The Memory Wall

by Lev AC Rosen

  “Nice,” she says. “If we keep that strategy up in the caves, we should be fine.”

  “Just be careful in narrow tunnels,” Severkin says. “I don’t want to hit you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she says. “Come on, the entrance isn’t far now.”

  NICK HEARS Dad pull into the garage downstairs and quickly saves his game and shuts the console off. He feels guilty that he keeps putting off Reunne, that whoever it is playing her keeps waiting for him to come back so they can get on with the mission. Her dig about his being late pretty much confirmed that she’s a real person. At least she’s waiting for him, though. The colony she mentioned is probably too dangerous for a solo player.

  “If I’m going to do this, I’m not doing it alone!” Dad calls from downstairs. “Bring your homework down here.”

  Nick brings his work downstairs and starts to do math problems at the table while Dad deals with cooking prep. But after a few minutes of Dad’s holding up two sizes of pans and asking which to use and then taking out the spinach and looking at it as though it were an alien, Nick realizes that if he wants to eat, he’s going to have to help.

  They choose a pot and boil some water in it; then Nick starts chopping the spinach, and Dad turns on some music—the old jazz he and Mom dance to (danced to; will dance to)—and he hums along, chopping tomatoes, taking the chopped spinach from Nick and putting it in a bowl, grinding pepper. He squeezes Nick’s arm and Nick smiles, realizes he’s humming along, too, that he hasn’t thought about Mom for fifteen minutes. Then he feels guilty. They’re creating a new family tradition, a new thing for them to do together, without Mom. But then Dad’s knife slips and he almost chops his finger off but doesn’t, and Nick laughs. Cooking together isn’t wrong, he decides. This is something he and Dad can do even once Mom is home. They can cook for her while she waits on the couch.

  “Did we do everything right?” Dad asks, looking at the ingredients laid out on the table in brightly colored stripes of red and green. The water is boiling like the sound of rain on the window. The smell of garlic, tomatoes, spinach, and olive oil fills the room.

  “Yeah,” Nick says. “We’re doing good so far. But now we need to actually cook. Think you’re up for it?” he asks Dad.

  “I can handle it,” Dad says confidently. “But you should probably read everything aloud as I do it.” Nick laughs, and starts reading from the cookbook, making sure they boil the pasta for the right amount of time, and sauté the garlic a little first before adding the spinach. It doesn’t take too long, and when they’re done, they sit and eat—and the food isn’t too bad.

  “Pretty good,” Dad says.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Nick says.

  Dad gives Nick’s arm another squeeze as he helps himself to seconds. “We’re a good team,” he says.

  Nick looks at the empty chair and shivers from a sudden chill. “Yeah,” he says.

  • • •

  In history the next day, Emma is pretending like Dad’s reading never happened, like she doesn’t know Nick, which he tells himself he’s fine with. He has Nat to sit next to.

  Ms. Knight hands out a questionnaire to the class. “By now you should have started asking your parents about their heritage and what, if any, roles in history your family has played. Don’t worry if there’s nothing dramatic or exciting. This questionnaire should cover almost every sort of family. It’s very general, but it’s a good place to start. Ask one or both of your parents all the questions. If they can’t answer, don’t worry about it. At the end, you can tell me, based on the answers, what moment of history you’d like to do your paper on. But if you don’t know, don’t worry, just leave it blank, and I’ll look over the answers and email you some suggestions. This is due Monday, so you just have the weekend.”

  Nick flips through the questionnaire. It is six pages long. Next to him he hears Nat murmur, “Oy vey.” Suddenly he has a memory of a similar homework assignment when he was little—in grade school. A list of questions about himself that he had to write the answers for: favorite color, favorite food. For the first one, he wrote “blue” in blue crayon, just to show how much he loved it, but he wasn’t sure about his favorite food, so he looked up at Mom. They were in the kitchen and she was at the stove.

