Remember Us

by Lindsay Blake

  “Uh, it’s okay, I’m gonna check some work emails.” I scooted into the living room. The truth was, Ben always got along with both of our parents better than I did. But at the end of the day, I knew Ben and I were each other’s number one. After Mom’s unforeseen departure and Dad’s Black Hole, it was Ben and me against them, against the world.

  “I’m an artist too, you know.” Bernice appeared in the living room and set a plate with the R cookie beside me. She settled high on the arm of the worn couch, absently petting Rocky, who jumped up onto her lap.

  “Is that what we’re calling you these days?” I typed furiously, not looking up. I’d always found the clicking of the keys reassuring. It made me feel strong, like I was making a plan, had a destination. She pulled lipstick out of her pocket and applied it with broad strokes.

  “I’d say you got most of your artistic talents from moi, as a matter of fact.” She smacked her lips loudly.

  “Is that so.” I gathered my laptop, book, and pens and stood.

  “Well, just because your father’s an architect doesn’t mean he’s actually artistically talented. He’s better at the numbers and lines. And at a few other things too, trust me on that.” Bernice set Rocky down, rose and ran her hands over her hips as she sashayed toward me.

  “Ah, okay.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your photo business, and I have a few ideas. I’d love to give you some business coaching sessions.”

  “I don’t have a photo business; I work with Charlie’s photo business.”

  “Exactly my point.” She pursed her sticky lips, and wafts of spearmint filled the space between us. “You’ve been following him since elementary school. You know I love that boy, but he’s your weak link.”

  “I haven’t been following anyone. I’m fine where I am and happy. I’m doing what I want.”

  “Reese Mae. You have more talent in your pinky finger than that boy has in the whole of his arm.” She held up her left pinky and her right arm to illustrate her point.

  “That’s not true. You haven’t even seen his work, or my work, but thanks for the pep talk.”

  “I follow him on the Facebook, so I see his photos all the time. I see your stuff too. I still don’t know why you won’t respond to my friend request.” Her eyes looked shiny.

  “Really, you don’t know?” What I meant was, Why did you leave me? It was the question always at the back of my throat, like a rock at the bottom of my heart.

  She set her shoulders. “You listen to me. The life of an artist is one of peaks and valleys, of accolades and deserts. I’ve been there, baby girl, I’ve done that. If you need to borrow a little money to go out on your own, I’d love to finance your company.” She pulled a bottle out of her bag and sprayed herself with wisteria. “I can design you some shirts to give out to your masses, and you can wear them on your shoots. I’ll sew your name on the front pocket.”

  “Thanks, that’s generous, but I’m fine.” When she pointed the perfume bottle in my direction, I ducked behind the door frame.

  “Baby girl, we Hamilton women don’t do fine. I mean, we do fine, but what we do even better is extraordinary. You are extraordinary, sugar, and I want the world to see it. We’ll talk about this again later.”

  She yelled the last to my back as I took the stairs in twos. I didn’t look back at her. Even with my bedroom door closed, I could still hear Ben’s and Bernice’s cheerful voices in all the corners of my room, so I turned on music.

  She’d never even apologized.

  It had been thirteen years, almost to the day. It was in the spring when she threw up her hands and left us while we were out and about, so we didn’t discover her absence for hours, when we were all back from school and the office and found the kitchen, the living room, the sunroom, everything uninhabited. Ben and I didn’t even register anything was amiss until the following morning when we found Dad at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Perhaps that space and time between the leaving and the knowing said so much about her lack of presence in our everyday lives at that time. She never once came back to say goodbye.

  I’d seen her precious little in the past decade, her appearances efficient, abrupt, and uninvited. And here she was once more, settled in neatly between us, as if she’d simply visited the bathroom during the intermission of a play.

  For years I’d had this image of what having my mom around would be like, and now that she was here, she was both everything and nothing like what I wanted her to be. She read to Dad for whole segments of the day, fluffed his pillows, and talked to us incessantly. I knew in the end she’d insist on taking all the credit for his recovery, negating us, the doctors, medicine, and everything in-between.

