She knocks on my bedroom door.
“Jamie, please let me in.”
I’ve been sketching furiously
and listening to my iPod
for an hour.
I’m not in the mood for this.
She sighs.
“If you ever want to talk,
well, I’m always available.”
I almost laugh.
She hasn’t been available
for four years.
Anger swells,
bitter and boiling.
I kind of do
want to talk…
but not with her.
Erica’s not exactly
the listening type,
but I can rant
to Asher,
who will listen
without judging
until he’s got me
laughing
instead of
raging.
From Lear Lane
to Good Hope Road,
to the left of Wildflower Park,
past Greenwood High School
and the neglected graveyard.
From gaudy mini-mansions and
white-collar professionals
to condemned buildings and
evicted families,
I bike to the Brooks residence.
Beatrice’s red nails
curve along
the side of the door,
her fingers like spiders.
“Lemme guess.
You’re looking for Erica?”
Beatrice says.
“Well, she’s out somewhere.”
“I’m actually looking for Asher.
Is he here?”
She pauses for a moment,
then rolls her eyes
dramatically.
“That boy, I swear.
I found weed and cigarettes
under his bed.”
She picks at her nails,
as if this conversation
is some kind of gossip fest.
“Well, I don’t want drugs in my house.
I had to call Social Services.
I swear, they’re always
just like their parents.”
Gone.
Just gone.
Leaving only the space
where he had once been.
Leaving only the pain
in my heart and my stomach.
She mentions him
for a moment,
a few words passing in an instant.
Asher.
Labeled Troublemaker.
Sent to a group home
like some of her others.
She says teens are like needles.
They pick, pick away at her…
except for the other Sinclair—
she’s all right.
Quiet most of the time.
Always writing in some book of hers.
I check Wildflower Park.
She’s gone.
Disappeared
just like him.
Gripping the sides of my sketchbook,
I try to picture something
different.
Something too good,
like the park at peace with life.
Wonderland, revised.
Maybe
just an image on paper
can make me feel better.
It’s late
when I arrive home.
Really late.
Like, midnight.
I slip through
the back door.
I expect to find
Mom fuming in rage
or worrying,
or something.
Instead
she’s at work.
Overtime.
Does she know
or even care,
if I’d ever
come back
“home?”
JULY
Erica, it’s Jamie. I’m so sorry about Asher. Please call me back.
Erica, it’s Jamie. What happened is awful. Do you want to talk about it? Please call.
Erica, it’s me. Um, where are you? Are you avoiding me? Call me. Or don’t. I’m just—I’m really sorry about Asher. Please call me back.
Erica, um, call me…when you’re ready. I’m just—I’m worried about you.
The next week is spent in
solitary confinement.
I haven’t heard a word from Erica
and Mom’s away on business.
I read a book.
I watch too much TV.
I eat a carton of
chocolate chip ice cream.
I try to draw but
end up staring at
the pencil in my hand,
who used to be
my loyal friend
until my creativity
betrayed me
and now
my art
can do nothing.
My thoughts
create a wedge
between inspiration
and me.
Where are you, Erica?
I have a horrible habit
of spending these periods of time
when I’m alone
in Mom’s closet
fishing out that old hatbox.
I try not to think about
my dad
below the ground.
I try not to think about
losing people
in general.
I’m sketching in the park
when Erica suddenly appears,
strutting through the gate into
Wonderland.
“I’ve changed my page quota
to fifty instead of seventy,” she says
as she walks toward me.
“I just can’t wait that long
anymore.”
She looks the same
except her eyes
are inked creases in her skin—
melted and helpless,
or it might just be
shadows and sunlight
playing tricks on my mind.
I have to ask
when she sits next to me,
nothing in her hands.
No book.
No cigarette.
“It’s been a week, Erica.
Where have you been?”
She picks at a
dirty fingernail.
“I’ve been hanging out
with Chris.”
She turns and looks me
square in the eye,
and in that moment
I realize
she knows
that his name hurts.
And of course,
of course
she knows
that I love her.
And I’m
angry.
Why did she pick him?
Is it because of
his gender,
his looks,
his poseur personality?
Erica puts her head
on my shoulder.
I’m so
disgusted
with myself,
my exposure,
my desperation.
But
I still can’t bring myself
to push her away.
And I agree
to be Erica’s plus one
on a camping trip
Chris is hosting.
When Erica talks about it
she’s so full of life,
like Asher’s still here
and everything’s all right.
We don’t talk about him.
Or my messages.
Or what she was doing all this time
with Chris.
I don’t tell her that I’m angry.
She doesn’t tell me that she knows.
All we talk about is
the camping trip.
“A great escape,”
Erica calls it.
I’m
eating dinner alone
(Chinese takeout)
when Mom walks through the door,
dragging a suitcase behind her.
“Jamie.”
She muffles a yawn.
“I missed you.
How are you doing?
Hey, I got you something.”
She digs in her suitcase
and pulls out
a wooden box filled with
drawing pencils.
The New York City skyline
is carved in the top.
“I was downtown
and saw this on display
in a little art store.
I knew you’d put it to good use.”
