“We moved because Thomas transferred jobs.”
“To help you.”
I’m a bulletin board everyone’s eyes pin to. It doesn’t matter how right she may be, to what level of distractibility I’m capable of, or the depth of spiraling that’s occurred. It doesn’t matter how my parents’ death and getting a new family changed me from the inside out. I chew on my words carefully before they cascade off my tongue. “What did you do—plan our days and nights around avoiding her?”
Her posture sinks. “I may have spoken with Joelle, who revealed Naima had her own issues to work through.”
“So I would’ve been a distraction to her?” My words are heated, but I maintain my composure. “That’s what you really mean, right?”
Faith eats her food slow, but quiet. Listening, watching.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Stella reassures me, but her eyes avoid me. I hear a different truth between the syllables. The shame. The embarrassment of me.
I leave my plate and lift my recorder, pressing the button so it lights red. “Breaking news: Local boy sentenced to an entire year without the chance of meeting his one true love.”
“Dew,” Thomas says, “it’s not love when you’ve never met. Love is—”
“A verb,” I interrupt. My mother’s face comes into view, fading before it’s fully realized.
“I was going to say it’s complicated, and if you’re going for a forever kind of thing, it should be reciprocal. But yes—also a verb. Which is why you can’t say you love someone without knowing them. True love happens through the verbiage.”
“You say you love us,” Faith says. “And you don’t know me at all.”
“That’s not true. I know more than you realize.”
They pull the silence near, in an obvious wrestling of what to say.
“Why do you think Naima is your true love?” Stella asks with caution.
I see Faith’s hope hanging on whatever I’m about to say—as if I’m answering for the both of us, stepping into her shoes and mine, simultaneously.
“When I met Joelle, she had on August Moon,” I say.
Stella sighs with understanding; an exhaled relief. “I see. You thought it was a sign.”
I nod, try to avoid Faith’s stare in case I’ve let her down, if my answers aren’t relative to her own tornado of emotions.
Stella reaches for my hand. “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But I understand what you’re telling me.”
I feel a little lighter when she continues.
“I’m happy you’ve met Naima, and I’m sure you’ll be great friends, but for now, be considerate and remember she’s still very much grieving. So again, if she asks for space, respect her wishes.”
“Wow,” Faith says.
I grow heavy again. “Excuse me,” I say, abandoning my plate.
“That was messed up,” I hear Faith add as I tread to my room and collapse onto the crisp coolness of my bed. “He’s obviously looking for someone who understands that he’s still grieving. Even I get that.”
I don’t believe in Instalove, to be clear, but I’m a disciple of signs. And this hasn’t been instant—it’s been a long time in the making, thanks to Sergeant Ray and Joelle filling in Naima’s legacy portrait for me. The universe threaded Naima and me together long before last summer. I feel it in the places blotted out by pain. I imagine my parents twirling across our apartment floor, their smiles infectiously intertwined. I hold my stare on the twinkling particles and tip my hat. Showstopper.
NAIMA
“Who moved into Mrs. Langston’s old house?” I ask.
JJ, who’s adorned with an apron that looks like she’s wearing a bikini on the beach, is salting a big pot of boiling water. “I take it you’ve met sweet Dew.”
I walk over and lean my hip against the counter, propping my chin up on a closed fist. “What’s his deal?”
With a slight smile, she swirls the water with an old wooden spoon, never fully turning. “What do you want to know?”
I shrug, holding back my eagerness to ask every question spinning circles around us. “I don’t know. Where’d he come from?”
“You know where babies come from.”
“No,” I sneer, “where did they move from? People don’t move here unless they have ties. Does he … have … ties, or?” She knows what I’m getting at, but she prefers when I’m direct.
“He’s from the east side of Indy.” She turns with her whole body and we’re squared off. “Maybe you should ask your new friend.”
“Ooh, what new friend?” Nell interrupts. Her suitcase-size purse is slung over one shoulder.
