These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  “What’s going on?” Zain asks.

  “Try and understand, Zainy,” she says.

  “I thought we were going hiking.”

  Aunt Mellie puts her palms on Zain’s cheeks. She gives him the same look from when he was six and his parents announced it was time to leave the waterpark. When she tried to explain that even though she would love to stay the whole day riding all the slides, even if the park was still open for two more hours, everyone else was tired. It was just time to go. Looking into her eyes now, Zain can tell his aunt is searching for words.

  “I don’t know how things will end up—”

  “Zain, say goodbye and get in the car,” his mother says, shoulders tense.

  Aunt Mellie lowers her voice, “you stay strong, my special young man. Your mom needs you to be strong.” Aunt Mellie holds his face until he nods. “Remember, you can call me anytime,” she says, wrapping Zain in a tight hug. Zain hugs her back, but when he tries to move away she holds on, her chin resting on his shoulder. “Christmas is right around the corner,” she whispers.

  As they back down the driveway, Zain watches Aunt Mellie standing on the porch, her hands tucked into the pockets of a big UTEP sweatshirt. She isn’t smiling. She looks small and tough. As the car turns onto the freeway it occurs to Zain that his aunt meant it when she said he could call her anytime. He’d never considered calling her before, but talking to Aunt Mellie would be okay. Helpful even. It wouldn’t be like the awkward conversations with his grandparents, saying all the things he’s supposed to, the whole time wondering how much more he had to say before handing the phone back to his mom. Talking to Aunt Mellie would be cool, it has been all week. Talking on the couch—before it all went to shit and he’d started crying—was like sitting with an older friend, discussing the shared mystery of memories. The conversation in Mexico felt like two people out for a quiet lunch, even if she kind of went off about racism or whatever. Actually, that was cool too. He likes that Aunt Mellie didn’t hold back. Occasionally, when he was younger, when something confusing would come up, Aunt Mellie would tell him she’d explain later, probably counting on him forgetting. But on this trip, it was different. She didn’t hold any of it back. They talked about real stuff and listened to each other. Maybe he didn’t have as much to say, but he said it and she listened. Because she cares. Talking to someone who cares and understands his family would definitely be cool.

  Zain looks into the rearview mirror from the backseat. The sun lights his mother’s eyes through the windshield. Tired and angry, fixed on the road, her eyes are the same deep brown as her sister’s. The same color but that’s where the similarities end. She has fewer wrinkles at the corners. Not as many laugh lines, he thinks. Isn’t that what people call them? Two bluish bags sit under his mother’s eyes like anger built up in pouches she could squeeze but never pop. Zain has seen her standing at the mirror in her bathroom pushing along her cheekbones, careful not to touch the bags. He thinks of her face in the pictures from the photo books, younger, happier. Somehow he doubts she has ever been really happy, though. Every time he sees Aunt Mellie, she always looks the same. No matter how much she changes her hair or her fashion styles, her smile is always the same one from his memories. Time has passed for each of them, but his mother looks way older now. Older than what forty should look like, he thinks. Older than a year ago, definitely. Maybe ten years older.

  Zain looks out his window, across the emptiness of the desert. The drive home from El Paso used to pass quickly, everyone sharing their lists of favorite moments from the trip. Except for the occasional changing of the road surface, the car is silent now. Will be until they get home, he knows. The houses, stores, the edge of town strip clubs and truck stops are behind them now, replaced by a rusted barbwire fence sagging between mesquite posts. Aunt Mellie is right, he thinks, his mother needs something. Looking at her hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles tensed, it is as clear as the sadness on her face. Not for the first time, Zain wonders what she needs. All the late nights out with her work friends or whoever, all the empty bottles of wine he’s taken from her nightstand, to stuff down deep in the recycling bin, none of that has done her any good. For all the talks he eavesdropped from the hallway between his mother and her sister over the last few days, nothing has helped. His mother definitely needs something. It’s just that Zain is less and less sure that it is anything he can give her, anything anyone can give her.