  I was journaling when Ben knocked on my door an hour later.

  “Reese, what’s wrong?” He seemed genuinely befuddled, and I gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  “Nothing.” Nothing at all.

  I absently stared at the pearly margins of a pristine piece of paper and as the warmth of the mug spread between my fingers, the heaviness of the steam met my cheeks. I picked up my pen.

  Blake, dear friend.

  Thanks for your kind words these last weeks (and always).

  Thank you from my heart’s depths.

  I have so much to say, yet so little.

  To recap on why I left your house in such a whirlwind: my Dad was sick and though he’s fully stabilized, all my words and emotions have converged into one giant vat of pudding, one unending road through a forest with wolves all about, one ceaseless sentence of pain and hurt, rage and hope.

  There, was that dramatic enough? I feel dramatic these days. Not dramatic in an “I’m being dramatic” kind of way. More in an “I feel so much, every single day” kind of way.

  And most of all I am aware

  this

  hurts

  like

  a

  mother.

  (Do I need to note my cleverness just there?) Anyway, as I was saying, Dad is finally on the mend, doing better by the day. We haven’t talked much about the last eight years, but we get on well enough in a generic sort of way.

  Why then is my heart so raw, like it’s been slaughtered by a splintery 2 x 4? For that matter, like I’ve been run over by a herd of elephants or ganged up on by a pack of hyenas. Oh, oh! Or like I’ve been the brunt of a kindergarten room full of jokes.

  My mom is back, did I tell you? I haven’t seen her in almost four years and now I’m ready for another four-year break. She showed up, uninvited of course, at 10 p.m. in the middle of a storm (very telling) with three suitcases, her pet Chihuahua Rocky sitting high in her fuchsia purse, and mascara running down both cheeks.

  She drives me crazy, but some insane part of me is glad she came. It’s hard to explain. I somehow always and never miss her. And when I see her, I get this giant ache inside, something yelling at me that it’s nice to have a mom. Then she opens her mouth, and I lose it. Ben says we are just alike to annoy me. It works.

  If you get even two more letters like this, please have me committed. You can keep this letter as hard proof.

  This is a bit all over the place, like a Dali, but I think you get the gist.

  Thanks for being my friend, for being you.

  R

  That night after dinner, Ben and I uncovered our bikes in the furthest corner of the garage, tucked behind the Christmas tree, the lawn mower, and the stack of watering cans. The path at the end of the street took us straight to our elementary and high schools through two miles of hills and parks. Charlie had waited for us at the edge of his driveway every day for ten straight years for our commute to class.

  The night was surprisingly cool, and I was twelve again, flying along the winding path, allowing the weight to lift off my shoulders with each pump of my legs.

  “Do you want to head downtown, get some ice cream?” Ben yelled over his shoulder.

  “Nah, too much sugar.” I sped ahead of him. “You need to see the documentar
y I watched about sugar. It will cure your sweet tooth for good.”

  “Except you just stuffed your face full of carbs,” he called to my back.

  “Shut up.”

  We rode in silence; there is an exhaustion far deeper than the physical. When he said “Race you!” I pretended for a few minutes I actually wanted to win before I slowed enough for him to leave me, unseen, by the hill.

  I pulled over to The Tree which housed The Hollow where Charlie and I had spent years leaving messages and treasures and a pirate’s cove of secrets. It was a quarter mile from our houses, in a dilapidated playground. We’d kept it undisclosed from Ben all these years, a victory in itself.

  The opening was smaller than I recalled, and I stuck my hand inside, hoping beyond hope I’d find a collection of long-lost booty. The tired cigar box was still there, despite it all, but it was empty inside, and I couldn’t remember what we’d last left in there anyway. I dug into my pockets but came up empty. I slipped my watch off my wrist, nestled it in the box, and carefully placed the package back where I’d found it.

