“Ugh. Not now, Dewd,” she says. “Ha-ha. Dewd.”
Her feet are swift, but I keep up. The longing to step inside her shoes hits me hard. “Did you have a suitable time at the market?”
She stops near me. “Is this you talking or the recorder? Because maybe you could ask me before putting my voice on tape forever.”
I shove my eye to the hole. “I hadn’t considered that disturbing fact. I’m sorry. It’s just me. See?” I refrain from telling her about my chat with Stella, though my trusty mechanical friend is still nestled in my pocket. I’m not quite ready to let it go.
“Well, ‘just me,’ you should consider other people’s feelings and I didn’t have a ‘suitable’ time at the market. I had a shit time. It was shit. LIFE IS SHIT.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, I often feel the same.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
“Why do you care? You don’t know me.”
“That’s one version of this story.”
She’s quick to move away. “My life isn’t a story to entertain you.”
“Of course not. But you’re a chapter in mine.”
“Stop recording me before I call the po-po.”
“It’s not on, I promise. I just … I need it close by. It helps me breathe.”
She makes a grunting noise—it shouldn’t sound sweet, but does—and moves farther away from my sight. “K, well, good luck with that,” she says, flashing her middle finger. “By the way, you smell like mother-effing strawberries, which I’ve decided I’m against. Puke.”
I gently pull the recorder from my pocket, with a devious smirk if there ever was one. “In today’s top stories, the magnificent creature is light on her feet, but not in her heart, marred by the cruelest of fates. The boy only hopes to one day change all that. She just has to learn to trust him. He only asks for her friendship, nothing more.”
As she disappears inside the house, my chest feels full of heavy pains that pull and stretch. I put my recorder away. “I only need a friend,” I mumble. Please.
NAIMA
“What was that about?” JJ asks when I walk inside. Hiccup barrels through the hallway, zigzagging toward me.
“Just—” I stop. JJ’s bent over the sink crying and pretending not to. I never know what to do when people cry. I walk up to her and awkwardly tap tap tap tap tap tap.
She sniffles, wiping away her own tears, with her own tissue, but won’t look in my direction. There’s a knock at the door.
“Can you get that?” She turns the faucet on to mute the sound of her sniffling.
“Sure,” I say with one last tap. My brain hates me for not following with five more. I tap my own shoulder to even things out. I’m careful to avoid the dip in the floor, off center near the kitchen. If I do these things, her tears will cease, Dad will rise from ash; everything will be sunshine and rainbows. Hiccup follows, nipping at my heels until Kam appears from the bedroom to pull him up.
“Didn’t know you’d be back so soon,” he says. Hiccup quiets, stares at me with the one good eye. “Thought you’d enjoy the afternoon out.”
“Wasn’t feeling well,” I say.
My hand is on the door when he stops me. Hiccup growls. He smells of a Caribbean vacation. Mangos and coconuts. “Is Grandma okay?”
I look to the kitchen, knowing what she’d want me to say—she’s fine—but can’t. To lie to Kam would cause me to combust or something. Must be all those years of ordering people around on the construction sites where everyone did as he said, without hesitation.
I avoid with a shrug and he knows. “Got it.” He retreats to the kitchen and wraps an arm around JJ, setting Hiccup on the floor. The faucet still runs, but she falls into his chest, her face masked by the fabric of his shirt. He lets her sob, as much as she needs. He sobs, too. Hiccup sits quietly at their feet and waits; grieves with them. Canine god, indeed.
I only watch for a second—it’s their moment, not mine—before opening the door to no one. Another thick blanket of warm air smashes against my face. A single red balloon bobs, its string tied to the mailbox. The mail truck pulls away—two hours past the usual 12:14 EST route.
I lift the package addressed to me, and slide my nail beneath the flap. My heart stops. For three whole seconds, I’m dead.
A rubber band wraps around a stack of letters—letters addressed to me via Albany, via Fort Hood, too. All returned back to Dad when I refused them.
