From the outside, we are normal; we are okay.
“I almost forgot,” JJ says, lifting the contents of the plastic grocery bags into view. “Happy belated birthday.” She sets a single box of Lucky Charms on the counter, and another, and another, and three more after. All six are in a perfectly straight line, reflecting everything I am. She slows her movements, hands folded in front of her as if to say—Is this okay?
“It’s everything,” I say.
“I’ve got a shoebox and some baggies, too. We’ll get you set up.”
“Can we not call them ‘baggies’? I’m not a dealer.”
“That I know of.” She elbows me, taking a cue from my body language not to hug. I don’t feel open; I’m closed off, imprisoned. The urn suddenly becomes my entire focus. Why hasn’t he been moved? It’s not okay. We’re not okay.
“We getting this started or what?” Kam shouts through the music. JJ raises her finger to shush him. I see it from the corner of my eye. It silences him immediately. He shuts the music off and they stand here, soaking in the silence with me. All of our eyes are on the urn.
The time is 8:47 P.M. EST.
“Ima,” Kam begins. JJ shakes her head and his lips tighten. In a way, it feels as if us standing here is a salute to Dad. The flag’s crisp angles and vivid colors folded into a perfect triangle that are on display, too, represent the parts of me I cling to—the parts that have to stay an exact way—while the part beneath, the wooden box with the U.S. Marine Corp emblem, is everything else. Out of sight, tucked away, however disheveled. I would stand here forever if I could. With the cereal boxes lined up between me and the urn, I find a strange comfort. But only in this spot, right here, right now, where a knock at the door erupts at the exact moment a burst of creation spontaneously generates.
Somewhere between my life, and his death.
Dad
cell
March 3 at 1:24 PM
Transcription Beta
“[sigh] I didn’t want to say this on a voicemail. I don’t have much time to talk but wanted to tell you before Nell does. I won’t be home for your birthday in May after all. They need me to stay a little longer. I’m sorry, Ima. I wish I could fix it, but it’s my job. I won’t do another tour after this. We only have to make it through a little while longer, and I swear—I’ll make it up to you in Ivy Springs as soon as I can. Promise. Read the letters. I’m sorry, baby.”
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I knew it
When you said
You’d be home
Because
You’re the one who taught me
Never to believe
In fairy tales.
Boy mixes allergies with ashes, has delightful reaction.
Kam invites me through the front door. “Hello there,” he says, searching my still slightly rash covered arms. “Are you okay?”
“A minor allergic reaction. I’ve made something I’d like to give to Naima, if I may.” I balance the strawberry cake on top of the cloth Stella made me drape over my skin (in case I came into contact with the ingredients again).
“I hope you’re all right?”
“I took some medicine. It’s fine.” I struggle with the weight of the cake. My arms have never had much more than skin over the bones—something kids at school have pointed out as a means of picking on me, or something—but I’m okay with my outsides. My arms remind me of my father’s. Long and thin but strong enough to scoop me into them. Just as I’m okay with my carefree curls and wide-mouthed smile, like Mom’s.
He shuts the door behind me. “They’re in the kitchen.”
I’m careful not to drop my creation, stopping directly on an uneven pivot. I’d love to walk farther, but the placement of Naima stops me.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“Ima,” Joelle says, studying the cake, her eyes devouring the perfectly pink frosting with delight. “What do you have?”
With the pathway cleared, I move closer, pushing a row of cereal boxes out of the way to make room for this marvelous, terribly dangerous (for me) confection. Sprinkles from the top fall to the table. “I made this. For her.”
“DUDE!” Naima cries. “Watch the GD boxes!”
“Apologies.”
“Isn’t this the nicest thing?” Joelle compliments.
“It’s strawberry cake,” I say. I avoid making direct eye contact. “My mother’s recipe.”
“Now I get it,” Naima says. “Strawberries.” She doesn’t appear impressed.
“You are so sweet,” Joelle fusses. “Let me cut you a slice. Join us.”
I back away. “I’m allergic.”
