Jubilee

by Jennifer Givhan

  Mama brought Bianca his urn, which she kept on a shelf in her closet.

  “Mija,” she said, as if reading Bianca’s mind as she held the smooth obsidian jar that held her father. “He’s not in there.”

  The ashes were there, but Bianca knew that Mama meant his spirit wasn’t. That Bianca wouldn’t find what she was looking for in a jar of ruins.

  Still, she asked her mama, “Then why do you keep it?”

  “You know, I once thought about swallowing his ashes? When he first died? One of your tonto uncles had brought beer to the funeral, probably Oscar. And there it was in my ’fridgerator, and I thought I should put Martin’s ashes in the ’fridgerator too, to stay fresh. Beside the sandwiches.”

  Bianca pictured Mama putting Dad in the fridge, and she was laughing so hard she was hiccoughing her tears. “You could’ve poured some into the beer,” she suggested. “Or in the sandwich, between the lettuce and tomatoes.”

  Mama sat beside Bianca on the flowered bedspread, and she was laughing too. She tried to stop laughing long enough to sound ashamed and said, “I did drink a beer, Bee. Can you believe it? Me?”

  Bianca howled a laugh at the guilt in her mother’s voice. Her tiny mother, once a sprawling force with a brown faux-leather chancla for chasing Bianca through the house, threatening to spank her, had grown big on the inside when Dad died.

  “What did it taste like?” Bianca asked.

  “The beer?”

  Bianca nodded, and Mama made a sour face, showing the fine lines on her forehead and beneath her hazelnut eyes.

  “Like vinegar. Con caca!”

  They laughed until their sides hurt and panted deep breaths like they were in labor trying to calm themselves down.

  Mama hadn’t answered Bianca’s question about why she kept Dad in an urn instead of spreading his ashes, but maybe she’d meant keeping him in a jar was a better alternative than swallowing him up so he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  “Mama,” she said when they’d mostly stopped laughing; she stared at the urn. “What do I do?”

  Mama hugged Bianca to her much-smaller body.

  “My girl. You have to forgive Joshua. Or, better yet, forgive yourself.”

  Bianca still hadn’t said much to Joshua since she got back from her mama’s. It had been three long days since he’d called Jubilee a doll, and he’d apologized in a few different ways, but Bianca didn’t seem to forgive him even though she said she did. But her mood was taciturn, unpredictable. He didn’t blame her, but he didn’t know how to make things right with her. She packed for San Diego, she said, because they’d promised Jayden. But she said very little else. On the morning of the trip, Joshua tried to help her lug her suitcase out to the car but she batted his arm away. “You shouldn’t be lifting things, Bee. You were spotting the other night. You need to be careful.”

  “I’m fine. The doctor said I’m fine. No spotting. I’m not some breakable thing, Josh.”

  “I know that. You’re one of the strongest women I know.”

  She rolled her eyes, brushed past him, and moved toward the car, clutching her bags.

  Despite her icy mood, her palpable anger, Joshua breathed in the scent of her as she stood beside him, jostling her suitcase into the trunk; he breathed in her jasmine and lavender, the calming scent of the massage oil that he had nightly lathered across her belly, inside her thighs, before he’d crushed her spirit and betrayed her trust. He sighed. All he’d really done was protect them. She had to see that.

  She shoved her suitcase hard against the others, but it wouldn’t fit.

  “I’ve got this, Bee. Let me do it.”

  She rolled her eyes again but stepped aside.

  He resisted joking that she needed to be careful or her eyes would stay stuck like that. Instead, he said, “I know you can do anything you want, okay? I don’t think you’re incapable. I’m just trying to help you. Make things easier for you.” Joshua heaved himself atop their bags, slamming his body down like a wrestler. Take that.

  “Hey. What’s happening? Earthquake!” Jayden yelled from the back seat.

  Bee laughed. “No, mijo, it’s fine. Your dad’s fighting with the trunk.”

  At least she was acting normal with Jayden. That was a good sign. Jayden sat strapped into his booster seat, his fire and rescue trucks in hand, boxed chocolate milk in his cup holder. Beside him, Jubilee lay buckled in her infant car seat.