“Nothing, never mind,” I say. JJ gently drops spoonfuls of dough into the water, carefully watching each one plump and float to the top. The secret Gi Gi (her mom) taught her was not to overmix, and to let it sit for ten minutes before boiling. While JJ was born into Puerto Rican cuisine like mofongo—fried plantains with pork—Kam, a Detroit boy at heart, was raised on American classics. Over the years, their cultures married, inviting a slew of menu mash-ups. These pillow-soft dumplings are the shit, and I’ll likely devour them before Nell and Kam ever get the chance.
“She met one of the new neighbors. He’s about your age, Ima.”
Nell’s eyes expand and though I keep mine hard-pressed to the boiling water, I feel her smile growing. “He’s your age? That’s great! You could use a friend.”
“You could use a business you mind,” I mumble.
“Naima Grace,” JJ says with a stern flick of the spoon. It splashes me with little pellets of hot water.
“I could lose an eye that way,” I say.
“Hiccup does fine with one good one. You’ll be okay.”
“You have no idea how many microbes are embedded into that wood.”
“I do. That’s why I use it.”
“Disgusting.” We share a brief chuckle. Sarcasm is the coping mechanism even JJ’s good Lord would encourage. Nell’s presence weighs it down. She slowly moves to put on her shoes, the ones with the strap behind the ankle, but can’t get the flap to slide into the metal slot. Her struggle grows when it slips from her fingers entirely.
“I thought you were staying awhile?” JJ asks, half disappointed, half relieved.
“I’d better get back on the road,” she replies, half disappointed, half relieved, her tone and cadence mimicking JJ’s as if she hoped we’d beg. We all know she’s going home to nothing.
“You sure?” JJ asks for good measure.
“Yes, but thank you.”
She hovers in the doorway again (it’s her thing), awaiting everyone’s farewell wishes and hugs and kisses, and all the things I’ve not given her in the years she’s been part of my life—seven.
With her hand on the doorknob she pauses. “A nice boy will be a good change, Naima. Maybe you’ll have someone to hang out with all summer.”
She doesn’t even acknowledge my taste is in people—because gender is fluid—and if I were into any person, it sure as hell wouldn’t be that kid. And because I can’t muster anything nice to say, I choose silence instead.
JJ moves away from the stovetop. “Nell might be right. You two have a lot in common. Could be good for you.”
“You and Mrs. Langston had a lot in common and you never wanted to hang out with her.”
She gives me the look. “She’s a thief. Stole my ceramic owl.”
“You don’t know for sure.”
“Saw it in the old broad’s window! Anyway, maybe you and Dew can help each other navigate, you know, life this summer.”
My toes scrunch up and release. The smell of apple cinnamon slowly simmering on the back burner scents the room—a scent that always reminds me of being here—reminding me of all the times Dad told me things that could be good for me. Breathing is overrated. School is the worst. “Friends” don’t get me.
“Doubt it,” I mutter.
“Oh, I don’t know, Naima,” Nell interjects. “If you actually get to k
now someone, you’ll see that letting people in isn’t so bad. It helps us feel less alone, you know?” She stares wistfully out the window to the car.
“K,” I say, “byeeee.”
JJ steps between us, a wall of empathy directed toward Nell. “It’s final. Stay, eat some dumplings, then go.”
“Or, just go.”
“Ima—enough,” JJ snaps. When she snaps, it’s not with a voice that stretches until it breaks, but a deep, assertive snip, as if she’s cut the words straight from the dictionary’s pronunciation guide. Each syllable slashes my eardrum, forcing me to stand at attention—just as she intends.
And without words, without a yes or a no, Nell falls into JJ’s arms and sobs like I’ve never seen her sob before. JJ rubs the back of Nell’s stringy hair, shushing and crying, too. I think about the way her fingers catch in pockets of tangled-up, matted mess from where Nell forgot to condition or overconditioned. I never remember which because I don’t keep mental lists with her crap on it.