  If only capturing time were as straightforward because the tricky reality of life is, inevitably, you never know when something will be your last.

  6

  June

  Bernice

  “Should we add a few of Reese’s photos to your online dating account?” Benjamin suggested as he diced the peppers beside me in the kitchen.

  About two years ago, Maya and Benjamin visited me for a long weekend and, after a couple glasses of wine, Benjamin took out my computer and signed me up on some online dating site. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he didn’t listen. Wouldn’t listen. He pestered me with questions.

  1.What are you looking for in a relationship?

  2.Who has been the biggest influence in your life?

  3.What is your favorite way to spend a Saturday?

  4.What is your favorite vacation spot?

  The questions, now they had been fun. Maya and Benjamin made a game of answering them for each other as they helped me find my own replies. We started at nine and didn’t hit Save until midnight. Within three minutes I had two messages in my inbox. I didn’t look at them for three days.

  “Why, Benjamin?” I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Here’s the thing most people don’t know about me: I’m a romantic. Maya says my ‘hero spirit’ is what she loves about me most of all. I don’t remember if that was her phrase or mine.”

  “I told you, I’m worried Reese’s photos won’t do justice to my good looks.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” He grabbed a mushroom off my cutting board and threw it in his mouth. “I love coming home after a day at the office and cooking.” He smiled, denting my heart.

  “I don’t know, Benjamin.” I stuck my head in the fridge. When I re-emerged, he was studying my hair.

  “What?” I patted it self-consciously. It did seem bigger than usual.

  “Nothing. How many dates have you been on in the last two years since we signed you up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mom, you are one hot commodity. You know that, right?” Benjamin emptied his peppers into the sizzling pan.

  “Yep.” My lips sealed tight on their own accord.

  “How many men on average message you a day? Two, ten?” He moved the vegetables around with precision, wafting the pop of their tangy juices between us.

  “I don’t know, maybe one.” Tears formed in my eyes, and I stabbed the onion.

  “Ah, Mom, you’re onion crying.” He patted my back. “Come on, it’s definitely more men than that.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “I said, I don’t know. I don’t know, Benjamin. Why don’t you go wash up, and I’ll finish this supper. You go now.” I was frazzled, and Benjamin backed out of the kitchen with a nod. I was left alone with my onions and my tears.

  They said Carl was getting better by the day, but I had to be prepared for the worst. Sometimes, in my daydreams about Carl dying, I fast-forwarded six months. I imagined that’s how long I could keep the frisky young men at bay. I grabbed another onion and sliced it with force.

  One of the men from Benjamin’s dating site claimed to be a nurse, a widower himself. He also claimed to like puppies and long walks on the beach. I told myself “What the heck” and sent him a wink the very next day.

  It spiraled or accelerated from there—whichever way you’d like to think about it. He messaged me every day. He sent me roses one Friday and gaudy balloons the next.

  I put off meeting him for as long as possible, but people find me magnetic. Besides, he was the perfect distraction, even if I wasn’t quite ready for a full-blown affair. After I hemmed, hawed, and placated him for weeks on end, I could tell he was getting anxious, so I suggested Saturday evening at Oscars.

  Reese hung up on me when I told her over the phone. She was off in New York City, figuring out how to be an adult, and I didn’t add preamble to the announcement. So our conversation totaled precisely forty-seven seconds, and I figured it would be approximately forty-seven days until she’d pick up one of my calls again.

  Benjamin, however, paused then said “Okay,” the way he does when he’s unhappy but resigned to an idea. Besides, he was finally engaged to Maya, something that should have happened years ago. They were busy planning for their big day, and I made a mental note to send her a list of suggestions.

  I wore my red dress for the date, breaking my vow of wearing only black for the year. It had long been my sassiest attire. To go with it, I shaved my legs, got a pedicure, and paid an exorbitant sum at the beauty salon. It wasn’t that I wanted to put in so much effort for Mr. Met Him Online, but rather that I didn’t have the energy to do any sort of maintenance myself.