  “We’re moving to the beach?” Jayden asked, squirming.

  “Tontito. We’re going for a vacation. Our San Diego Sea World, Comic-Con Beach Extravaganza.”

  “Can I feed a shark at Sea World?” Jayden asked.

  “Only if you want that shark to . . . bite your arm off!” Bee pretended to bite, to chomp at his arm.

  Jayden screamed, pulling his arm back. “No shark!”

  Bee laughed again, tickling him, and said. “Better stick to feeding dolphins then. They don’t like little-boy arms, anyway.”

  Joshua slammed the trunk and with it, the sound of Bee’s laughter.

  Half an hour later, a quarter of the way into the drive, Joshua checked his rearview mirror because Jayden had stopped pointing out landmarks and interesting cars and palm trees.

  “He’s out,” Joshua whispered.

  Jayden snored in response; Bee said nothing.

  He glanced over at her. She pressed her forehead to the window, watching the hills rolling into the surf. Desert and ocean collided as they passed Camp Pendleton then the San Onofre power plant. She cradled her belly, which swelled against her cherry-red sundress.

  Joshua sighed, frustrated. He’d been holding back the whole time he’d known her. He’d lost control of the situation. He couldn’t be husband and father and therapist. It was time to admit failure. He couldn’t be therapist. But he could be husband. “Bee . . . we’ve got to work this out.”

  “Work what out?”

  “Whatever’s wrong between us. The home visit. What I said. I fucked up.”

  She stared out the window, and at first, Joshua wasn’t sure she was listening. Then she asked, quietly, “Do you think I’m mad, Josh?”

  “Like angry?”

  “No. Like crazy.”

  Don’t step on that landmine. He said, emphatically, “Of course not.”

  She spoke slowly, deliberately, “That’s what people think when I’m holding Jubilee and talking to her and she’s my baby, right? People think that woman is crazy.”

  “I’ve never thought that, Bee.”

  She faced forward. Her eyes clear and fiery. She stayed quiet so long that Joshua sighed, defeated, sure their conversation would go nowhere, same as all their Jubilee talks had. But she kept talking. “You once said my love is tough, like I’m an artichoke you have to pluck before it blooms. You have to cut off my prickly tips, steam and soften me, work your ass off for what little pulpy meat you can scrape off the leaves with your teeth. Is that what you think of me, Josh? That in my center, there are thin, purplish leaves like tender new skin covering the bulb of a heart, and it’s lovely and you want it. But if you don’t remove every single, goddamn needle, every thistle, you’ll choke to death? Those tiny spines will stab your throat. Am I choking you? Am I fucking up your family? Because I feel like I am. I feel like you regret marrying me. I feel like I’m coming apart.” She paused a moment, and he cleared his throat to answer, but she continued, her voice raspy but fervent. “People have asked me, don’t I know she’s not real? But she is real. Because what is real, Josh? Is the sky really blue? No. We know it’s not. We know that if we pass the atmosphere, it’s going to turn black. It’s nothing. It’s empty. It’s full, but empty. It’s a whole lot of nothing out there. When we look at the sky, it’s blue and beautiful and makes us feel something. Is that feeling, that emotion, that awe, that wonder . . . is that fake? Past the blue there’s really noth
ing, is it fake? We gaze at the stars, admiring them for hours, studying and creating pictures and telling stories about them. They inspire us. We build machines to see them clearer. Those stars we see? Most are dead already. They’re gone. But we still see them. We’re still in awe of them. We want to believe that there are stars up there. Not dying. Not dead. Real. Living, burning, luminous stars that shine for us. Because we can see their light, their residual burning through time. For me, that’s Jubilee. She is my baby, Josh. Mine.”

  The muscles in his jaw twitched. He’d met her and loved her the way she was, every part and parcel of her, those quirks, blemishes, flaws, he wouldn’t strip away, wouldn’t wish away. Her delusion, her belief, her unshakeable knowledge that something was real despite everyone who said different, had all shaped her into a woman Joshua wanted to be with. She could love and love and love. Wasn’t that what drew him to her? Wasn’t that what made him feel so safe with her? So special? Wasn’t that why he wanted her for Jayden’s mama? Not to cover up Jubilee. Not to make her disappear.

