Every new place they moved, Naima started again, and when she started again, her tics did, too. And when her tics did, too, those thoughts became more thoughts, and more, until they piled up into places that only made sense in Naima’s mind.
But maybe Dr. Rose is right (Dr. Tao in Albany, too, but Naima thought the clock that hung above her desk ticked too loud). Maybe everything does circle back to Ray leaving. Maybe Naima needs different medication and someone to talk to whom she trusts. Maybe she needs a more intensive form of trauma therapy to finally work through one of the greatest losses of her existence. Or maybe Naima should learn to get through life in a comatose state like opossums. Either way, she’s glad the Truvía commercials stopped. Besides, she’s moved on to a new commercial about psoriasis (all the touching grosses her out).
Except she’s stuck on the thought
The Truvía thing could be a coincidence
And not from her (many)(many)(many) complaints.
To think this means
Her voice means less
Than she hoped it did.
NAIMA
JJ squeezes out all the life left inside of me and I think, This is it—I’m dying now. My ribs collapse against my lungs until I gasp, thinking it’s the last breath.
“Let the girl breathe, Joelle,” Kam says. He gently tugs at her arm.
“I just want to hold her.” She stands back to get a full look, her tears seizing when I notice them. Kam’s hands are full of wadded-up tissue. He sobs in the open, unafraid to hinder his pain. Behind JJ, I see the giant portrait of Dad in his dress blues, staring at me.
Nell’s rushing in and out with my boxes cradled in her arms. She catches JJ’s hand halfway down my back. “She’s still not much of a hugger,” she says.
I wrap my arms around JJ’s small waist, laying my head to her chest. “I know,” JJ says. “Makes me never want to let go.”
Nell lingers beyond the door, almost longingly. “I wouldn’t.” Her voices goes quiet. Her face has paled, and beneath the same sunlight that favors JJ, a halo rests above her head. She almost looks approachable. Understanding. Almost.
I let JJ hold me until Kam offers to take the boxes from Nell. As he moves through the house at an Olympian sprinter’s speed—something JJ would normally comment on—the three of us form this weird triangle of silence. All of us feeling the space where Dad should be.
The next item Kam fetches is the urn.
His movements have slowed, the metal cradled gently in his arms. He stops short of JJ, offering the cold object with as much care as he might his newborn son. Their foreheads meet, and for an instant, they’re the only ones in the room.
“My baby, my baby,” JJ weeps.
“Our baby,” Kam cries.
Nell and I mutually decide they’ve earned this moment as much as anyone else and remain silent. One hundred twenty-nine seconds pass before they release their grip on the urn.
“Thank you for bringing him home,” Kam says to Nell.
She nods. “It’s where he belongs.” The word echoes, and I wonder, Where do I belong? Ivy Springs is home, but something is noticeably absent from this small town, from me; more than Dad.
“Put him at the table,” JJ says, stern. “In his chair.” Kam nudges the urn tight between the table and chair to hold it steady. The four of us stare in disbelief at the very thing every one of us prayed could never be.
We dry our eyes and wipe our noses (I use the antibacterial sanitizer on JJ’s counter after) and in seconds, shift to different positions. JJ to the stove, where she cooks to dull the aches. Kam to retrieve my stuff so he can hide behind objects instead of feelings. Nell in everyone’s way because she’s determined to be the ever-present sun around which we revolve. Dad in his chair, where he belongs.
Thirty seconds after Kam kicks open the bedroom door their eleven-year-old blond Pekingese monster, Hiccup, comes barreling toward us. With his grungy, greasy hair and short, stumpy stride, the little fur ball zips from point A to point B in—what he feels to be fast, but what we see is—slow-mo. He’s panting through the charge. Nell backs so far into the wall, she becomes part of it, screaming and yelping rivaling Hiccup’s stream of noise. They’re essentially barking at each other and it’s the best thing I’ve seen in ever. I want to snap a photo, forever marking the moment, but hear Dad telling me to give her a break. Reluctantly, I do.
“Hiccup—crate,” JJ shouts with a damning finger pointed toward the door from which he escaped.
He ignores her, or doesn’t hear the command (he’s partially deaf in his right ear), chewing the hem of my pants with a non-threatening growl. I hold out a hand, hoping he’ll remember my scent, or whatever, but no matter how many summers I’ve spent here, I’m a stranger.
“Crate!” JJ repeats. She’s snapping her fingers, but his cataracts only allow him to see what’s right in front of him, and right now, it’s my leg. We play this shit game every year. Meanwhile, Nell acts like it’s her leg he’s after. Her knee is hiked up to her chest, her face turned inward, eyes scrunched tight. Her hair flies from left to right like a Tilt-A-Whirl. Get a grip, woman.
“Damn it—Kam!—come get the damn dog!” JJ screeches. She has a hold of his faux-diamond-encrusted collar, but he’s had a taste of my pants, and he wants the rest of it. “GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!”