She smiles and
hands me my consolation prize
for her absence.
Her attempt to buy forgiveness
is paper-thin,
clear as cellophane
but I’m glad at least she knows
how to bribe me.
Across the dinner table, Mom says,
“You know, if there’s anything
you want to talk about,
you can always confide in me.”
I’m still convinced
I can’t,
but I’m curious.
Why is she offering again?
So I ask
and she simply says,
“Teenage years are hard.
It’s nice to have a parent
to guide you through them.”
I wish I had
both parents.
I wish Erica did
as well.
I meet Erica
in the park.
We wait for Chris
to drive us to the campground.
We talk about our favorite bands
and I offer her some of my
Starbucks latte.
I ask her how
her seventy—wait, fifty pages
are going.
“Right on schedule.”
She looks at the ground,
not at me.
Right in the heat
of our discussion about Queen
I hear the park gate
rattle.
I look up and see
Chris shaking the metal.
“Come on, guys,”
he shouts from the entrance.
“My truck is waiting.”
Erica hoists her duffle bag
over her shoulder
and I roll my suitcase
toward Chris.
I stare at him.
Feelings churn in my stomach
like stones.
Resentment and hatred
mix and groan.
This park is ours,
and he’s
an intruder,
stepping on territory
that should be left private, alone.
I sit sandwiched between
Chris’s friends.
Drake’s body odor and
Jack’s obscene hand gestures
make my legs squeeze together,
my arms cross against my chest,
my eyes search for a safe place
to land.
I try not to look
at Chris’s hand on her thigh.
I try not to imagine
his hand being mine.
It’s like the beach all over again.
Oh God.
Why did I agree to this?
The campground
is a tiny section
of a large community
of tents and fire pits
lined up like Levittown.
Stakes pile and
nylon tenting spreads
across a square of flat land.
Chris digs metal into dirt
while we tiptoe around
sheets of fabric
and ask him where
“the bendy things go.”
Erica drops a metal pole.
“I can’t do this.
Chris, babe, I’ll kiss you
if you finish for me.”
Of course he takes her offer.
Who wouldn’t?
As I’m organizing tools,
I look up and find them still together.
I walk to their side of the tent and
drop my hammer.
Chris screams and
grabs his foot,
pushing Erica away.
Oops.
I don’t let anyone
see my smile.
When we’re done unpacking and setting up
(and Erica is halfway through a book),
Drake suggests a cigarette break.
Being the only one who doesn’t smoke,
I crawl back into the tent
to get my sketchbook and pencils.
I turn around to leave,
but Erica is
kneeling behind me.
“Oh my God, you scared me.”
She doesn’t laugh
or apologize.
“Can I see that?”
She points to my sketchbook.
She’s not really asking.
She never asks.
She expects.
I hand it over.
My heart races
and my palms get sweaty
as she flips through the pages
of my thoughts and feelings…
leisurely.
She passes through
a montage of trees,
my father,
the Greenwood graveyard.
A few pages later,
she sees herself.
Oh God.
I forgot about that drawing.
She stares at the picture
for a long time.
Minutes go by
and she sits
expressionless.
She begins to slowly
rip the page out.
I wince
but stay silent.
If she was anyone else
I would have snatched
my sketchbook back
in an instant.
“Can I keep this?” she asks,
pinching the drawing
between her fingers.
But she never really asks.
Through the flames
of the campfire
she sits with Chris.
His arms
hold her close
around the waist.
Their legs
intimately
intertwine.
Her hand
cups his
prickly chin.
Kiss
Kiss
Why
am I
exhausted?
I’m almost asleep when
something brushes against me.
Erica is sitting beside me,
writing in her notebook.
I start to sit up, but
when she lies down
I sink back into
my sleeping bag.
She pushes her book
to the corner of the tiny tent.
“I didn’t know you were awake.”
She scoots in closer
so our noses are
practically touching.
Fresh raindrops
break the silence
and bounce off the tent.
The rain crashes harder,
and cold air creeps in.
Erica’s icy fingers wrap around
the back of my neck.
Her eyes capture mine.
She leans in for a kiss.
Eyes closed.
Mouth open.
Fingers laced through
strands of hair.
Skin soft.
Chapped lips rough.
Stomach hollow
and exploding.
Holding on
to her, to the moment.
Hands and heart
afraid she’ll let go.
Focuse
d but
oblivious.
The need to breathe
is unimportant.
“Man, did you believe how cold it got last night?”
Chris peels a banana
as we eat breakfast
around the dead campfire.
“I know, man,”
Jack leers at me.
“I was about to make some heat
with one of these ladies.”
Chris smacks him with the
banana peel.
“Just don’t touch my lady.”
The ghost of Erica’s kiss
lurks on my lips.
I try to catch some
signal from her
that she’s not his anymore.
I catch her eye,
but Erica’s as closed as
her notebook.
And then it starts to rain.
It beats down so hard
and for so long
that we all decide
to dismantle the tents,
pack up the supplies,
and head home early.
Hey Jamie.
Asher! How are you?
Eh, I’m holding up.
How’s the, uh—
Remember Me Page 3
