house. There are beer-swigging skaters and pierced guys in muscle shirts and skinny, tattooed girls with multicolored heads and matted strands of hair masquerading as dreadlocks. Several people are holding paper plates of food while squeezing cans of cheap beer under their arms. Everyone looks happy—pleased to be around one another.
Omar leads me through the front room and down the hallway, where we have to thread through the people packing either side.
“Do you guys have a lot of parties?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard above the din.
Omar smiles over his shoulder. “It’s not really a party.”
We reach the kitchen and he stops in front of a card table packed with food. None of it looks particularly appetizing, but there’s a lot of it.
“Want something to eat? Looks like they already killed the mac and cheese.”
“No, thanks. I ate before I came.” And I feel like a snob, but I probably wouldn’t touch any of that food even if I were near starving. “How is this not a party?”
“Well, it’s grown. This is probably the most people we’ve ever had. But it’s more of a jam session.”
“A jam session? That’s something people actually do?”
He grins. “Don’t look at me like that. Every couple of months, a few of us get together to play. Got a lot of musicians in this group. And a lot of friends who like to come hang.”
“Do you, like, rehearse?”
Omar laughs. “That’s not how a jam session works. It’s all improvised. You know, I should have told you to bring your violin.”
“No, I’m—I don’t think I’d be very good.”
How can I trust my own instincts now? I’m afraid of how badly I’d embarrass myself if I had to play with anyone but my fellow orchestra members. I picture myself freezing up, all of Denis’s criticisms and Ortiz’s hard truths swirling through my mind instead of the familiar notes I’ve been playing for y
ears.
“I doubt that.” Omar bends down to open a cooler under the table. “Want a beer?”
We both take a can and then he walks me around the downstairs of the house, introducing me to people and showing me all the rooms. After the fifth roommate I meet, I ask how many he has.
“Right now? There’s probably about twenty of us here, give or take a couple. Some people are here only on the weekends.” My eyes widen so much that he laughs again. “I take it you’ve never known anyone who lives in a communal house.”
“No… I guess I haven’t.” I peek into the dining room where a group sits around a long, farmhouse-style table with mismatched benches on either side. A built-in hutch on one wall holds an assortment of dishes stacked and piled into every space possible. There’s art on the walls, and though it’s a little Gothic for my taste, it gives the room a homey feel. Everything about it looks like a normal dining room until I spy the wall opposite the hutch. “What’s that?”
“We have three refrigerators, so we keep the other two in here. They fill up pretty quick—”
“No, on the wall between them.”
His attention shifts to the enormous whiteboard that displays a sloppily markered grid.
“Oh, the chore chart. We update it every week. Some people aren’t so good about cleaning up.”
I keep my mouth shut because I’ve never had to do chores. Dad expects me to pick up after myself, but he hired someone to professionally clean our house years ago, so it’s not like I have to snap on yellow gloves and scrub down the bathroom.
By the time we loop back around to the front of the house, the chatter has increased to a dull roar. I don’t understand how they’re ever going to get this many people to quiet down enough to hear the music. Then, from the middle of the room, someone lets out a long, shrill whistle, the type that comes from sticking fingers in your mouth and a whole lot of practice. The noise eventually trickles down to a few low murmurs.
Finding Yvonne Page 8