The Legacy of Lost Things

by Aida Zilelian

  The day had been fine after that. They had walked around St. Louis through Jefferson Park and Laclede’s Landing, and headed back to the hotel. It was nighttime by then. The busyness of the 4th of July weekend had settled back to the quiet routine of a new week. The streets were eerily empty, and the doormen that usually stood outside of the hotels were no longer there.

  “Anastasia!” A man’s voice called out from a distance.

  Cecile looked behind them and saw two figures half-running from across the street. The yellow glare of the streetlamp vaguely showed their faces. One man was tall and the other much shorter.

  Cecile noticed that Araxi had suddenly picked up her pace.

  “Wait up!” the voice had called again, and within moments two men were standing in front of them. The man with the smaller frame rocked back and forth on his heels smiling, while the taller man next to him wore a stupefied expression, as if he were surprised to find himself there.

  “This is who I was telling you about,” the shorter man had said to his friend, and then leaned in toward Araxi. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  Although now she couldn’t recall the exact details, Cecile remembered the stranger mentioning something about Araxi not letting him use their hotel bathroom, and before they had time to resist, the man had grabbed them by the wrists and started walking. His friend had walked behind them casually, as if they were all taking a walk. The man said something about joining him and his friend Jack for a drink.

  The pressure of the man’s grip around her wrist had reminded her of grade school, when she used to play cowboys and Indians and her wrists would be tied with a bandanna around a gate link. Back then, she could easily give a few tugs and free herself.

  “Hey,” Araxi had whispered. Cecile could barely listen. “Pull away from him and slam your heel on his foot,” and without waiting for Cecile to respond she yanked herself away from the man and drove her heel in. Cecile froze and then pulled. She only had enough time to break away and take off. Magically, they were free. They ran back toward the hotel, a quiet, desperate race to safety.

  When they entered the lobby she walked into an elevator. Araxi followed. Neither of them spoke. As the doors closed she felt faint with a sudden relief, and they rode up to the top floor. Without saying anything Araxi followed her to the rooftop. There was a chain linked across the entrance for the outdoor pool, and without much thought she climbed over it. Araxi followed. Cecile slipped into the pool and felt the warm water against her body. Little ripples formed on the surface of the water around her and she realized she was still trembling. She thought of how minutes before a homeless man and his friend were dragging them down a deserted block, and how strange it felt to be standing in a swimming pool surrounded by darkness. When she looked on the other side of the pool she saw that Araxi had also climbed in. The faint light of a half moon made it difficult to see her face. Cecile was glad.

  “I don’t even know how to tell you how sorry I am,” Araxi said to her later on when they were getting ready for bed.

  There was a long silence. Cecile finally looked at her. “Believe me when I tell you that I do not want to talk about it right now. I want to go to bed and chill out.” She closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep. She wanted to go home. She had wanted to go home for a while now, and realized with a growing apprehension that Araxi had no intention of returning to New York.

  They had been driving from town to town for over four weeks. At first, the broad landscape had been inviting. The flatness of the land felt open and new. But the novelty of their plan to drive across the country had faded for Cecile, and all she felt was a growing dread.

  Back in Lincoln they had pulled over at a Motel 8 after driving for three straight days, and a panic had come over her even then. She had woken up in the middle of the night only to realize that Araxi was not in bed, and found her submerged underwater in the bathtub. Quickly she had grabbed her and started shaking her.

  “What are you doing?” she had screamed at the top of her lungs, assuming the worst. “What are you doing?”

  Araxi had simply decided to take a bath. She had looked at Cecile quizzically, and gotten out of the tub to dry off.

  Now in St. Louis, after that jarring evening, she had lain awake for hours while Araxi slept. She sat in the car staring at a half-empty parking lot. The best way to get Araxi to go home was to leave her. She wasn’t sure how much money Araxi had, but Cecile had purposely not paid for their hotel room, hoping that having no money would leave her with fewer options. Cecile turned on the ignition and without knowing where she was headed, pulled out of the parking lot.

  Araxi

  Araxi was surprised when Cecile walked into class on the first day of school and sat next to her. There was one other vacant seat left, which was toward the back of the classroom near the window—a coveted vantage point that had been overlooked, where one could gaze across the school’s small campus and distract oneself. Those who noticed guessed that the new girl didn’t know any better than to sit next to Araxi, and besides, the late bell had rung and perhaps she hadn’t seen the seat in the back.

  Seton was a small private school that ranged from the first grade all the way to twelfth, and many of the students had been attending from a very young age. Now that they were in the ninth grade, cliques had been formed and alliances had been made. It was much to Araxi’s disadvantage that she had been enrolled in the seventh grade, and furthermore, did not possess the moxie and charm that could possibly have won over her classmates. After two years of attending Seton, she still had no friends.

