Hello (From Here)

by Chandler Baker

  Slowly, he raises his head and looks at me. It’s like he senses it, like he knows that Arlo’s really and truly gone. I take out the bag of baby carrots I’ve brought with me. Slowly, he rises to his feet and pads over. He sniffs at my hand, his nose wet and sloppy against my skin. His tail slowly begins to wag, then more insistently. I push the carrots toward him and he takes one carefully between his teeth. I scratch between his ears. He’s probably self-conscious without his bow tie, poor thing.

  “So, you going to take him or what?” The guy asks.

  “I—” Of course that’s what he would think. Of course that’s what I want. “I’m sorry. It costs a lot of money at our apartment to have a dog. Plus my mom’s allergic.” There’s a security deposit. And it’s an extra fifty dollars a month at least. I’m realizing that I can’t ask my mom for this. Not right now. I just can’t. “What will happen to him?” I thought what I needed was to see with my own eyes that Chester was safe, but standing here now I don’t feel that way at all. I just want to bring him home.

  “There was a run on all the puppies right at the start of everything, but not a lot of foot traffic lately. Especially for the old ones.” He stretches his back and looks around. “If he doesn’t get adopted, he’ll be put down eventually.”

  “Put down?”

  “I know. It’s a tough break.”

  I stretch my fingers out and Chester licks them. Arlo alone. Chester alone. I’ve always prided myself on being just fine on my own, but maybe that’s not such a great thing after all.

  chapter eighteen

  JONAH

  The little white pill sits on the desk. Some days they are shining beacons of hope, and others the white flag of surrender . . . a reminder that I need to have my happiness packaged in a bottle. It’s my last antidepressant, but Kate is picking up my prescription today, and soon I will have another hundred days of happiness sitting in my drawer.

  But this pill is also a reminder that I can’t always trust my own brain. That it can trick me. That it can make mistakes, or lie to me, and it can get people hurt.

  And now I might have just messed up the one bright spot with my ill-fated virtual dance. I guess I wanted to pretend things could be normal . . . and instead I reminded her that we are a million miles from normal right now. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I don’t even know where to start.

  And it’s not the only thing on my mind.

  I pop the pill with a drink of stale Dasani. The anniversary is in two days. It stalks closer, a looming spectre hanging over everything, and this third round feels like it’s going to hit me hard in a world of triggers. I check my last messages with Max. Still nothing since last night . . . a string of awkward apologies and awkward assurances that we’re both “fine.” Yeah. I made Max cry at a made-up formal. That’s fine.

  I glance at the window, at the message on the glass, written in a permanent marker because I’m an idiot, though it’s fading a little more every day. Maybe faster some days. Kate has been on my case to wipe it off. She says it looks like we live in a frat house, which feels a bit overdramatic, but hey, pick your battles, I guess. I sigh and go find some Windex.

  Of course, I wrote it on the outside of the window, so I have to open it up and get into the same weird, contorted pose with my back against the window frame.

  “Don’t do it,” a sarcastic voice says.

  I twist around and see Olivia standing on the front lawn, inspecting some new item she has ordered. She actually looks somewhat composed today. Her hair is still a frizzy auburn supernova, but she isn’t wearing a housecoat or silk pajamas, and she seems to have mustered up some capri pants and an actual T-shirt, which is a small miracle.

  “What’s your deal?” I ask, flipping myself back into scrub mode.

  It must have been a damn good marker, because it’s just smudging more with every wipe. I spray some Windex and end up getting half of it in my mouth.

  “Virtual classes have resumed,” Olivia says. “I have an evening class later.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to stop building pergolas and opening pottery barns?”

  “I suppose. I just bought this processor so I can try my hand at bitcoin mining.”

  I groan, managing a last good scrubbing, and then check my progress. The message is gone. I already miss it.

  “If you’re going to space out, dearest brother, try not to do it while hanging out a window.”

  I grunt and slip back inside, peering down at her. “Is it rude if I close this now?”

  “Yes. What are we going to do this year?”

  “With—”

  “With Mom. You know it’s in two days.”

  I look away. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “I would like to do a memorial. I thought maybe we could plant a tree in the yard.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She stares up at me, slipping the box into the crook of her arm. “Kate thought it was—”

  “Kate doesn’t get a vote. I don’t want to do anything.”

  “So you’re going to lock yourself in your room? Not talk all day again like last year?”

  “Probably. Is that allowed?”

  “Well, I am going to do something this year and plant a tree. I want a place to talk with her, since I can’t exactly go walk around the cemetery right now. I want to remember my mom. And it would be nice if my little brother would join me. I have already prepared a few words.”

  “And I am sure it’s a masterpiece like everything else you do. I won’t be there. I just want to get through the day.”

  “You really are selfish,” she snaps, shaking her head. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. My mourning process is about me. Because mine is different from yours.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know . . . it’s much worse—”

  “It is!” I shout, which I apparently like to do these days.

  “This is what you do. You make up little narratives in your head and we’re all just characters. You narrate. You choose what happened. You disregard whatever facts you want. Hop over to my story for a minute or two, Jonah.”

