And I nod like my head’s on fire. “You know I love you, right?”
“I do,” he says. “But it’s always nice to hear you say it.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t swim better. That I didn’t save you.”
“What? Get outa here.” He punches me in the chest. “I’m sorry I put you in that situation.”
“You were just being heroic.”
“Ha. Who woulda thunk it? Quincy Michael Barrantes, a hero?”
“You,” I say, jabbing his chest with my finger. “A goddamn hero.”
A mob of seagulls squawks farther down the shore. A golden retriever rushes past us, a woman in shorts and a baseball cap jogging behind, a black leash wrapped around her hand. She waves at us as she zooms by.
“Remember when you tried to get me to believe my middle name was actually pronounced Michelle? You swore my mom had shown you my birth certificate and that there was an accent mark over the a.”
“What do you mean I tried to get you? I absolutely got you to believe it. The only reason I told you the truth was because you said you weren’t gonna give me back my officially authorized behind-the-scenes Mighty Moat: The Last First Tour poster.”
“Yo, you were fanatical about that poster.”
“I stood in line for seven hours for that poster. And everyone in the band signed it, so the fact that I even let you borrow it showed how much I trusted you.”
“That is true. You didn’t even let Brenda Williams hold it, and she offered to kiss you.”
“Q,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, which is always much higher than it looks, and squeezing it. “I will always, always put you ahead of making out with Brenda Williams . . .”
“Thanks, J.”
“. . . but just behind my officially authorized behind-the-scenes Mighty Moat: The Last First Tour poster.”
“That’s real cold, man.” Q chuckles, strokes his chin like he’s deliberating. “But also, I respect the honesty. Thanks for keeping it real.”
And we hug. And not the cool, nonchalant bro hug we normally do. I’m talking a full-on, both-arms-wrapped, sweaty-chest-to-sweaty-chest, nearly-fall-onto-the-sand HUG.
And boy, it feels good.
And man, I don’t want to let go.
But I guess that’s sorta the crux. Everything ends at some point.
Q drops his arms, steps back. “You be good to our girls, okay? And to your amazing sister. And to your sister’s kid, who hopefully looks nothing like you. And most of all, to my mom, because one, I’m biased, and because two, she’s gonna need you. She’s gonna need you and you’ve gotta step up. You hear me?”
“I hear you. And I will.” I grin. “Especially your mom. I’ll be sure to keep her real safe, you know what I’m saying? You know what I’m saying?” I hit him with a few pelvic thrusts just in case he doesn’t know what I’m saying.
Q groans. “Bro, really? My mom? That’s just over-the-top nasty.”
“Yeah? That bad?”
“Yep. And I thought we agreed that you were done with that whole Fresh Prince bit.”
“I’m telling you, one day it’s gonna make someone laugh.”
Q smiles his trademark smile, the one that’s been lighting up rooms for seventeen years. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“Uh-oh, speaking of breath holding . . .” I clear my throat, nod toward the waves. A cluster of small fishing boats dot the horizon. “You wanna play one last round of Mercy?”
Q scratches his head. “You really want the last thing you remember about me to be me kicking your ass for the millionth time?”
“Nah, I’m feeling magical tonight.”
Q laughs. “That’s what you always say. Right before you lose.”
“Well, you’ve got bigger lungs, so genetic advantage.”
Q smirks. “Just working with what I was given, shorty. Plus, you got them gargantuan chipmunk cheeks. You oughta be able to hold four times as much air in there as me.”
He grabs my cheek, and I slap his hand away. I smile. “Yeah, well, I’m going for the record this time.”
“Good,” he says. “And don’t even think about letting me win. I want the final L I give you to be undeniably a loss you earned.”
“Whatever.”
“Plus, you know you like to mope. I don’t want you walking around thinking you coulda won if you wanted to.”
“Get outta here. Man, you’ve always been like this. I’d win like forty-seven times in a row, but then the second you finally won you never wanted to play again. The game was barely over and your happy ass was already running down my driveway headed back home. Remember that one time you finally beat me at Raiders and Warriors 2? And you were so afraid you’d never win again that you broke your own controller?”
We both crack up.
And he holds up his hand, offers me a high-five palm, which I happily meet with my own. “Hey, even back then I knew, you should always go out on top.”
And you know how these four-hour windows go.
They tell you they’re gonna make the delivery between ten and two.
That they’ll call you when they’re on their way.
But of course, they never call.
And without fail they always show up at 1:59.
This time I’m thankful it’s last-minute.
Instinctively, I take Q’s hand, Ms. Barrantes takes his other. Whit takes mine, Autumn hers, Bri closing our circle. We stay that way until . . .
“So, can I just say this whole dying-in-a-few-minutes thing has me thoroughly bummed out?”
I nod my head. “Umm, I’m pretty sure you get to say whatever you want, Q.”
“Okay, cool. I’m gonna make this quick.” Q hops up in the middle of our circle, dusts the sand off his butt. “Now you guys are gonna think I’m crazy, but don’t laugh, okay, because this is real.”