  Bee was crying softly, and a part of him felt like shit. He’d sided with the Oscars and Olivias and social workers of the world. He sighed, and all he could manage in response was, “She wouldn’t have understood.”

  They checked into the motel, and Joshua insisted on carrying their bags up the stairs. That night they had dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Old Town, on the patio with heat lamps that Jayden kept wanting to touch. Jayden refused to order off the kids’ menu, insisting he wanted steak fajitas, so Joshua made him a deal. Joshua would order a bean and cheese burrito from the kids’ menu because it was free with an adult meal, but once the plates came, they could trade. This made Bee smile, though she’d been pensive and quiet most of the evening. She ordered a bowl of pozole and corn tortillas. Jubilee stayed in her car seat, covered with a plain blanket. Joshua made note of these details, the austereness, the deliberateness with which she seemed to be keeping her distance from everyone, including Jubilee, but said nothing. Any other time he might’ve asked a penny for her thoughts.

  Now he just wanted peace. He was grateful for this truce. And let it be.

  Jayden ate most of his steak, rice, and beans, but gave the red and green bell peppers, onions, guacamole, and sour cream to Joshua. Overall, a fair trade. Joshua watched his little family eat, basking in gratitude that the debacle with the social worker was over and they could get on with their lives. He even tried being thankful for Olivia, or at least tried not directing any more anger toward her. Maybe in a couple of months he’d call and check on her. He couldn’t think about her cancer, couldn’t think that far forward. He was here, now, in San Diego with his family. As far as he could tell, he had absolutely everything he needed.

  In the middle of the night, Bianca awoke, sweating and in pain. The hotel mattress hurt her back and swollen hips, exacerbating her sour mood. Joshua and Jayden shared the full-sized bed beside her; she’d asked for a bed all to herself, and Joshua had relented, though his eyes flashed with the hurt she’d been aware of for several days. She hadn’t slept alone since she’d moved in with Joshua, since New York. She lay on her side, stuffing each flimsy motel pillow between her legs, under her bulging belly, beside her aching hip supporting her weight. She could not get comfortable. Both guys snored lightly beside her. She glanced at the clock: two a.m. She’d promised to take Jayden to the beach while Joshua went to Comic-Con with her brother and Handro, in exactly eight hours. She needed sleep.

  She hadn’t taken Jubilee out of her car seat.

  Everything ached. The pozole hadn’t settled right in her stomach. The baby inside her prickled. A cactus.

  She punched a pillow then threw them all to the floor. Rocked herself to a sitting position, lumbered, heavy and swollen, off the bed, stumbled toward the bathroom.

  Not again, not again.

  She unbuckled Jubilee, whose car seat was propped on a wood and vinyl desk chair beside the dresser holding the television. Held her as she lurched toward the bathroom, tucked under one arm, not nestled, not cradled. Tucked. Between bicep and chest.

  In the dark bathroom, she set Jubilee on the closed toilet seat, upright. Then she flicked on the light switch, and the grainy, motel bulbs guttered a moment, lightning bugs, a camera’s shutter, before the fluorescent gleaming yellowed her face in the mirror. She wouldn’t look at Jubilee. Instead, she steadied herself, gripping the scrub-white sink, wondering how many strangers had spit into its dribble of water, rinsed their mouths and washed their germs down the drain. How many of their mouths were filled with paste or love or cum. How many with regret.

  You’re safe, Bee.

  She nodded at herself. She watched the head shake up and down, watched the muscles in the neck, watched the little bowls of collarbones shadow as she moved.

  Here, now. You’re safe.

  She recited some Emily in her mind, breathing into an imaginary box the way Dr. Norris had shown her. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold: “Far safer, of a midnight meeting / External ghost, / Than an interior confronting / That whiter host. // Far safer through an Abbey gallop, / The stones achase, / Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter / In lonesome place.” Seven times. Breathe in, hold. Breathe out, hold.