  The two girls sat alongside each other, unaware of the acute difference of their physical appearance, and even more their inward natures. Araxi, the darker of the two, sat quietly, and aimlessly copied the notes from the board. Her long brown hair hung loosely on both sides of her face, as if to serve as some sort of shield from one getting a full view of her features. Despite her age, Cecile sat upright and focused, conveying an earnestness that had impressed her teachers throughout her academic life. Her skin, smooth and pale, seemed almost white against her thick blond hair that she had tied in a high ponytail.

  Class was finally over and the bell rang.

  “When’s lunch?”

  Araxi began stuffing her books into her backpack and stopped when she heard the question again. “When’s lunch?”

  She looked up and saw Cecile standing in front of her. “It depends on what’s on your schedule. There are two different lunch periods,” she explained, trying to ignore the odd glances of her classmates as they left the room.

  “You can play with your sister,” her mother said that evening over dinner. “I don’t know this girl. And you just met her. What do you know about her that you want to bring her here? I don’t know her parents or anything about her.”

  In her excitement over a possible friendship with Cecile, Araxi had felt bold enough to ask if she could invite her over. Although the two didn’t share the same lunch period, they came to discover they had almost all the same classes and had sat next to each other throughout the day.

  “How am I supposed to get to know her then?”

  “Please don’t give me a hard time about these things,” her mother said.

  It seemed that any logical point she had to make was either ignored or dismissed. She looked at her grandmother, who was quietly eating dinner, hoping she would intervene. She seemed preoccupied with thought.

  “Where’s Dad?” Sophie asked.

  It was the second evening he would not be joining them for dinner. Araxi noticed her grandmother pause before taking a bite of her food. She looked at Araxi’s mother as if waiting for her response.

  “I don’t know,” her mother said. “Probably another emergency he has to take care of.”

  Her father did not return from work until very late that evening. Although she had decided long ago to fall asleep early on the evenings her father came home late, Araxi found herself lying in bed waiting to hear his
truck pull in back of the house. As she became older, her parents’ marriage confounded her. In their daughters’ presence they seemed to get along, although at times it felt strained, and during these late hours she would overhear them arguing. Years ago, she had assumed it was because her mother wanted her father home early because she missed him, but these naïve assumptions seemed flimsy and implausible in the face of the severity of their fights.

  This evening they did not seem to bother lowering their voices.

  “How is she?” she heard her mother say.

  “How’s who?” Her father’s retort was quick and defensive.

  “Your sister,” her mother said. “Your perfect mother sat through dinner knowing exactly where you were and didn’t say a word. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “If I tell you the truth you give me a hard time,” he said. “If I lie to you, you wait for me to come home and then pounce on me about it. It makes no difference.”

  “Because I wish you could just say no, Levon. Why can’t you just say to yourself, ‘I have a family at home and I haven’t seen them all day. I should go home and spend time with them?’”

  Araxi couldn’t recall hearing this argument before, but it sounded very familiar. She got out of bed and softly walked closer to the wall to hear them more clearly.

  “I have a question for you,” her father said. Suddenly, his voice changed to a snarl. Araxi felt her stomach tighten.

  “How is he?” he asked.

  Before her mother could respond he continued. “How is your old friend? Have you run into him again? Made a fool of yourself like the last time?”

  “That was by chance,” her mother said, her tone pleading. “That was not planned. I told you before.”

  “Even if you’re telling me the truth, I’m sure you didn’t mind seeing him.”

  Araxi heard the sound of the shower turn on in their bathroom, but they continued talking.

  “Levon, how many times are we going to go over this? For how long can this be my fault?”

  Even over the sound of gushing water, Araxi heard her father’s voice booming through the walls. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore!” And suddenly there was a thud of something large hitting the wall.

  “But you brought it up,” she heard her mother crying. She continued through her tears, “You’re always the one who brings it up. I never say anything.” Her crying had turned into long, hard sobs. Araxi realized that the large thud she had heard was in fact the sound of her mother’s body being slammed into the wall. She had suspected for years that her father was abusive, but was never sure. It helped that her grandmother was there to distract her or intervene if she or Sophie noticed the tension between their parents.

  Araxi looked over at Sophie to see if she had awoken. Her eyelids had not even fluttered. Araxi was relieved. She did not know how she would have explained what had transpired to her sister. Unable to bear listening to any more, she went to bed and was grateful for the two pillows she was able to cover her head with.

  Eventually, Araxi felt brave enough to bring her new friend home. Not surprisingly, her mother was reticent and barely acknowledged the girl. She knew that her mother was not opposed to their friendship when she didn’t say anything after Cecile left.

  “Do you like her?” Araxi asked.

  She was helping her mother prepare dinner in the kitchen. The onions she was chopping were making her eyes tear uncontrollably.

  “She’s fine,” her mother said, without looking up from her own chopping board. Araxi ran a sleeve over her eyes. “Go and set the table,” her mother said, taking the knife from her. She did not bring up Cecile and Araxi realized it was best not to. This was her mother’s tacit approval of her new friend. The first.

  She could not have guessed that in a few short years she would find herself driving through unknown towns with the same girl who had befriended her.

  “Check out time is in an hour!” she heard when she picked up the phone. The woman’s voice sounded distant and tinny, like an operator.