  “You are fine! Look at you. You’re about to mine freaking bitcoins.”

  She smiles thinly. “Of course. I’m fine . . . you decided that. Why bother asking?”

  Olivia walks inside, leaving me alone with my head out the window, and I see Mrs. Clodden across the street smoking and eavesdropping and I just scowl and close it. No more hopeful words. Just the steady midday sun beating in through the glass.

  * * *

  • • •

  I close the blinds and flop into bed, checking my phone. Still nothing from Max. So instead, steady scrolling through TikTok. Little intervals of happier lives. Choppy fragmented glimpses into all the things I don’t feel like doing. I toss my phone aside.

  Carlos F. Santi: Do you ever think about the meaning of life?

  Jonah: Do you???

  Carlos F. Santi: No but I did today. I figured it out

  Jonah: . . .

  Carlos F. Santi: See I thought it was about being happy. But it’s not

  Jonah: Thank goodness

  Carlos F. Santi: It’s about love

  Jonah: oh god

  Carlos F. Santi: Because it’s HARD. You experience all these emotions and it makes you question like why am I even here? But then it works and it’s the greatest thing in the world

  Jonah: Are you dating someone

  Carlos F. Santi: Maybe. But just on the computer. I promise

  Jonah: SO WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE

  Carlos F. Santi: To love one special person!

  Jonah: I thought there were *multiple* peas

  Carlos F. Santi: You just pull the other ones out! Throw them away, man! Then there are only two left, and sure, the pod is kind o
f messed up and maybe they’ll fall out but still

  Jonah: please stop

  Carlos F. Santi: What I am saying is, you just need to show her how you feel

  Jonah: I just invited her to a virtual formal and she wept!!!!!!!!!

  Carlos F. Santi: Honestly I thought the idea was pretty cute. It was like magic.

  Carlos F. Santi: But maybe it just needs to be simpler?

  Jonah: . . .

  Jonah: I just wish I could see her

  Carlos F. Santi: So do something special for her. But, like, not so complicated. SHOW her how you feel, dude. Take your shirt off . . . well not you, but like in a metamorphosis sense. Like play to your strengths

  Jonah: Metaphorical, Carlos. It’s metaphorical. What are my strengths again

  Carlos F. Santi: You know a lot of words. And you got that dimple. *Use the dimple, Jonah* (like imagine that in Obi-Wan’s voice!)

  Jonah: We’re done here

  Carlos F. Santi: Think I should make an IG post about all this? Like my meaning of life

  Jonah: Yes. Move over Confucius . . . Carlos F. Santi has this covered.

  Carlos F. Santi: What’s a Confucius?

  Jonah: goodbye

  Jonah: . . . but call me later I want to hear about the new guy

  * * *

  • • •

  I wish Kate would just surrender family dinners, but here we are. Here we always are. How was your day, Jonah? Completely useless? Super. Olivia? Oh . . . you built a time machine? Very nice.

  I am shoveling down a vegan meat loaf so I can flee back to my room, but it’s like eating sand and Olivia is glaring at me from across the table while Kate looks between us like a boxing referee.

  “Is something the matter?” she asks finally.

  “Are we vegan now?” I ask, forcing another mouthful down. “I didn’t get a vote.”

  She exchanges a knowing look with Olivia. I hate that look. It says: What ever shall we do with this boorish young gadabout? And yes it’s in an olde English accent. Kate smiles.

  “I thought we would try something new. We have discussed a lifestyle change.”

  “Vegan? Now? Shouldn’t we be storing canned goods or something for the apocalypse? The rest of the world is hoarding toilet paper and we’re going to secure the bok choy?”

  Olivia taps her finger on the table. “You know,” she says, voice drier than the meat loaf, “the kitchen is open. You are more than welcome to use it.”

  I want to yell but I probably am being an ass and I just take a breath. Picking a fight with everyone when you are trapped inside a box of emotions is probably not a good idea.

  “Thank you for dinner, Kate,” I grumble. “I love soy and chickpeas and . . . soy.”

  “It is rather dry,” she says, smiling through a sip of wine. “So . . . Wednesday.”

  Okay, never mind, this isn’t going to end well. “I won’t be there. I’m sorry.”

  She nods. “When I got divorced—”

  “Please stop talking about your surfer ex-husband. It’s not relevant. Did you reconsider what I asked you about this morning? Like at all?”

  “It’s just not the right time for a new addition—”

  I lay my fork down and sit back, folding my arms. “It’s the only time.”

  “I’m sorry, Jonah,” she says, shaking her head. “I know it’s been tough on you. I know you were looking forward to Paris—”

  “I’m stuffed,” I cut in. “I’ll do the dishes . . . just leave them.”

  “Spending the day with Max?” Olivia asks.

  I’m already heading for my room, but I stop, wary all of a sudden. “I planned something for the evening. We’ll be way apart from each other, though . . . so you’re both safe.”

  “Does this really make sense right now—” Kate starts.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t planned it all out yet. Are you going to forbid me from going? Lock me in my room? You wanted me to do something. So, I will.”