  “Mommy, what’s your favorite food?” he asked, hoping she would help him decide between mac and cheese and chicken nuggets. Mom turned away from the stove, where she was making mac and cheese. The smell of it filled the room, yellow and salty. She wiggled her eyebrows and grabbed a piece of paper from the notebook on the counter and wrote something down on it, then tore off the page and folded it up.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. Nick closed his eyes. This was his favorite kind of game—with little tricks and riddles, hidden messages. Sometimes there were notes under his pillow, sometimes before dessert he was given a drawing of three objects and he had to figure out where in the house was an area of equal distance from each of them. “Okay,” Mom said, and he opened his eyes. “Now, where do you think I would keep my favorite food?”

  Nick looked around the room, and at first headed for the refrigerator, which he could get open with a strong pull. He looked on the shelves and in the drawers at the bottom, but there was no piece of paper. Then he tried the pantry, the big closet with the cereal and potato chips, but there was no paper there, either.

  Suddenly it dawned on him, and he ran up to Mom. She was wearing a hoodie with a kangaroo pocket in front, over her belly, and he reached into it and took out the folded paper. He unfolded it and sounded out the word.

  “Pie-kles,” he said. But that wasn’t right. “Pickles!” He scrunched up his face. “Ew.”

  “I used to love pickles,” Mom said, stirring the pot on the stove. “They were hard to get, but I loved them.”

  Nick went back to his questionnaire and wrote “mac and chese” in orange crayon.

  “Did you decide if you’re going to do your mom or dad?” Nat asks in a whisper, bringing Nick back to the present.

  “My mom,” Nick says.

  “Me too,” Nat says. “She was born and raised in Chinatown in the city, and her family still owns a restaurant there…but that’s all I know. I don’t know when or why exactly they came here or anything. Grandma doesn’t talk about it.”

  “Does your mom cook?”

  “Yeah. She’s the head chef at Chinatown Palace, and she owns it, too. You know, it’s in that little shopping center off Green Street?”

  “That’s where the bookstore my dad always reads at is,” Nick says, too loudly, because Ms. Knight clears her throat and glares at Nick. “Sorry, Ms. Knight.”

  “So, you all read up on the causes of World War One last night,” Ms. Knight says. “Or were supposed to. Anyone want to explain them?”

  • • •

  After history, Nick and Nat walk to lunch together.

  “That’s awesome that your dad reads there,” Nat says. “Next time, you should come over for dinner after. I can tell you what’s good on the menu.” Nick nods but isn’t sure he’s ready to go to Nat’s restaurant, explain why his mom isn’t there. He’ll do it after he gets her out of the home.

  They get in line for food—Nick has another Dad-made sandwich, but he needs something to wash it down with. Something strong, probably. “If your mom’s a chef,” Nick says, “why don’t you bring lunch from home?”

  “Oh,” Nat says, looking at the tater tots, “it’s weird. I mean, I like the food my mom makes, but it smells funny and I eat it with chopsticks, and in middle school the kids used to make fun of me or gawk at me or kvetch about the smell, so I stopped.”

  “I don’t know how to use chopsticks,” Nick says. He takes a bottle of cranberry juice. Strong flavor.

  “Come to the restaurant and I’ll show you,” Nat says. “I usually hang out there after school until my dad gets home from work. You should come tonight! On Fridays, dad is always home for dinner. I bet you and your parents could come, too.”
<
br />   “I can’t tonight. I have a thing,” Nick says. He thinks about saying he’s going to see Mom, but he doesn’t want to explain where or why or anything, so he just smiles apologetically. “Next week, maybe,” he says.

  “Let me know when—I’ll save you the best table,” Nat says, smiling. They go sit down at their own table. Nick twists open his bottle of cranberry juice, and just as he does it, he feels a light smack on the back of his head, making him spill juice on his tray in a small puddle, like blood.

  “Hey, freak,” says Charlie. His new friends from the other day are with him, like a band of hulking highwaymen.

  “Don’t call him that,” Nat says. “Just go away.”