We’re not a triangle anymore. They have merged into parallel lines, while I stand, perpendicular, alone. None of us talks about the reason we’re smashed together, with the damn urn nestled in the table chair looking on as the guest of honor. They begin to talk of the days Dad’s living body occupied the space, reminding me of the voicemail.
No. No. No. No. No. No.
Finally, after four minutes, thirty-six seconds (that feels like a lifetime), Nell tries the goodbye thing again, with more urgency to her tone. This time, I hope it sticks. This time, I hope she understands she has a home someplace else, where she’s welcome to grieve, but not in the space I need to.
“I guess this is it,” she says.
“Yep.”
“But I’ll see you soon?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, abruptly remembering some major things I’ve not seen. “Where’d you put my shoeboxes and flytrap?”
Nell hesitates. “I didn’t see any of that.”
My teeth grind. “What do you mean you didn’t see them?”
“I didn’t see either of those things. I got your big boxes from the front room, but I don’t remember a shoebox or plant.”
“It’s not just a shoebox and PS is more than a plant. You asked me to put my things by the front door before we left. I did that. Where are they?”
I see in her eyes she’s searching for the memory of what happened, with a sudden realization we’ve miscommunicated. “I meant the back door because I’d pulled the car into the garage.”
“But I need them. Especially my shoeboxes. Six. There are six. I need them. Like right now.”
“I’m sorry, Naima, I—”
“No,” I interrupt, heat flushing my cheeks. “Just bring me my things.”
Kam idles near. I see his hands waving through the air as if he’s trying to swat the negative energy. It’s as if he’s, in his words, exerting his energy in a charette—a super-intense period of design energy—something he’s done many times over the years, usually in bursts of creativity or inspiration. Dad said he designed the shed after discovering Mom was pregnant with me. Didn’t sleep for days.
“You should’ve mentioned them sometime during the drive and I’d have remembered I hadn’t seen them. Did you take your medicine this morning? You’re on edge.” Her voice challenges me, but in a way that suggests she’ll back down if I challenge back.
“I’m allowed to be upset about something I care about. I’m on edge because you’re still here. And yes—this is me—MEDICATED.”
“Naima!” JJ snaps. She whips the wooden spoon she’s washing on the counter with a clack. I can almost hear the germs writhing in pain.
“That was uncalled for,” Kam adds, his voice far less threatening.
My hands have balled up; my knuckles rub against each other. I do what JJ wants me to—not what I feel. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me, child.”
Nell sighs, disbelief glossing her eyes. “I never intended to ruin your life. I loved Ray, and I tried to take care of you, but I guess that was wrong, too. I’d better go.” She slings her purse over one shoulder, and JJ blocks the doorway with an embrace. Nell wants more from me. I’m not sure I have it to give.
I take one step forward. “When you find PS, don’t kill her because you’re pissed at me. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“What’s a PS?” JJ asks.
Nell speaks before I can answer. “She named her Venus flytrap after me.”
“Okay, so the P is for Penelope but what does the S stand for?”
Nell looks to me, smug. “You tell her.”
“Smellope.” Sorry, Dad.
“Mature.” JJ sighs, and Kam laughs but doesn’t let JJ see, triggering a stray bark from Hiccup down the hallway. “What in God’s high heavens do you have in a shoebox that’s worth all this fuss?” JJ asks. She waits only three seconds before crossing her arms and I know I’ve waited too long to answer.
I mumble the answer.
“What’s that?” JJ asks. She holds the spoon up to her ear. “Louder, please.”
“MARSHMALLOWS!” My chin tucks into my chest.
Nell fidgets. The patience in JJ’s voice has worn thin. This usually doesn’t happen until I’ve been here a few weeks. New High Score! Go, me! “I only had one in the car.”
She turns to Nell, points that spoon like a weapon. “Don’t you worry about no damn marshmallows. I’ll get her fixed up. You take care of whatever you need to.”