In case of death, send to Naima Josephine Rodriguez at the address of Joelle and Kameron Rodriguez, Ivy Springs, Indiana.
Dad
cell
December 25 at 3:09 AM
Transcription Beta
“Merry Happy Feliz Holidays! I don’t expect you to be up spying on Nell as she fills yours and Christian’s stockings (trying to keep the magic alive), but when you’re up, could you call me? I’d like to talk to everyone. You, mostly. I had a strange dream last night. Your mom came to me and asked how you’re doing and I didn’t know the answer. It’s bothering me. I couldn’t go back to sleep. Call me?”
Email Draft (Unsent)
To
___________________________________________
Subject
___________________________________________
I heard Nell call,
I’m sorry I couldn’t
Talk or text,
But you’re right.
You don’t know
How I am.
And it’s mostly your fault.
But mine, too.
Because your voice and your words
Hurt.
Storms to pass quickly, humiliating experiences to stay.
From the safety of my bedroom window, I have a straight shot of Naima as she pulls the balloon off the mailbox. Her fingers lift the thread, the red latex bobbling high above, almost breathing in and out with her. From this angle, her reaction is shrouded by shadows, so I can only hope in holding a tangible memory of Staff Sergeant Rodriguez, she feels him soaking up the atmosphere like a phantom sponge.
As my hand lingers on the ribbon curtain, I glance at Violet’s number smeared across my skin. Before the faded numbers wash away, I punch the information into my phone, accidentally hitting Call as I save. I cancel immediately, but an instant later, my harmonic-waves ringtone erupts.
“Hello?” I ask, hesitant.
“Who is this?”
“Andrew Brickman.”
Violet sighs. “Jesus, man. Don’t call and hang up like that. Thought it was the ghost I met through a séance last week. I do not need to deal with that today.”
“I didn’t mean to make you paranoid. My finger slipped as I saved your number.”
“Oh, so I’m an official contact now?”
“Of course.”
“Sweet. I’ll save you, too. I mean your number. Not you—you don’t need saving. I don’t think. Do you? Gah—now I’m rambling.”
“I don’t mind. I quite like it when you ramble.” My cheeks heat through with a prickling sensation.
There’s silence and I’m not sure what to do. My mouth hangs open in search of a transition, but I come up empty.
“Well, Dew-Was-Diaz-Brickman,” she says, “I’m still at work so I’d better go.”
“As I said, I didn’t intend to speak, but what an unexpected misadventure this has become.”
“It sure has.” Her breath hangs between the receiver and my ear. It has a crispness to it I can almost feel on my lobe, like the times she’s leaned in to whisper, pulling my hairs straight up and out.
I should say something. I should. I can’t seem to.
“We were already astrologically connected, but since we’re contacts now in the most ceremonious of ways, can I call you later?” she asks.
My skin erupts in goose pimples. “That would be lovely.”
“Cool,” she says. “Very cool.”
“Okay, well…”
“Hold on,” she shouts with a muted fuzz—a hand over the receiver. “Big Foot’s crying about the steamer being clogged. You know what happens when he’s frustrated with technology.”
“He turns on the oldies station and reminds us of ‘the good old days’ even though he wasn’t born yet.”
“Exactly. No one wants to hear that shit today.”
“Then I shall let you go.”
“Later.”
She hangs up. I hold the phone in this exact position for some time, almost completely forgetting about Naima and her balloon. I move back to my spot near the window, but she’s gone. A mere blip.
“You have the whole world spinning like a top at your fingertips, my darling,” Mom would say. “How you decide to partake is up to you. Be an active participant—don’t sit around and wait for life to happen. Make it happen.”
I let the curtains drop to a close and pull out my recorder before the moment passes me by—a historic moment never yet achieved in the life of my two shoes. I press Record, and I smile.
Breaking story: Boy has actual conversation with a girl and doesn’t completely blow it. But give him time. He will.