  She turned on the faucet and waited for any buzzing. Only water.

  She splashed her face.

  That man in the next room is your husband, that little boy is your little boy. They’re your family, Mama. They’re yours.

  She nodded again, tears mingling with the water. She plucked the scratchy white motel towel from the rack and wiped her face pink.

  I’m safe too.

  Her face in the mirror crumbled, her chest constricted. She wrapped her arms around herself and held. She held as tight as she could.

  Once upon a time, a house grew wild and empty in the desert.

  She nodded.

  She turned toward Jubilee on the toilet seat, staring blankly ahead. She was so beautiful. She was perfect.

  Bianca sank to the bathroom floor, imagining how many stories had played out in this room, how many strangers had stepped naked into the shower, had made love or sobbed or been sick in this room, as she curled her body into a seashell and closed her eyes, shutting out the innocent girlchild propped on the toilet seat.

  Her daughter. Herself. And she cried herself to sleep.

  Dreams are tunnels. They usher us between landscapes, memories, time. They wormhole us between worlds. Dreams connect us to the many selves we are in other places. The choices we almost made, could have made, but for whatever reason, did not make. Parallels split and some other iteration of the selves we nearly were go strutting about their business, unaware that we were once joined together, once twinned, mirrored at the center. Unaware that one flick of the tongue, flick of the wrist, one detail different, one movement unmade, and it could have been us through the blackness of space, through the membrane-thin wall separating us, and landing on the other side, atoms floating, atoms loving, atoms breaking apart and reshaping in the endless dance of the expansion into whatever comes after nothingness. Dreams are glimpses through all this invisible matter.

  On the motel bathroom floor, Bianca dreamt the social worker had heard her. The door hadn’t closed. And the social worker heard her say, not a doll.

  In the many-worlds hypothesis. Bianca was deemed unfit. Jayden was taken away.

  And Joshua stopped breathing.

  There are worlds beyond this one. Of that, Bianca was sure.

  In one, a daughter came back. And the angels rejoiced.

  In another, a feisty little boy with corkscrew curls, a wild thing, a lover of cake and owls, a healthy, growing boy who needed his family, whose family needed him, could still get taken away. Could still get pulled by a current stronger than Bianca.

  If Bianca couldn’t make the choice in this world that she knew, deep down, she needed to make.
r />   Thirty-three

  Homecoming

  Jubilee

  It was too late.

  Gabe lifted Bianca from the ditch bank and carried her through a field to the nearest crossroad in order to give the paramedics more concrete directions than help my pregnant girlfriend bleeding to death in my arms somewhere out in the alfalfa fields where I took her to suck my dick because like a fucking goddamn angry asshole I take it out on the women I love.

  He hadn’t meant for any of this. Everything he touched turned to shit. It was this valley. He should’ve gotten them out of this godforsaken shithole.

  He took off his ditch-soaked shirt, balled it up and pressed it between Bianca’s legs, holding her wet, limp body close to his. Her skin was clammy. He focused on her breathing to be certain she was still alive. His eyes stung and his body shook. He forced himself not to cry. “It’s gonna be okay, Bee,” he whispered into her ear, “The ambulance is coming.”

  He didn’t say, Don’t you die on me. He’d already scared her enough for the both of them.

  And he’d never forgive himself.

  The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat.

  Gabe dropped his head to Bianca’s hand on the hospital bed and sobbed. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, “So fucking sorry, Bee. My Bee. I never meant for this.” His face tugged at her IV line, pinching her skin, sending quick barbs of pain up her arm.

  Bianca lay still, focusing on the stinger at her vein where Gabe was crying, his tears like insect venom. She focused all her attention on that pinprick needling into the back of her hand and not the blood soaking a pad beneath her hospital gown. Not the bright-red cactus flowers sprouting from her sheets. She was a surrealist painting. Dreaming. Not carrying a dead baby. Not the empty place. Dreaming.

  Gabe lifted his head and tried grasping her hand, but she pulled away.

  Her throat ragged, she said, “Get out.”