“Baby, I don’t mean to rush you, but . . .” Ms. Barrantes makes that open-hand circular-wave gesture that says come on, get to it, please.
“Right, right, my bad,” Q says. “But first y’all all gotta promise not to laugh.”
“Ohmigod, Q, who cares if we laugh, man?” I groan.
“Mm-hm. Everything you say is sorta hilarious, so that’s a tough ask,” Bri agrees.
“Damn, y’all not even gonna try to honor a dying man’s final request?”
“Okay, okay, we swear we won’t laugh,” we all say in almost freaky unison.
We all laugh, Q the hardest.
“Okay, here’s the thing I’m mad about.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That I won’t get to be a grandpa. You know, the kind that makes up stories and expressions that seem really wise and enlightened even though most of the time you have no idea what they mean? Like, I want that so bad, y’all don’t even know. I always imagined my grandkids walking around saying to their friends, to their teachers, to their stylists, “well, it’s like my grandpa used to say.” But nope. Not gonna happen. Definitely in the ‘bummer’ column.”
Q sits back down, between Bri and his mom, so he’s directly across from me.
We’re quiet for a moment as a plane flies by.
“I’ll make sure my kids know all of the wise and funny things you’ve said. And maybe they won’t go around saying ‘my grandpa said,’ but would you settle for ‘uncle’ or, I don’t know, maybe ‘my dad’s best friend who incidentally was by far the most charming, funny, and awesome person he’s ever known’?”
Q cracks up. “Well, damn. Maybe it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as ‘my grandpa said,’ but I feel like it could work.”
“I got you, man.” We bump fists. “We all got you.”
“And I got y’all. Always.”
7
Listen, I’m not going to give you any more play-by-play.
If you came for death porn, you’re gonna be disappointed.
Because there are things in life (and death) that just shouldn’t be shared. And after all that’s happened, Q deserves some priv
acy, finally.
That said, I’m no monster, I appreciate we all need as much closure as we can squeeze from the closure lemon, so let’s leave it at this:
At seven minutes past seven, surrounded by his friends and family, Q cosmically exited this world for the mysterious beyond.
I say cosmically because those who know him best know that Q is always the last person to leave a party.
“I hate the idea of missing something,” he’d say.
And trust me, not even dying can change Q.
6
“Do you want me to call Mr. Oklahoma?” I ask Ms. B.
I didn’t know how I’d feel, how I’d be when it actually happened. Now that it has, I feel surprisingly calm. Ms. B appears the same.
Like when gravity hasn’t hit you yet.
She nods.
I make the call.
Two men in black Center jumpsuits lift Q from the beach blanket.
We walk with them as they carry him to the lot.
Watch as they lower him into his forever box.
Mr. O and Ms. B off to the side, talking furtively, until finally he pats her softly on her arm and sad-smiles.
And I know it’s a weird thing to think about right now, but I wonder if they play music when they’re driving someone’s loved one away?
Are they old school, listening to whatever random thing is on the radio?
Do they have a music app?
And if so, a playlist?
Does Mr. O have a special compilation he plays for someone’s Final Last Day?
Does he make a playlist for each case, for each person?
What songs would he choose for Q?
“Jamal,” he says, walking over to me. I half expect him to put a hand on my shoulder, say something adultish like: Hey, it’s gonna be all right. You’ll get through. Except his face, it starts making this weird sound and—
“Are you crying?” I ask him. “You’re crying.”
“No. Something is in my eye,” he says, looking away.
Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head, removes his glasses, wipes his cheeks.
“Those are called tears, my friend. Welcome to Earth. You may grow to love it here.”
He chuckles. “It was nice to meet you, Jamal,” he says. “Perhaps we will bump into each other another time.”
“Hopefully not too soon,” I say. “And under much different circumstances.”
“Agreed,” he says. He tips his head, then walks over to the side of the van.
“Hey, wait,” I call out. I hold up both hands, like I’m directing traffic. “There’s something I gotta ask you and I need you to tell me the truth. The real truth.”
He doesn’t nod, or frown, or move, his face already resuming its normal neutral state. He waits for me to speak, but I stare at him for a good while, wanting him to understand how important this next moment is to me.
“Why do this? And please, don’t give me any more of your the dominos of death come crashing down speeches. We both know there’s no cure for death. Not really. So, why do any of this?”
He pushes up his glasses. Tilts his head. “Because it’s hard to let go even when you know it’s coming.”
“One day I’ll get you to talk straight with me.”
He smiles, opens the van door.
And the door motor hums, begins to close, but while there’s still enough daylight to slide my arm through and touch his shoulder, take his hand, I say, “Take care.”
To Q.
Take care.
To Ms. B.
Take care.
To Mr. O.
Take care.
To all of us.
Please, take care.
From the front passenger seat, he gives us a small wave, the kind where your arm stays tight against your body, when maybe you don’t want to say goodbye.