NAIMA
As unimportant as it might seem to an outsider, knowing I did see a red balloon bobbing and weaving through town relieves me. I haven’t had vivid hallucinations like that since last summer, before my medication soaked through.
As I flip through the stack of familiar mail, dates of days past, I remember every time I checked the mailbox and received a letter. It hurt. It hurts still. I wish I could rip them open. I don’t. Seeing them reminds me of chances I had and wasted. Words Dad wanted to share that I rejected. Because he left. The pettiness eats away at me. Maybe I’m not human. Maybe I’m a fatal flaw; something Mom should’ve never carried to term. Maybe I did curse them like I always felt I had.
I count sixty-six letters, which I know is not a coincidence. JJ and Kam rustle in the kitchen. I’m not ready to talk. Quickly I run down the basement stairs and lay them aside. From the pile of blankets, my fingers trace the hexagons on my quilt. I count ninety, always ninety, and I need to see ninety and the balloon hangs here, watching. JJ and Kam move, their footsteps pounding above. If they come down, they’ll ask questions, wanting answers I don’t have. Why didn’t you open them? Why did you send them all back?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
I’m spiraling, I know. The balloon bobs. I search beneath my pillow for my anxiety medicine, popping a small pill into my mouth. Swallowing hurts, the threads of my quilt hurt. I hurt. I think about texting my therapist but can’t seem to move from this spot where all I want is to feel those damn threads and count the damn hexagons until the damn medicine saturates my veins. Sometimes it helps. Others, I’m left obsessing over why it didn’t.
The first letter Dad sent this last tour, I held it to my chest. I sat on the edge of the bed with it for forty-three minutes. I couldn’t open it. I don’t know why—I just couldn’t. It somehow felt like his last words. At the time, he explained why his leave was postponed, that he’d miss my birthday. I didn’t want another excuse because it didn’t matter. I’d already been in the intensive treatment program most of the summer, so I should’ve been able to read the damn letter. I was better, right? My brain was chemically operating on a “normal” level.
Not completely.
Through all the sessions and exercises and meditations and soul searching, one vein closed completely. I hadn’t intended for it to go this way in exchange for my so-called healing, but he was the primary cause. The only way to get through his absence was to erase him. I ignored his calls, deleted his voicemails, deleted his emails, and returned his letters. To punish him.
I’m sorry.
Dad
cell
January 1 at 12:03 AM
Transcription Beta
“Wish you’d have talked to me on Christmas. And could you stop sending my letters back? Read them, Ima. I’m trying here. Will you ever not be mad at me? [inaudible] Oh yeah. Happy New Year. Here’s to better times ahead. For the both of us. Not the way I wanted this to go. [sigh]”
Email Draft (Unsent)
To
___________________________________________
Subject
___________________________________________
I wanted to talk
But my brain wouldn’t let me.
It reminded me that talking
Is listening is caring
Is missing is hurting
And it’s not the way
I wanted the year to start
Either.
But I’ll likely stay mad
For the duration of your absence
Or risk falling, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling
Into the pain.
Update: Local boy did not learn lesson involving deathly strawberries.
I bake an infectiously pink strawberry cake with the most delightful of surprises baked inside. A dash of sugar here, a smidgen of vanilla extract there, I’ve forced my childhood incident far from my mind in hopes of conjuring up a little good fortune. I heed my sensitivities, baking a slightly alternate version of my mother’s fortune cake with Lady Clean Cuisine’s allergen-friendly blueprints as my guide. I know better than to taste the rose-colored confection, but the smell is as saccharine as I remember. The aroma sparks a vision of Mom twirling in her sundress beneath the kitchen light while Dad says, “Smells good enough to eat, Al.”
