Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  He and I don’t speak again for months, even though he’s always at my boyfriend’s house, smoking on the sofa. But a few weeks later, one of my boyfriend’s friends told me it was my boyfriend who’d beaten Eiju. Either the morning of our date, or the evening before. He’d gone to his apartment and sat on the sofa and then beat the life out of his cousin. I didn’t believe that at first, and when I asked my boyfriend, he denied it. But he was lying, and I could tell. The truth came out. He told me he was too ashamed to tell me. He was afraid of losing me, he loved me so much, and I told him that whatever we’d had was over.

  I stopped going to my boyfriend’s apartment, so Eiju had to come back to me. And eventually he did. In the middle of the night. Fully dressed in a suit and a jacket, looking like a clown. I asked if he’d been drinking, and of course he had, but he said he wanted to take me out. By then, I knew better, but I figured it was the least I could do. I told him we weren’t going anywhere too far. So I changed into some slippers, and I threw on a jacket, and we ate at the curry place across the road.

  The whole meal, all Eiju talked about was how good the curry was. But I’d grown up with it. I’d been eating there for years whenever I was in Osaka. He ordered one bowl, and then another, and I asked him why he hadn’t told me it was my boyfriend who’d done it. And, Michael, your father looked at me with food in his mouth, and he said, For one thing, you wouldn’t have believed me. You would’ve thought I was bullshitting. But the thing about guys like that is they eventually show their asses, and you liked him too much. It would’ve fucked you up if I’d said anything, if you hadn’t found out on your own.

  Mitsuko stops cutting at her food. She looks at the space between us in the booth.

  I told Eiju that it hurt more to find out that way, and he said it wasn’t the same thing. Not even a little bit. He said there are some things that it’s better for us to find out on our own. He didn’t want to be the one to tell me that. It wasn’t how he wanted me to think of him.

  And that was it, says Mitsuko. Eiju walked me back home. He didn’t even pay for my meal. Barely had enough money to pay for his own.

  * * *

  By now, Mitsuko’s finished slicing up her meal. She’s also tanked her third margarita, fondling the lime beside it. Behind us, a quartet of teens has assembled in mariachi gear, settling into their stances to start in on a birthday tune. The woman they’re serenading beams beneath a hijab. Her friends sit alongside her, clapping as the teens strum along.

  So, says Mike, what was the point of all that?

  Point, says Mitsuko.

  The point of your story, says Mike.

  What are you talking about, says Mitsuko.

  The point is that this is how you came to be, she says. One thing happened, and then another thing happened. We didn’t think about whether it would work or not. We just did it.

  You’re not making any sense.

  You just don’t want it to.

  No, says Mike, laying down his silverware.

  Dad told me, says Mike. A few days before he died, he told me about how he waited for you. I didn’t even ask him. He just told me.

  Dad flew to Japan, said Mike, and we were supposed to follow him. You made sure that we didn’t.

  I look at Mitsuko. I look at the saltshaker on the table. The noise in the booths surrounding us seems to decrease all at once.

  Of course that’s what Eiju told you, says Mitsuko.

  Because it’s true, says Mike, isn’t it?

  Dad told me how we were supposed to follow him to Japan, says Mike, wiping at his eyes. That’s why he left. He went ahead, and we were supposed to follow. But we didn’t, because you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to put us back together.

  Mike’s looking at his mother now, staring her straight in the eyes. Only, now, he’s tearing up. When the tears start, they roll down his cheeks. I start to pass him the napkin in my lap, but he lets it fall, and Mitsuko’s right there beside him, but honestly, she’s already looking past him. She takes another sip of her margarita.

  Look, says Mitsuko.

  Let’s say, hypothetically, that you’re onto something, says Mitsuko.

  If you were right, says Mitsuko, it would change a few things. It would mean that Eiju really isn’t a monster like I’ve been telling you for the past sixteen years. Hypothetically, it would mean that I was at fault. That I broke up the family. For all his flaws, that would make me worse than him.

  Mitsuko runs a finger over her earring. She taps at the side of her margarita glass.

  But, she says, imagine what it would’ve taken to make that decision. To pull you away from your father. Think about how I would’ve thought that through. How it would’ve eaten me up. That would mean that I’d taken stock of the situation, and I’d decided that you growing up without him was better than growing up with whatever man your father could potentially become, whatever he had become when he left. That would mean that I believed in us—in you and me—more than I did in whoever your father might, just maybe, someday, become. And I would have to live with the consequences of knowing that I might be wrong. And that, if I was wrong, I could never take it back. If I was wrong, I would bring that decision to my deathbed.

  Mitsuko turns to watch the teens play their song until they’ve finished, cheering entirely too loudly. They look our way. One of them raises a fist.

  When our waitress reappears, she asks Mitsuko if she wants another margarita. She nods, and Mike shakes his head. He tells his mother that she’s finished.

  Bullshit, says Mitsuko.

  Ma, says Mike, still crying.

  Don’t Ma me. I made you.

  You haven’t taken a bite of your food.

  Benson. Tell him.

  I don’t really think it’s my place, I say.

  That’s your problem, says Mitsuko, crossing her arms. Both of you. That’s your issue right there.

  I’ll have one more, says Mitsuko, turning to our waitress. And I think that I’ll take all of this food to go. I think I’ll finish all of this later.