Footsteps pounce closer in a cheetah-like fashion. Without a word, Kam swoops an arm beneath Hiccup—who shuts up the second he’s midair and carries him back to his crate. JJ dramatically wipes her forehead with an exhausted sigh. “Sorry, Nell. I’ve seen Kam run faster for the cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings.”
“It’s fine.” Nell pats her clothes smooth, as if Hiccup came anywhere near her, or her yoga pants. “Dogs don’t like me.”
“Smart,” I mumble.
“What’s that?” JJ asks, glaring.
“Nothing.”
She swoops my hair off my shoulder and offers a vague smile. Our triangle of uncertainty resets. Nell moves in and attempts to do the same with the other side. I flinch.
“Sorry,” she says, quietly.
JJ steps between us, my umbrella from the storm. “I’ll take it from here.”
Surprised, Nell trips on her words. “Oh, okay. I, uh, I guess I’ll get going.”
There’s a pause. This is where I’m supposed to hug her goodbye. My feet refuse to move. A shadow cuts the space between us in half, an object that forces me to scrunch my toes.
“You know what? How about some food first?” JJ says, knowing neither Nell or I could move forward in this moment without her.
“Food would be good,” Nell replies, relief blushing her face.
A small, barely discernible breath escapes me. Either I’m dying again, or I’m home. Sometimes it’s hard for my brain to tell the difference. And while death is inevitable, home is where I don’t have to pretend, or wish, or wait. I just am. But it also hurts in a way nothing else does. A paradox.
JJ and Nell ignore me and talk about a 5K JJ organized and plans to run in honor of Dad, and how Kam wouldn’t run a race even if they offered a buffet at the finish. They share a laugh or two, but ultimately, the discomfort squeezes me like a juicer. I step outside from the constant buzz. Between JJ and Kam reminiscing about their time teaching at Ball State, Dad’s path veering away from a similar journey once he met Mom, and Nell’s stories about Christian getting into Stanford with a major that’s somehow correlated with his “appreciation” for fine arts and humanitarian efforts (he actually means he’s stoked to go to school far enough away that he can learn to do a proper keg stand), the noise makes me feel like I could combust any second.
Would you rather have Nell go to parents’ weekend at college or have no parents at all?
I go outside to the garden that’s brimming with—what else—strawberries, carefully stepping around the divots in the ground where Hiccup did his business. I lean down to smell the literal roses, when a sound beyond the fence catches my attention.
I lean closer, my forehead pressed into the stained wood.
“Hello,” a voice says. An eye meets mine from the other side of the hole.
Startled, I fall backward. “The fuuucck?”
“She means ‘who are you’ with a curl of the tongue—as if to judge before ever seeing past his cornea,” the voice says. “Perhaps she should look deeper. Into the soul, where his light shines boldly.”
“Uh.” I crawl back to the hole. There are solid black sneakers with toes wiggling against the tops.
“She continues to watch in anticipation of her fate,” he says. “More tonight on Dew’s News at 10.”
“What the hell are you saying?” My face is shoved up against the fence now, wishing the hole would expand big enough to see past this tiny picture of a person. “And stop tap dancing.”
He doesn’t reply, but instead, holds a recorder to the hole, blocking my view. The screen is aglow. He’s recording this—me.
“Total invasion of privacy, dude,” I say. “Like in an illegal way.”
He moves the device and exchanges it with his eye. It’s big and bright, brown with gold specks and lashes long and dark. The pupil dilates, zeroing in on me. Hard.
“Dew, actually.”
“That’s not a name.”
“Dew, short for Andrew.”
“Whatever, Dewwwd.” I stand to dust the dirt off my pants and turn to leave when he stops me.
“You have spectacular eyes,” he says. “Out of this world. They’re two shining constellations hovering over a planet that rotates through darkness. Well, I only saw the one. I assume there’s two.”
I take a step backward, feeling my cheeks streak with blush. I immediately deny myself the right to feel this way. “Why are you recording me?”
“I like interesting things.”
“I’m the least interesting thing ever created.”
“I report the facts. And the weather. But mostly facts. I saw you tapping your nose from my garage. That’s interesting. It’s why I tapped my feet. Similar to the way animals interact without words. You tap, I tap, Naima.”
“I’m not an animal.” I scoff, audibly. “Who told you my name?”
“Your grandparents entertain my presence when my parents are gone. They’re glorious souls. You must be so happy to have them.”
“They are, and I am. But stay out of my business. You don’t know me.”
He moves to stretch a hand over the top of the fence. “Then allow me to fully introduce myself so I may. Andrew Brickman. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
I ignore the gesture. “So you live there?”
“Yes.”
My brows knit. “Care to elaborate? Like where you came from, what your story is, why you’re stalking me?
He finally retracts his hand. “In due time.”
“You mean in Dewwwwtime.” I snicker, and to my surprise, he does, too.
“Exactly,” he says. “You’re as charming as everyone says.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“A gentleman never reveals his secrets.”
I walk backward, away—far away. “Okay, well, nice chat. DEWD. Later. Or not.”
“Farewell, fair maiden.”
My steps are slow as he continues speaking to himself.