“I appreciate it,” she says quietly. “But I’ll make sure you get them. Okay, Naima? Okay?” The second “okay” is a plea. She wants me to be okay. If I’m not, then what? And if she’s not? And if we’re never okay again, will we still be connected?
I nod, reluctantly.
“I’m going,” she says. “I’ve done enough damage for one day.”
“You did no such thing,” Kam says. “We’re all in need of some grieving time.”
“Grieving time,” she repeats, voice trailing. “Yes. Time.”
JJ rubs her hand over Nell’s back and I can’t take my eyes off the way her nails catch and glide catch and glide catch and glide catch and glide catch and glide catch and glide.
Nell turns to me. “Remember to take your medicine, and get enough rest, and do your deep-breathing exercises like Dr. Tao suggested.”
She lingers, waits for me to hug her, but I don’t. “I know you won’t call, but you can text me anytime. If you want.”
“I’ll be on top of it.” JJ squares her hands firm on Nell’s defeated shoulders. Her movements are a series of choreographed movements she may have practiced in her head. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay through the Fourth? We have room.”
Nell’s eyes dart between us, her thoughts probably swirling. About staying in a house that was never hers, a place that could never know her the way it knows me, knew Dad. She can’t be a stand-in.
Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.
After a long pause, she speaks. “I have a lot to get packed up at the house. Ends to tie up. All of Ray’s … matters … you know. It never ends.” Her voice cracks. JJ pulls her in and again Nell sobs into JJ’s shoulder. I study my nails and think of the last time I filed them or painted them without picking all the paint off. My hands are dry and scarred. I think on this, and this alone.
When JJ releases Nell, I glance to the dinner table and notice the chair the urn is in has been knocked slightly askew. My brain shouts to FIX IT NOW.
JJ grabs my forearm and gently nudges me to Nell. “Don’t you want to tell her goodbye?”
“Bye.” I can’t look her in the eye, so I choose the top of her ear instead.
“Give her a hug.”
“That’s okay,” Nell says. She doesn’t mean it, I see. It’s not okay. I’m not okay.
We’re not okay.
I move closer. The world slows on its axis. Each step echoes. My feet are heavy like the marine’s boots on the airstrip in Dover, and when I r
each Nell, her arms open only slightly. They shake, fearful of my rejection, maybe, and it’s weird, but I think I like this about her.
I unexpectedly lunge toward her, hugging as hard as I can manage. She hesitates to reciprocate my strange affection, but squeezes back. Nell and I—this woman I loathe—are trapped in an uncomfortable embrace that lasts approximately ten seconds. It’s the longest ten GD seconds of my GD life. Nothing about it feels natural, but for the sake of giving her a semblance of peace before she goes, I give her all I’ve got.
When I peel myself away, all the tears that melted into JJ’s shirt are on mine as well. “Thank you,” she whispers, gracious. “Thank you, thank you.”
JJ lays a hand on my shoulder. “That’s my girl,” she says quietly.
Kam stands far enough back he doesn’t interfere. He’s a maestro, listening to a symphony. Nell is satisfied enough to step beyond the door, finally, and we’re free to redefine everything we know.
Would you rather hug Nell or swallow fire ants?
I think I’ll paint my nails today. Something dark.
Dad
cell
August 14 at 5:00 PM
Transcription Beta
“I heard you’re on your way back to Albany. I bet you’re happy to be done with treatment. Probably not so much about going back to Nell, Christian, and a home you didn’t have the time to settle into before all of this. Don’t worry—I didn’t tell Nell about your stay. As far as she knows, you danced the days away with JJ and Kam after I left. But if you want me to tell her, I will. Let me know when you’ve made it to the house? I hope school is better for you this year than it was in Ft. Hood.… I’m tired, Ima. I’m just … so … tired. I know you’re angry with me. I’m sorry the summer wasn’t everything you hoped. I’m just … so sorry.”
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Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 6