  34

  Coming Back

  Blank billboards and empty sky wait to be filled. Coupons sit in stacks according to color and planned destination on his desk, next to the redrawn piece. Zain has never been big on redrawing his original sketches, but after spending all afternoon with the boy and the man he is pleased. The new piece is better. The original was good (even Aunt Mellie said so), but he hadn’t been critical enough in his selection of the coupons. Once glued down they made the whole thing look a bit amateur. He doubts an amateur-looking work will win the contest. Not that he’s sure he even has a chance, but Zain would rather submit his best work. Something he wouldn’t be embarrassed for the artist if he saw it on the wall in a gallery. Before he starts gluing, Zain checks his phone again. Still nothing. It’s been two days since he’s heard from Charlotte. She must be pissed. Zain lifts the paper carefully from the desk and sweeps the scissor scraps of trimmed coupon edges into the trash can.

  What did he do, he thinks, really? Forgot to text? It was Thanksgiving. He was with family. And he did text her, just not right away. And he definitely didn’t not text because of Aisha (probably). Besides, it’s not like he even did anything. She kissed him, on the cheek. True, he didn’t tell Charlotte about her at all (which he probably should have), but that doesn’t mean he feels guilty. Or, at least, that he should feel guilty. Even if he kind of does. Not that he could tell Charlotte about anything anyway since she won’t text him back. Zain tosses his phone onto the bed and rubs his eyes, leaning back from his art desk.

  Down the hall, his mother switches off the TV that has been humming through her closed door all day. The house is quiet. She is going to sleep at five o’clock in the afternoon. That can’t be good, he thinks. At Aunt Mellie’s house there was always some kind of noise, of life. Mellie’s odd music crackling through her turntable speakers, unexpected guests bursting through the door, the sound of laughter. After a week of energy, the stillness here feels extra empty and super lonely. That is the worst part about it here now, he thinks, the loneliness of this house. Not a home, just a lonely house. Since they’ve been back in town. Since last spring.

  Zain has been lucky to have someone close by these last couple months. Someone to talk to, and someone to listen. Someone who doesn’t just have to, but actually wants to be around him. Maybe Charlotte doesn’t want any of that anymore, but he has to know. Zain puts on his running shoes and slides out the front door, not bothering to tell his mother he’ll be back soon.

  Charlotte is not completely sure how, but she has been shrunken down and become stuck in a tiny room. She had been thinking about time right before she took the hit and so it must be that she has become stuck inside one of the cogs of a pocket watch. Whose pocket watch is still a mystery. But now she is inside, sitting in this tiny room that no one else knew was even inside a watch. Trapped inside a tiny hidden chamber inside a cog of some stranger’s pocket watch. The afternoon sun, somewhere far away, shines through the window of some great room, where full-sized people sit in a smoke cloud, unaware that one of them is missing. The watch owner might even be looking now, glaring down at his watch face, trying to make out the interworking springs and dials, unaware of this tiny room hidden inside a broken watch cog where Charlotte sits waiting to rejoin everyone else. How long, she thinks, has she been sitting here? She can’t be sure, but too long, she decides. She hopes that when the watch begins twirling and ticking the secret room will spin and throw her from the cogs, through the watch face and back into the big world again. For now, she waits, l
istening for the ticking or whirling of the gears around her to begin again. But when will those sounds begin again?

  His legs, stiff from the drive back to River Valley and sitting at his desk all afternoon, loosen up before he reaches the end of his street. Familiar, hometown air fills his lungs assuring him the shitty run feeling from the morning has gone. He is back. As he turns onto Charlotte’s street Zain goes over his introduction again. Good afternoon, my name is Zain, is Charlotte here? And if dad or mom asks, I’m a friend from school. No need to complicate things. The sun setting on Spruce Circle makes the houses look even more enormous, throwing big shadows across the sidewalk.