  * * *

  Mike takes the short way home, but there’s still a little time to look up at the sky. Once we’re in the neighborhood, he parks fast and unevenly, gets out of the car without looking at either of us, walks even faster toward the door, past the neighbors calling his name. I wait for Mitsuko, who steps out of the car, gingerly, before she ambles to the porch and plops down on our steps.

  Mitsuko opens her to-go box, unpacking the fork and knife. As she starts to eat, she looks at me. I sit down beside her.

  Fireflies buzz under the lone light above us. Everything is shrouded in gold. The Venezuelan mother next door is sitting on their porch, too, and she waves at Mitsuko, who raises her plate in return.

  We sit there, sweating, saying nothing. Fanning herself with her free hand, Mitsuko squints into the neighborhood, kicking her shoes off.

  And then, Mitsuko says, All I’m saying is, you two are fine.

  Okay, I say.

  You’ll be fine, says Mitsuko. You’ll figure this out. It’s not a waste, is what I’m saying. There are no wastes. Either nothing is a waste, or everything is a waste. But you two could do worse than each other, than being in each other’s lives. Do you understand?

  I do.

  So don’t be upset.

  I won’t.

  You have to promise, says Mitsuko.

  I promise.

  Good, says Mitsuko, lifting another forkful.

  We sit outside, watching the traffic, until all we can see is each other, but we don’t have to see everything around us to know that it’s there. And, eventually, Mike opens the screen door to say that Mitsuko really should get to bed, before she tells him that of course she knows that, does he think she’s never flown before?

  9.

  The first time is a memory that I’ve thi
nned down to the basics: We are, I think, walking through the neighborhood. I tell Mike that I love it, or that I could learn to love it here. He looks up entirely too quickly, but it’s too late, I’ve already seen his grin. But right there, at the height of a potential catastrophe, Mike points to a house and tells me that he loves the way it leans. I point to a cat sunning under a streetlight and tell Mike I love how it’s navigating the world. Mike points to the wildflowers growing next to the road. I point at the lamps above us. We both point behind us, below us, in the corners, through the windows of the houses we’re passing, at everywhere but each other, although of course I’ve since realized that this was an acknowledgment, too.

  10.

  The next morning, I wake up and look at my phone, and there’s a message from Omar: an assortment of hearts.

  There’s a message from Ximena: a selfie where she’s smiling, on a plane, with the kid in her lap and Noah cradling her elbow.

  There’s a message from my mother: she’s asking how I’m doing.

  There’s a message from Lydia: wondering when I’ll be free for lunch.

  And there’s a message from Mike: a series of photos.

  He must’ve taken them when I wasn’t looking. The first one is of me and his mother. And then there’s another one of just me. And then there’s one of our front porch.

  And then there’s one of my butt, filtered and expanded. And then there’s one of Mike, smiling into the camera.

  But it’s a real smile. And that’s the one I know I’ll remember. Regardless of how this goes. That’s the one that I save.

  * * *

  Mike’s already up, lying next to me and staring at the ceiling.

  When we’re finished dressing, Mitsuko’s sitting in the living room. She’s wearing the same clothes we picked her up in, the very same jacket and the very same shades.

  The drive to IAH is short. Mike’s crabby at the traffic, even this early. Mitsuko glances at me once, and then once again in the rearview mirror, and it’s early enough to count whatever ugly stars are still in the sky. The moon is an ugly purple, a shade I’ve only ever seen in this city, but one I’m pretty sure you won’t find anywhere else, and I know that I’ll look for it wherever I go.

  When we stop at Departures, Mike and I help Mitsuko with her luggage. Her son opens his mouth once, and then he closes it. Then he tells her that he’ll see her soon. Mitsuko asks if he means soon, or sooner, and before Mike can answer, his mother leans over to whisper something in his ear—and that’s when Mike’s face cracks, and he is bawling, again, with his mouth hanging open just a little bit.

  Then Mitsuko leans over to whisper something in mine.

  But instead of words, what I get is a kiss.

  So I watch Mitsuko take her luggage. She doesn’t look back as she steps into the airport. She turns the corner for her ticket, and she swivels up the escalator, and she ascends slowly, gracefully, beatifically, until she’s gone home.

  Acknowledgments

  Arlena and Gary.

  Alison and Patrick.

  Adam and Rachel and Sanda and Isaac.

  Thu.

  Alex.

  Joanna.

  Rhonda.

  Paul.

  Allegra.

  Nicole.

  Kuniaki and Yuji.

  Ryosei.

  Hiroyuki and Shinji.

  Aja.

  Szilvia.

  Na.

  Lou.

  The Riverhead crew.

  Lavina.

  Ashley and Min Jung and Raven.

  Laura.

  Danielle.

  About the Author

  Bryan Washington is a National Book Award 5 Under 35 honoree, and winner of the Dylan Thomas Prize and the Ernest J. Gaines Award for Literary Excellence. His first book, the story collection Lot, was a finalist for the NBCC’s John Leonard Prize, the PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize, the Aspen Words Literary Prize, and the New York Public Library Young Lions Fiction Award. Lot was a New York Times Notable Book, one of Dwight Garner’s top ten books of the year, and on best-of-the-year lists from Time, NPR, Vanity Fair, BuzzFeed, and many more. He has written for The New Yorker, The New York Times, The New York Times Magazine, BuzzFeed, Vulture, The Paris Review, McSweeney’s Quarterly, Tin House, One Story, Bon Appétit, GQ, The Awl, and Catapult. He lives in Houston.

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