  If Nick were Severkin, he could handle this. But he’s just Nick, and he can’t even look Charlie in the eye. He feels frozen, stiff as a corpse. He can feel Charlie turning his attention on Nat, and for a moment he feels grateful—not to Nat, for standing up for him, but to Charlie, for ignoring him. And then he feels guilty and weak.

  “Did someone take a dump on your face?” Charlie asks Nat. The boys behind him laugh. “Seriously, though, was it a dump? It doesn’t look like dirt.”

  “They’re freckles, you schmuck,” Nat says. “And don’t think I haven’t heard all these lame jokes before. You wanna play connect the dots on me, too? ’Cause I don’t think you’re smart enough to remember the rules.”

  “You think I have trouble remembering things,” Charlie laughs. “I’m fine at that. Nick’s the one with memory problems. So if you were hoping he’d play connect the dots all over your body…well, like you said: He’d have to remember the rules.”

  “Piss off,” Nat says. Her voice is strong, but anyone paying attention—and it feels like the whole cafeteria is—knows it’s a weak response. It’s not Nat’s fault. She doesn’t understand Charlie’s weapon. She doesn’t know how to counter or block it.

  Charlie and his friends laugh and then move on like a herd of animals. Nick just stares at the spilled cranberry juice on his tray.

  “God, what a jerk,” Nat says.

  “He wasn’t always such a bad guy,” Nick says, watching Charlie trail off with his new pack.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Nat says, shaking her head.

  Nick shrugs. “We were friends. Then it changed.” There’s silence for a while. Nick doesn’t want to explain why it changed, about his mother’s bad day. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “So,” Nat says, her tone light, dispelling Charlie’s existence, as though she’s restarting from a previous save. “I couldn’t find you last night. How long did you get to play?”

  “Not long. I didn’t want my dad to catch me playing before I’d done my homework. I think I can probably only play on weekends now, with school.”

  “Yeah, me too. School sucks. And we still can’t talk about the game.”

  “Not till we meet in the game.” Nick nods. “But school isn’t so bad, right? I think Ms. Knight is okay.”

  “Oh yeah,” Nat says, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I just mean it sucks that we have less time to play the game. Oh, and Mr. Wredge. He sucks.”

  Nick laughs. “I don’t have him,” he says.

  “You’re lucky. You have Briggs?”

  Nick nods, and they talk about whether or not they think Briggs is going to be a good English teacher, and they compare other teachers and classes. Nat tells him about her grade school, and Nick tells her about his, and Nick forgets how weird his lunch tastes and forgets about Mom and just enjoys the talking, the way Nat’s face scrunches up and her mouth moves, and then they go to their next classes, and Nick feels pretty good.

  • • •

  After school, Nick finds Dad in the parking lot and gets into the car. They don’t say anything, but Dad starts driving, and Nick turns the AC down because he feels chilly.

  “It might be a little weird,” Dad says after driving twenty minutes, “seeing Mom now. She has a new routine, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Nick says, though he wants to roll his eyes. She’s staying at a hotel, he wants to say. She’s fine.

  “Just don’t be upset by anything, okay?”

  “Okay,” Nick says.

  When they show up at the home, Nick realizes he’s sweating, and wishes he hadn’t turned off the AC. They pull into the white gravel parking lot and walk to the porch. Mom is waiting there, sitting on the swing and sipping lemonade, talking with one of the aides. The aide sees them first and points. Nick’s mom turns and smiles.

  “My family,” she says. She gives Nick a big hug. Nick feels a sudden relief, like he’d been holding his breath and now he can release it. But Mom smells different. She still has the smell of mint and orange, but she also smells a little medical, like a hospital. “I’m so happy to see you,” she says, then lets go of Nick and kisses Dad for a long time. Nick looks away, but he thinks he hears Mom sigh a few times. He hopes they’re not going to kiss like this every time now that they live apart. They never did before.

  “Come upstairs,” Mom says. “I can show you everything I’ve been doing.” Maria, the nurse who checked them in, appears in the doorway, and Nick’s mom smiles and hugs her. “Maria, my family is here! Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s great,” Maria says, nodding at Nick, who nods back.

  “We’re going upstairs,” Mom tells her.