  For once, Charlotte’s driveway isn’t empty. A small sporty car sits in the shade of the house. Her parent’s, maybe? He thought they always parked in the garage. Zain slows down. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, he thinks. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have responded to any one of his texts. Zain slows and looks past the side yard and over the back fence of one of Charlotte’s neighbor’s humongous houses. Somewhere back there is the ditch bank. Just a low wall stands between him and the ditch. He could be through the yard and on the bank before anyone in the house even knew someone had run through their yard. Slip over the wall, and jog the three houses to Charlotte’s. He could see if she’s in the backyard. If not, he could run the ditch bank home. Somehow that feels wrong, though. He can’t recall any of his father’s advice on a similar situation, but knocking on the front door seems like the mature move. After all the immaturity of the last few days, the tears, and pictures of his baby face smiling up at a world he no longer has, and avoiding Charlotte’s texts while another girl flirted with him, maybe it’s time for some maturity. Maybe Charlotte will think he’s brave for coming over, knocking on the door, and listen as he tries to explain that he missed her. Zain sets off again, feet on the sidewalk.

  Charlotte smells smoke. It is the first sign she is coming back. Her body rejoining and attaching to a place she had forgotten about in the clock is the next one. Then the other senses fall back on her like thudding waves of concrete. Fingers spread out on the soft, stale leather of couch, the acrid taste of dry tongue. Finally, the real world returns as the clock melts into faces and wood floor and time passing, finally passing. Thank god, she thinks. Then, over the heartbeat in her ears, breath in and out of her chest, someone is calling her name.

  “Char!”

  “Wha—”

  Did she say that, she thinks? Then there is laughing, like explosions, definitely not her own laughter.

  “Char!” someone says again. Then more laughter.

  Suddenly Toni’s face is in front of her, smiling, “You back?”

  “Yss—”

  More laughter from all around.

  “Mmmback.”

  “She’s back!”

  Then yelling and more laughing and talking. She can’t be sure, but she thinks, it is not to her.

  Zain knocks on the door and waits. He wasn’t running that hard, but his heart is beating like a woodpecker. Good afternoon, my name is Zain, he thinks—

  The door opens on a pair of perfect legs in a short skirt. Before Zain can think too long about how Charlotte doesn’t wear skirts, someone is speaking, “Can I help you?”

  Eyes up, man, he thinks. The girl in the doorway is hardly a girl at all, mostly woman. “Um, good afternoon.” The girl smiles and he recognizes the smile from the pictures in the hallway, Charlotte’s sister. “Good afternoon,” she says.

  “Sorry,” Zain says, not completely sure what he’s apologizing for. Staring, maybe. Standing like an idiot on her doorstep with nothing to say beyond good afternoon, definitely. “I’m Zain. Is Charlotte here?”

  “No,” Charlotte’s sister says. “I’m Chloe, Char’s sister.”

  “Right. Um, do you know when she might be back?”

  “She took off with a friend a couple hours ago. Should be back soon.”

  “Okay.” Of course he hadn’t planned for this, though he should have. He knew Chloe was in town.

  “I’ve been texting her, actually. We’re supposed to go out. Hold on—” she says, looking over Zain and nodding. “You’re the runner.”

  “I’m the runner?”

  “Charlotte told me about you. A little bit anyways. Do you want to come in?”

  Charlotte told her sister about him? Zain thinks. That seems like a good sign. “I don’t want to impose.”

  When she laughs it’s almost creepy. It sounds so much like Charlotte. It makes Zain’s heart hurt, reminded of how much he missed that sound. How worried he’d been that he would never hear it again. He still might not, of course. Not from Charlotte.

  “It’s really no imposition at all, Blaine.”

  “Zain,” he says.

  “Zain. My apologies,” she says, standing back and opening the door wider.

  Toni talks constantly on the drive home as Charlotte watches the road, taking slow breaths. The effects have worn off, mostly, except for the foggy head and nausea.

  “Shit was intense. Makes acid feel like bad shrimp or something. You really can’t even compare it. You know?”