  If I needed a makeup artist to paint some joy on my face, so be it.

  I couldn’t be bothered being on time for my date, but he was there waiting and much sexier than his online profile suggested.

  It turned out he was fifteen years younger than me, but didn’t mind the age difference. He could also carry a conversation and had a Southern drawl that put mine to shame. He matched my dazzle on every level, but I snuck out over dessert when he went to the bathroom.

  Maybe I was scared; maybe commitment had never been my forte. Maybe I knew I didn’t deserve someone so great. Or maybe no one could ever compare to Carl.

  I sighed and shook my head; I would need to work on my dating game. If I put my heart into it, getting back on that horse would come easy, but the biggest trouble was, Carl was the love of my life. Through all the years and all the miles between us, I’d never stopped loving him, knew I could live a hundred more lifetimes and marry ten times over, and I’d never find a love like we’d had again.

  Once upon a time we respected each other, were each other’s biggest cheerleaders.

  But these days, Carl hated me. I saw it in his eyes, in the shortness of his scrutiny upon me. He never used to be able to tear his gaze away from me, but he did it now, again and again. I couldn’t leave him in this state, but his lack of interest in me, in reigniting our story or finding some sort of closure, kicked me where the sun don’t shine. Even after all these years he could hurt me the most.

  So I pretended it didn’t matter. I cooked their dinners, let Benjamin imagine new husbands for me, and hoped they wouldn’t notice my smile was plastic.

  Reese

  Charlie sent me three copies of the magazine. One for me, one for my Dad, one for Bernice, I suppose, but I decided to frame it instead. She didn’t need any pieces of Charlie. He was mine.

  I texted him a selfie of me and the magazine. He responded with a thumbs up and a fruit emoji. Weirdo. I shook my head with a smile.

  Charlie and I shared our first camera, a pristine Leica, which we found at a garage sale when we were twelve. We’d spent the next five weeks researching and practicing how to use it, photographing each other and any other willing model, whi
ch was mostly Ben and our parents. They soon became unwilling models, but still we pressed onwards.

  Even as novices, Charlie was a natural artist with an uncanny eye for beauty. What took him a few tries took me hours, if not days, to figure out. But that didn’t stop me. I loved taking photos, working extra hard. For me, photography spoke what I could not say.

  I think it was the same for Charlie.

  Although Charlie and I both received scholarships to Savannah College of Art and Design, Charlie was the star and I shadowed behind him. My favorite teacher, Dr. Stephens, kept me after class one day to tell me I should never trail after a man, any man. I thanked him and left. It was Charlie; it didn’t count.

  We stayed in Georgia after graduating, determined to make our way in the world. It was a three-hour drive from where Ben settled in Knoxville, and ideal on every front. Charlie got the work calls first, but he included me on each and every adventure. We had photographed the world over, side by side.

  Until now.

  The spread covered four pages and looked stunning. I imagined how I would have shot it differently as I critiqued the angles and juxtaposition of the subjects one after the other. But it was perfect, by far Charlie’s best work. I was proud of him and concurrently frustrated I’d missed this hour in the sun with him. We’d both assumed I’d be back by his side at the end of a month at home, and though each day multiplied the distance between us, it wasn’t time for me to go back. I couldn’t explain it if I tried, but I knew I wasn’t done in Omaha.

  The note he’d scratched out a week before simply read,

  Leaving for Paris tomorrow; I think I have an in with Vogue. I’ll be charming. Fingers crossed.

  All my love,

  Charlie

  Over the years, Charlie had dated a few girls, the high-power types—lawyers, models, doctors. At first I hated their perfect hair and gym-sculpted bodies, but most of them were so nice, they won me over despite myself. But when he got serious with one of them, I faded into the background, keeping myself scarce in his social life and making up for it during working hours.