“Lucky for us, Julie, this story ends on a positive note. Her eyes never abandon the empty space through the fence, the space where the odd boy stands. It’s as if leaving him meant leaving her purpose, right there, in between the sunken grass where her heart lay by her feet and his tap to lift it back up to where it belongs,” he says.
Uh. Who’s Julie?
A grunt pushes through my lips. Or, maybe a smile. I immediately tuck it away so as not to get used to the idea that a boy like that may ever interact with a girl like me in that way again. When my feet are on the concrete, my hand on the door, he belts out one last thought:
“Meeting you has been my greatest pleasure. Thanks for joining us.”
When I turn around,
He’s gone.
And I wonder if
I’ve imagined him,
Or if he’s imagined me.
Dad
cell
July 10 at 2:21 AM
Transcription Beta
“Hi, baby. The nurse said you’re making great progress. I’m so proud of you. I’ve done a lot of thinking and this is it. After this leg, I’m done leaving. Going home for good. I love you.”
No New Emails
In unusual news, boy suddenly understands the phrase “manic pixie dream girl,” fights hard to dismantle his problematic feelings.
Thomas and Stella scuttle around the kitchen to finish dinner, an intricate series of moves designed to avoid each other’s personal space, as I rush in completely and utterly breathless.
“She’s home,” I say.
“Who is?” Thomas asks. He’s still in uniform—navy slacks and a crisp white button-up shirt with mud caked to the hems—moving around me to arrange the table with our four plates and accompanying utensils.
“Naima. Naima’s home.”
They both stop and turn to face me. If it weren’t for the sizzling pan and oven air vent, you could probably hear a pin drop between us. “Did you … introduce yourself?”
“Technically.”
“After all you’ve heard about her since last summer, I know it’s exciting, but Dew, give her time to settle in,” Stella says. “She’s been through a lot and may not want everyone crowding her.” Thomas gives her a sharp glance. She immediately self-corrects. “I mean, you’ve been through a lot, too, which is why you’ll understand her need for space.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, barely able to contain my glee. “I don’t want to be a bother, but I think we can help each other.”
“Don’t force it. If she says leave her alone, do it. She’ll make the next move if she chooses. Even though you mean well, no means no, okay?”
“Understood.”
She redirects to dinner, scribbling notes along the margins of her recipe paper—she does this with every new meal she’s looking to blog about. You don’t become Lady Clean Cuisine, allergen-friendly food blogger, without trial and error—and a whole lot of adjustments.
“Faith, dinner,” Thomas shouts.
“Ask her about the magazines,” Stella whispers. “You’ll get bonus points.”
Faith stumbles in, eyes glued to one of the wrestling documentaries she’s binged on all week. Dr. Peterson suggested leaning into our interests, whatever they may be, so Stella obliged.
“What are you watching?” Thomas asks, innocently enough.
“Shh.” Faith waves her hand at him, eyes locked on the screen’s display. He looks to Stella for support.
Stella steps in. “Faith and I talked about finding a non-gender-conforming or all-girls wrestling team to join, didn’t we, Faith?”
“Shh.”
“Sounds cool,” Thomas says. He fills her plate and nudges it in front of her. “I was obsessed with ‘Macho Man’ Randy Savage when I was little.”
Faith ignores him, her eyes darting across the screen.
“I wrestled in high school. Didn’t love it. Apparently not the same as WWE. There’s no chair throwing or animals involved. Just double-leg takedowns and a lot of spandex.”
She forces the screen closer to herself.
He moves on and fixes plates for the rest of us. “Not sure about this chicken recipe. Smells weird.”
I take a bite. It’s bland and sort of earthy-tasting. “Delicious.”
Stella smiles. “Thanks, Dew. Never know with some of these recipes that call for ingredients I have to scour the earth for. Like arrowroot. Who automatica
lly has arrowroot?”
“We do,” Thomas says.
She purses her lips with an eye roll in his direction. “Because of the recipe.” Thomas winks. Her lips loosen into a smirk before she turns back to me. “Joelle said she’d have some apple butters ready in the next couple days. Maybe you can pick them up for me.”
My heart skips a thousand beats. “I’d love to.”
“Did you meet Naima’s stepmother? Nell, I think.”
“No.”
“From what Joelle said, the poor woman tries, but Naima never took to her.”
Faith looks up. Brows arched, stare screaming at us in some kind of deliberate way. We all catch it before she returns to the screen.
“I’m surprised we didn’t run into them last summer,” Thomas says.
Stella drops her fork so loud it makes a clang. Her eyes bulge in Thomas’s direction.
“What do you mean last summer?” I ask. “Naima was … here?”
She sighs, heavy. “For a short time, yes.”
“Secrets and lies,” Faith blurts. “Secrets. And. Lies.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask. My appetite suddenly vanishes.
Stella and Thomas connect through the small space, their stares speaking loudly as Thomas urges her to say something. “I wanted you to focus on you, Dew. Not get distracted. When you’re distracted, you lose track of time. And when you lose track of time, you spiral. Think of what happened in the last school, why we moved.”
Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 5