  “Cec?”

  She turned over and sat up in bed listening for sounds of movement. The drawn curtains made the room feel as if it had been overcast with a large, imposing shadow. She leaned over and pulled one open slightly.

  “Cecile?”

  The eerie calmness in the room made her anxious. She got up and went to the bathroom. There was no sign of Cecile. Her things were also gone.

  She called the front desk.

  “There was a girl who left a few hours ago,” the woman said.

  “Has the room been paid for?” Araxi asked.

  “No,” the woman said.

  Minutes later Araxi was packed and standing in the lobby. By the time she finished paying for the room, she had less than three hundred dollars left. She tried not to think of all of the hours of babysitting, the tedium of time she had had to suffer in order to save her money and finally leave home. It had been far more simple for Cecile; she had withdrawn money from her savings account weeks before they had planned on leaving, knowing her mother wouldn’t bother checking.

  As she walked onto the street, a hot wind graze over her. The streets were empty. St. Louis was not the rambunctious city she had imagined it would be. In the midst of luxury hotels and corporate buildings were empty lots filled with the noise of construction work. She could hear the faint roaring of bulldozers and jackhammers echoing through the desolate cement blocks.

  She walked slowly at first, struggling to digest her new predicament and wondering what to do. For a moment she stopped and looked up at the gray, clouded sky, and with an immediate certainty she realized that her friend had left her and was not coming back. When her money ran out, which it eventually would, she could not bear the thought of returning home. She imagined having to make a collect phone call and asking her parents to send her money so she could buy a bus ticket. The humiliation of surrender was as intense as her absolute revulsion towards her parents. And that goddamned man. He had said his name was Tom Jones. He had told her that he and his eleven-year-old daughter lived in a homeless shelter and his family had refused to take them in after his wife had died of cancer. She had felt sorry for him. Araxi looked up at the sky and wanted to scream. She wondered if anyone would hear her.

  Now she quickened her steps, tangled in her thoughts. She stalked through the streets, wandering in aimless circles, and then from a distance saw a man walking ahead of her. He looked homeless and moved with a slight limp. He stopped for a moment to light a cigarette and from his profile she saw that it was Tom. For a moment she stood, breathless.

  “Hey! You motherfucker!” she screamed. She waited for the man to turn around, and before she could see his reaction she had dropped her duffel bag and was running toward him in a wild sprint. She felt the hard ground beneath her feet as she pounded across the empty lot. When she got closer she saw a large rock on the ground and hurled at him as if she were throwing a baseball. The rock hit the man on the side of his face and he almost fell to the ground. She had reached him by then and shoved him down. He fell on his back, and Araxi stood over him, kicking him in the face and ribs, shaking with an uncontrollable mania that had taken her over.

  “You motherfucker!” she screamed again. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Eventually the man stood up and grabbed her by the wrist, trying to chokehold his arm around her neck.

  “You little bitch,” he said through his gritted teeth. “You little fucking bitch.”

  She could smell his sour body odor and the stink of cigarettes and liquor. She bit his hand and when he pulled away she managed to grab another rock, a larger one, and hit him until he fell to the ground again. She sat on top of him, punching. With his free hand he hit her with his fist, and despite feeling the blow to her face, the piercing pain of it, she didn’t falter. She saw a much larger rock a few inches away, and without much strain she grabbed it.

  “Who’s the little bitch now?” she screamed, and slammed the
rock with all her might on the man’s skull. He groaned. She raised the rock above her head again, the weight of it in her hands so heavy that it almost fell from her grip, and again she heaved it down. She sat for a moment, watching the blood seeping from his head. His legs were no longer moving. She knew that he was dead.

  Anoush

  “He is an odar!” Anoush yelled, and realizing the window was wide open, she went over and closed it.

  “So what, Ma? You haven’t even met him,” Lucine said.

  They were standing in the kitchen and Lucine had been helping her make dinner. Once again, she had taken too long when Anoush sent her out to buy the groceries. Between Anoush’s accusations and Lucine’s feeble attempt to concoct another story, it took very little for Anoush to extricate the truth. It was like tugging on a loose vine that eventually pulled free, the roots exposed and visible.

  “How will you bring him home? He doesn’t speak Armenian. We won’t even be able to have a decent conversation with him.”

  The word odar carried much weight within the community. It meant foreigner. Different. But most accurately, American. It was taboo to date an odar, even casually. The concept of dating was also foreign to Anoush and her generation. Spending time with a man and allowing yourself to be courted was a small, but definite step toward something potentially long-lasting.

  “It’s not like I’m going to marry him,” Lucine said, feeling the lie slip through her lips.

  “Well thank God for that,” Anoush said, and unconvinced, paused for a moment. “So then what’s the point of seeing him? I don’t understand. What do you think is eventually going to happen? You think he’s going to hold your hand forever?”

  Lucine sank into a seat by the kitchen table.

  “If your father ever found out,” Anoush said as if it were a statement, and then turned to the stove to check if the pot of pilaf was done.