  Kate sighs. “I’m just going to ask that you make the mature decision.”

  “Much appreciated,” I mutter, hurrying upstairs and closing the door safely behind me. I managed to keep it together, I guess, but I feel my blood boiling. Not about Max . . . they have every right to ask. But I don’t want to talk to Kate about my mom. Ever.

  I grab my phone. I feel like I’m fighting with everyone right now . . . but at least one of them is definitely my fault. Possibly all. But right now, I just need to make amends with Max.

  Jonah: Okay I need to make a confession. I have terrible instincts. I get things wrong like 99% of the time and the other times are when I ask Olivia what to do. And the dance thing? Totally, inexcusably ill-timed. The world is on fire so let’s wear dresses and drink bubbly yay! But please know that despite any bumbling, stupid miscues (past and future) I really just want to play any small role I can in making this bad time a little better for you. And if we can share a popcorn one day . . . well, that would be nice too. You know how I feel. I wear my heart on my sleeve except I take it from there and throw it at people. I guess, in summary, I’m sorry, let’s never speak of virtual dances ever again, and I would love to watch TV in elastic-waist pants with you again soon

  I send it before I read it over because I know I’ll write fifty drafts otherwise. But then I do read it and yeah less was probably going to be more in this case. Though, in fairness, I started the text by admitting I suck at everything. I sigh and put the phone aside, figuring I’ll see if Carlos wants to play some Call of Duty, but my phone pings. I quickly scoop it up, seeing Max.

  Max: I could really use that right now

  I let out a long, relieved breath. But it also doesn’t really sound like Max . . . I was pretty sure I was about to get a comment about my melodrama, at best.

  Jonah: I’m ready anytime. Everything okay?

  Max: Not exactly

  Jonah: Can I call?

  Max: I’ll call in a sec. Just let me get myself together

  Jonah: Okay I’m freaking out a little

  Max: . . .

  Max: Arlo passed away. The hospital called me earlier.

  I sit back down on the bed, feeling numbness settle over me. I didn’t know Arlo very well. But I had bought in, hook, line, and sinker. I’d convinced myself there was a happy ending en route. A love story gone right. A little win for Arlo and my mom’s favorite cowboy.

  My anxiety rides the wave. I can feel the questions starting. But I push them away.

  For once, I realize this is absolutely not about me.

  Jonah: I’m so sorry, Max. Take the time you need. If I can do anything just let me know

  She calls me a minute later, and she’s in her pj’s, hair bundled up in a messy bun, big green eyes just a little red and puffy. I open my mouth to say something, but Max speaks first.

  “Can we watch really awful TV and eat everything?” she says.

  I smile. “Absolutely. Should I put on my duck jammies?”

  “That would be perfect.” She pauses. “There is one other thing you can do.”

  “Anything.”

  “Can you send me Winter’s email? I . . . I think I’d like to be the one to tell him.”

  “Of course. I really am sorry, Max. I know Arlo meant a lot to you.”

  She nods, and her eyes look a bit glassy as she drops onto the couch. “Me too.” Max glances at me, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “And . . . you do, by the way.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make it better,” she says quietly.

  I just nod too, because that means everything, and I don’t know how to say that.

  “But, yeah, I’m really going to need you to change into those duck jammies,” Max says.

  “Max, if there is one thing I w
as born to do, it’s to spread happiness via flannel waterfowl.”

  chapter nineteen

  MAX

  I blame Baader-Meinhof.

  I have no idea if that’s a person or what and, even if it is, let’s face it, he’s probably dead, but that won’t stop me from deciding that this is basically all his fault.

  I wake up to the sound of my mom’s coughing.

  Baader-Meinhof is basically that phenomenon of having a frequency bias. Like I hear a song for the first time and suddenly I’m hearing it everywhere. It’s driving me crazy, I’m hearing it so much. But am I really or am I just suddenly aware of it?

  Through my thin bedroom wall, I listen to the staccato bursts of my mother’s coughing. Baader. Freaking. Meinhof.

  I kick off my sheets and nearly trip over Sir Scratchmo, who doesn’t seem to be aware of anything other than a diamond patch of sunlight on the carpet. My mom is a lump in her bed, shifting in the dimness of her bedroom.

  “Mom?” I murmur from the threshold. The room smells stale. She turns and her eyes shine in the gray light. “Are you okay?”

  She scrunches up the pillow underneath her head. Her black hair splays out into veins on the pillowcase. “Are you leaving for work?” She sounds like my mom and I don’t know what I’d been expecting.

  “In a little while.” My shoulder leans on the doorframe. I’m still in my favorite pair of gray sweatpants, the ones that are fuzzy inside and that my mom sometimes tries to steal when she thinks I won’t notice because they’re really that comfortable. “Are you sick?” I ask, not sure I want to know, worried that if I do, I might realize that I already did.

  “Just allergies.” She looks relaxed, calm, like she’s getting ready to drift off to sleep, and I try to let some of that energy rub off on me.

  “You’re sure?”

  There’s a long beat. “The pollen’s been terrible the last few days. You haven’t noticed?”