She’d hum August Moon and lovingly stir with the wooden spoon passed from her mother, my abuela, tasting the batter with her fingertip. Even if the cake failed her and became an under-baked lump, or a not-sweet-enough rectangle, or a flat disc that neither resembled strawberry pink or a cake at all, she’d look at me with a shrug and say, “All we can do is try, and sometimes that has to be good enough.”
The first time the cake came out picture perfect, she cried. Her hand over her mouth, she’d looked to Dad and said, “Good fortune is on the horizon, Phil. I feel it in my bones.” He’d walked up behind her, gently turning her toward him. “It’s already ours.”
My mother’s recipe for strawberry cake was a pint of fresh strawberries, two eggs, a cup of flour, half a cup of sugar, a quarter cup of milk, a stick of butter, a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg, a pinch of baking powder, and a heart bursting with love. My abuela died not long before she perfected the cake, so when Mom stood over the countertop mixing away, it was her way of saying hello, goodbye, or the hardest sentiment between them—I’m sorry.
I’m careful as I mix the ingredients together, my allergy-friendly substitutions lined in a neat row. Though, there is no adequate substitute for strawberries (if you ask me), so I close my eyes and say a prayer before sliding a pair of latex gloves over each hand. Stella owns a wooden spoon similar to Mom’s, and I decide it must be a sign of luck and use it, too. It’s not long before the splotches form on my forearm, dotting a trail up and down the length of my bicep, to my chest, and through the length of my legs. Each one burns more than the last. I do a double-check of the ingredients—an accidental splotch of strawberry juice has found its way to my skin. I tell myself it’s fine. A small price to pay.
While the cake bakes, I flip through Faith’s wrestling magazines. The pageantry is quite impressive. A melodramatic soap opera with a sprig of good-hearted brutality. I can see why Faith sees a piece of herself between the glossy pages. Even if Stella and Thomas don’t.
When the timer beeps, I pull the sweet-smelling cake from the oven right when Stella and Faith return. I lay the good-fortune offering on a pad on the countertop to cool, nearly dropping the entire thing on the floor as the heat melts through the pot holders.
“Ouch,” I say, letting the pan drop into place.
Stella lugs boxes from the market into the room, while Faith—still in her Rick Flair feathered jacket—struts in angrily. Without so much as a word, she stomps off to her room and slams the door, knocking a photo to t
he floor.
Stella blows a wisp of hair from her eyes with a sigh. “It’s been a long day with Nature Chick.”
“I see that.”
“Smells good in here. What’s cooking?”
“Strawberry cake. For Naima.”
She pauses, nods along to the beat of the silence. “You didn’t eat any?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And you wore gloves? I know it’s overkill, but just in case.”
I raise my hands, still gloved.
With boxes lined around her like a fort, she looks about in dismay at the house, an organized mess. Clean clothes unsorted. Random books and items splayed across the floor and tables. If you ask her where something is, she can tell you. If you look for it yourself, good luck. “How about we go out for dinner after therapy? I’ll have Thomas meet us.”
We’re interrupted by Faith, pounding against her bedroom walls. We abandon the good fortune of the room and lean our heads toward the sounds.
“Did … something happen?” I ask.
“With Faith, something always happens. I don’t know what I did. We talked one minute, and the next, she was this.”
“What were you talking about? Before she became angry.”
She hesitates. “I said Rick Flair isn’t the best role model for a young girl. Because he’s not. He’s a sexist rage-a-holic with a penchant for the spotlight. Not exactly what I’d like her to aspire to. What about Maya Angelou? Dian Fossey? Oprah? A strong female, you know?”
“There are plenty of female wrestlers, even Rick Flair’s daughter. Maybe she needs to connect with something we can’t understand.”
“I don’t know, Dew. I’m trying to be what she needs, and it’s never right.”
“Maybe you’re not meant to be.”
She crosses her arms, fatigue evident in her expression. “How do you mean?”
“She’s obviously going through something that requires a different perspective. This isn’t your fight to win. It’s hers.” I signal for her to lean in. “Listen to what she’s saying.”
Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 14