  “Definitely different.” Charlotte says, cracking her window.

  “That’s an understatement. Mushrooms aren’t magical. Salvia is fucking magic.”

  It feels like it should be later, Charlotte thinks. The sun taking forever to set should have set hours ago.

  “I was so gone,” Toni says. “Space and time and the past and present and…Shit!” Toni bumps up over the curb onto Spruce Circle. Charlotte would agree, but she’s too nauseous, and doesn’t really feel like reveling. Disappearing with hallucinogens for a couple hours sounded like a good escape at the time, but it definitely wasn’t. She grips the door and breathes, waiting to be home.

  Zain has been polite, kept his eyes on Chloe’s face, above her neck, but fully aware of her legs. He can see them in his periphery, crossed over each other, one bouncing off the other. He accepted a water, not a beer (in case Mr. and/or Mrs. Hanson should walk in), while he answered her questions. She was delighted by the story of the beer pool mile, maybe even a little impressed. She is more approachable than Charlotte, Zain decides, and even though she is on her phone most of the time, he has felt comfortable talking. He tells her about how he should have texted Charlotte right back but it really was a crazy day (leaving out the Aisha glitch). When he finishes, he knows he should feel awkward, telling this stranger so much private stuff. Mostly, though, Zain feels envious of Charlotte for having such a nice sister. Chloe smiles and tells him that her sister will get over it. It’s not a big deal. When she gets here, just be honest with her, she says. Chloe has just finished her second glass of wine when the door opens. Zain sits up on the couch.

  Toni’s voice echoes from the foyer. Chloe walks out, leaving Zain alone in the living room. He can hear the girls greeting each other in the kitchen. He isn’t sure if Charlotte and Toni looked into the living room on their way in or not. While the girls’ tribe talks in the kitchen, he walks around the living room unsure of where to stand. He listens as the fridge opens and glasses fill. United now and probably talking about the night out they planned, he thinks. Zain stops by the fireplace, standing awkwardly, wishing his running shorts had pockets or that he’d worn his hoodie. He can’t hear what they are saying, but he guesses what they might say before leaving. Oh, by the way, that boy is in the living room. Again, he wonders what he is doing here. What is he going to say when they come back in? What if he doesn’t get the chance to talk to Charlotte alone? If they all come in and he doesn’t even get his chance, he thinks, what then? All of the scenarios he planned ended with them talking, just the two of them. The conversation in the kitchen stalls and he sees someone’s shadow walking into the living room.

  Charlotte doesn’t hug him when she walks in. She looks different, beautiful, but a bit unfamiliar. It’s her eyes, he thinks.

  “Hey you,” she says, stoppin
g at the couch.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that, but there it is. Maybe it’s better that it’s out there. He is sorry.

  She crosses her arms and leans against the couch. “Sorry for what?” she says.

  “I was texting you today.”

  “Ya. Kind of a crazy day.”

  “I just wanted to see you.”

  Charlotte uncrosses her arms, “I really don’t have the energy for this right now.”

  Zain tries to remember his list of scenarios, his planned responses.

  “I should have texted you more. Called you from El Paso.” He only realizes this is true as he says it. Why didn’t he call? “I’m sorry,” he says again.

  “It’s all good,” Charlotte shrugs.

  “It is?”

  Charlotte looks down at her shoes.

  “Hall Pass!” Toni says, walking in from the kitchen. “Where you been?”

  “I was in El Paso,” Zain says.

  “Excelente,” Toni says, taking Charlotte’s arm. “Maybe you should have stayed there—”

  “Toni,” Charlotte says.

  “Well, we’re out,” Toni says. “Good seeing you, buddy.” The way she says “buddy,” the way she looks at him, it is more like a goodbye. Charlotte looks at Zain and shakes the hair out of her eyes. Her look isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm either. The three of them stand silently, Toni tightening her grip on Charlotte’s arm. Zain can feel his cheeks turning red. “Cool,” he says, nodding. “You guys have fun.”