And even when the van’s driven so far down the road that it looks like a toy vehicle, even after it turns down another road and there’s no way we can see it, we stay right there.
We move for nothing.
5
And I suppose the story moral is:
You can die and still live on.
You can be alive but be consumed by death.
The difference between living and being alive is:
Everything.
4
We walk Bri to her car.
She and Autumn confirm their plans to meet up this weekend.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Ms. B tells her.
“Are you a hugger?” I ask her. And she answers with a hug.
She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “We only just met, but I feel like we’re supposed to know each other, you know? Like we’re here for a reason.”
And I don’t know if that’s true.
If there’s some grand purpose behind all of this.
Honestly, I doubt it.
But it doesn’t change what’s happened.
Doesn’t make the journey of these last few days any less real.
“Take care of yourself,” I say as she closes her door, starts the engine.
We drop off Ms. B at home because she just wants to be alone for a bit, if that’s okay with everyone.
I lean my seat back as far as it’ll go, slide the moonroof cover open.
Overhead, stars puncture the night, and then we’re driving faster, and they’re no longer perfect glowing orbs; they’re streamers, fluttering, burning.
What if we become stars when we die?
Q would be easy to spot; the brightest, glossiest.
The funniest star the constellation has ever seen.
I look for him up there.
And then I close my eyes.
Autumn hugs me in our driveway.
“He left feeling loved,” she says. “That’s a lot.”
“I love you, Autumn. And that’s everything.”
She kisses me, long and hard, before hopping into her own car, her grandma calling her home for dinner.
Funny how life just goes, man.
It just fucking goes.
I cue up a video from my phone, beam it to the TV.
“What you doing?” Autumn asks.
“Figured maybe we should reset our memories,” I say.
She slides onto the couch beside me. Slides her arm around me.
And I push Play and let it wash over us.
Let them wash over us.
Every last wave.
“Andre, Andre, you’re too big for that thing! I thought you said that was for the kids!” Mom yells across the yard, her eyes squinting against the brightening sun. She’s on our back deck; I forgot it used to be red. Dad complained the entire time he painted it—I just don’t see it. A red deck, Jada?—until it was finished and he and Mom and me and Whit stood back a ways from the house and Dad just put his arm around Mom’s shoulders and squeezed her and she said not even gonna tell you I told you so.
“Babe, you think I’m gonna let our boys get in this thing without me first making sure it’s safe?” Dad calls back.
“Andre!”
But it’s too late—“Cannonball!”—Dad tries to tuck his knees but slips and dives face-first, plummeting into the red and yellow and blue and green balls. He sinks immediately, completely.
Until suddenly his hand juts through the plastic-sphere surface and we hear a garbled “I’m okay. Don’t call 911 . . . yet.”
And Mom shakes her head, but she’s laughing. Ohmigod, she’s laughing so hard. And so am I. And so is . . . Q. Our twelve-year-old selves, our shirts off, our swim trunks sagging from belly flopping down the Slip ’N Slide Ms. Barrantes brought over. Whit and Ms. Barrantes come running out the sliding patio door.
“What’s going on out here?” Ms. Barrantes asks.
And we all just point to the bouncy house, because we’re laughing too hard to talk.
Q’s laughing harder than anyone, which explains the shaky refraction.
“Hey J,” Q says, his voice so soft and more than a little squeaky
.
I reach out to touch him, my hand piercing his bird chest, but he doesn’t notice, he’s too busy filming young me.
“Yeah,” young me says, turning toward him.
He slowly zooms in on my face. “What are you gonna wish for?”
“I can’t tell you, man. You trying to sabotage my wish or something?”
Q laughs more. “Never.”
“Happy birthday, Q.”
“Happy birthday, J.
“Friends always,” I said.
“More than always,” Q said.
Because for us, always meant something different.
Because we held forever in our bird chests, felt it in our peach fuzz.
We were time travelers, see.
We knew the future.
There would be no surprises.
We saw everything coming.
14 Days Postreanimation
3
Whit and I are hanging out on the porch when it happens.
Her face squeezed in discomfort.
“Oh my God, Jamal!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Jamal!”
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“We need to get to the hospital, Jamal. We need to get there right now!”
I grab the packed overnight bags just inside the front door. “Can you walk? Can you make it to the car?”
She grits her teeth. Nods.
“I’ll get the car!”
I pull the car up through the grass as close to the front door as I can manage. But Whit doesn’t move. Her entire body is shuddering, her face a tight knot of agony.
“Whit, what’s wrong? Are you okay? What’s happening? Whit! Whit!”
I see her face relax just a bit. “Umm, I’m having a baby, Jamal. That’s what’s happening!”
I help her into the car, throw the car in reverse, and zoom down the street.
And every light on the way to the hospital—every last one—is a brilliant green. Nothing can stop us.
I pull as close to the OB entrance as possible.
I’m confident we’re in a fire lane, but you know, prioritizing. I look over at Whit.
“Do you think you can walk?”
Early Departures Page 25