  “Okay, but I think they’ll probably have to go in an hour, okay Sophie?”

  “Oh,” Mom says, and looks down, sad. “Right. Of course. Well, let’s hurry then.”

  They follow Mom upstairs. She’s all smiles, and sometimes she cocks her head to one side in a girlish way. In her room, Mom sits on the bed and throws her arms up.

  “You seem really happy,” Dad says.

  “They’re very nice here,” Mom says. “I miss you, though.”

  “We miss you, too.”

  “Look, I did some paintings in an art class I take.” She goes to the large windowsill and takes a pile of papers from the sill and puts them on the bed. Nick isn’t looking, though—his eyes are darting around the room, looking for the shoebox, some photo albums, clues. Something. But, like a hotel room, the place is immaculate—every drawer closed, the closet shut. He’d probably get in trouble if he just started flinging everything open in front of his parents. But how to sneak in here alone?

  “Mom,” Nick says, his eyes still scanning the room, “I have to do this project for history class. I have to find out how my family was involved in some sort of historical event.”

  “Oh, of course!” Mom says. “You started seventh grade. I’m sorry I forgot. How are classes? You’re so grown up, Nicky.”

  “Classes are good,” Nick says. “But like I said, there’s the project for history class. And I thought I could interview you about the fall of the Berlin Wall. You were there, right?” Mom’s smile fades. Nick takes off his backpack and takes out the questionnaire Ms. Knight gave them.

  “Oh, I don’t think I want to talk about that,” Mom says.

  “Please, Mom? I’m curious. It’s for a project.”

  “Why don’t you just interview me, Nick? Our family has been involved in lots of historical moments. You know your great-great-grandfather was one of the first black men in the army?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I know,” Nick sighs. “I know everything. I want to know about Mom. So, Mom,” he says, looking at the questionnaire, “first question: Were there any historical events you personally lived through? Well, I know the answer to that one….Let me find something more…” He flips through the questionnaire, past all the initial questions he can already answer, looking for something that might give him some real answers. “Here. Mom, what do you remember about your life before the fall of the wall? How did your parents make a living?”

  “Oh, Nicky…” Dad sits down next to Mom and puts his arm around her shoulder. Mom takes a deep breath. “Well. What I remember is fear, Nicky. It was terrifying. You didn’t know who you could trust. I had a friend—I don�
�t remember his name. And he…Why can’t I remember his name?” She pauses and shakes her head. “Scheisse,” she says in a deep growl. “Sorry. I…This man, he was taken away one night. None of us—my other friends. We didn’t know what he had done, or if we would be next. It was like that, all the time. But also, wanting to escape…I had another friend, she…” Mom sighs.

  “Why don’t we let her think about it, Nick?” Dad says. “She can write down things as she remembers them and give them to you next time you visit. Okay?”

  “The questionnaire is due Monday…,” Nick says. He looks at Mom. Her hair has fallen into her face in smoky wisps, and her face looks like it’s covered with a spiderweb of lines and white hairs. She looks so sad.

  “I bet I could answer a lot of the questions for you, Nick. Tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay,” Nick says. Mom is silent.

  “Oh, look, Nick, Mom did a painting of you.” Dad takes the top painting off the pile his mother had brought over and shows it to Nick. It’s a reproduction of the photo of him she has on her nightstand. It’s well done, in watercolors, so his edges seem to bleed out a little into the background. It’s careful, though. Loving.

  “That’s really good, Mom,” Nick says. Mom smiles at him.

  “Oh, and this one,” Dad says. “Beautiful, Sophie. And so imaginative.”

  Nick takes the second painting from Dad and stares at it. His body is pricked by a hundred icicles, and he thinks he should shiver, but he can’t move. It’s another watercolor. It shows a bridge over a ravine, bright blue water rushing under it. On the bridge are some buildings, and below it, suspended by wet lines of brown, are platforms, with other buildings on them. People, small blurs of color, walk between the platforms on bridges and spiral staircases. Some men on the bottom platform are fishing in the river.