“All those times I sent food over, no one said anything.”
“We didn’t want to be rude. My parents and Faith love your food. I certainly loved looking at it—I just can’t eat some of—”
Naima interrupts. “What’s on your arms?”
I hold my fists out, reveal the splotches now barely evident along my arms. “It’s a lot better than it was a few hours ago.”
Joelle’s jaw falls open. She rushes to me to get a closer look. “You poor thing! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Why would you bake for me if you knew you’d have a reaction?” Naima asks. “That’s, like, a suicide mission.”
Among their eyes, and the heat of the light, and the kick of the allergy medicine, it all puts a tad too much pressure on me. I pull out my recorder and instantly calm. Though Dr. Peterson has suggested weaning me off of its use, I find comfort in the way my fingers wrap around the shape of it. “He offers the girl a gift of good fortune to signify her future. Perhaps it’s not what she envisions, from a person she wants nothing from, but hopefully, it’s everything she deserves.”
“Whyyyyy do you do that?” Naima asks. She knocks the recorder from my hand while Joelle’s back is turned. My mechanical friend tumbles to the carpeted divot. I envision him screaming as he falls, reaching up for me to save him.
“It’s easier than talking directly to you,” I say, losing all confidence. “To anyone. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but it helps me redirect my own discomfort, if that makes sense.”
“Well, stop. It’s weird.”
I pick up the recorder, but leave it at my side. “Perhaps weird is my preferred aesthetic. It keeps people guessing.”
Her face is frozen in a confused manner. “You’re winning, then.”
“What’s with all the Lucky Charms?” I ask, pretending Joelle didn’t already tell me they’re Naima’s absolute favorite.
“Nun-ya.”
It draws my smile bigger. The mystery of it feels more profound than she’s prepared to reveal.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
“You’re really pretty up close. More than that one eye I saw through the fence.”
She blushes—I made her blush—and it feels like an electricity shoots through me. “Yeah, I know,” she says. “I don’t need anyone to tell me the facts, bruh.”
My attention veers to the shiny metal peering at us from the chair next to her. “Is that … an urn?”
“What of it?”
“Why is it sitting at the table … like a person?”
“Why not?”
“Fascinating.”
There’s a really long silence when I choose to commemorate this exact moment by grabbing my recorder again. So I don’t forget any detail of it. “May I?” Before she answers, I go on, “She invites death for dinner, hoping it will either stay or take her when he’s finished. Tonight at ten.” I’m not finished, not at all, but she knocks the recorder from my hand again—this time, harder. It flies into the hallway right when Joelle spins around.
“What are you doing, Ima?” She’s balancing a large cardboard box filled with apple-butter jars
on her thigh. Naima refuses eye contact with either one of us. Kam, who was well within my sight line, approaches. His posture angles down toward her. “Saw that,” he whispers. “Not okay.” She leans back in her chair as if being in his line of sight makes her uncomfortable. Or, perhaps, being in mine.
“It’s not okay; he keeps recording me.”
“These are general observations,” I say. “Not specific to you.”
“You’re talking about me, in front of me.”
“Semantics.”
Her lips thin and tighten. “Care to mansplain anything else? Like, tell me what it’s like being a woman in this world because I have no idea.”
“I, uh…” My voice putters out.
Her eyes magnify, so I break the tension. “You received a package earlier. Was it important?” I can’t seem to stifle the smile bursting through.
“Are you spying on me?”
“No.”
“Wait,” she says, “did you leave the balloon?”
“Your father spoke of your love of them once. I hoped it’d brighten your day.”
“Stop talking about my dad like you knew him—like you know me.”
I lose my words, a sudden sense I’ve done something terribly, horribly wrong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You say that a lot. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, not here?” she snaps.
“I’ll help Dew with the box,” Kam says, taking the box from Joelle.
I witness a strange silence among the three of them and decide it’s not my place to stand here a minute longer.
“Come on,” he says in a comforting tone.
“Have a nice evening,” I tell them. I don’t look at Naima, but I feel her eyes on me. She’s trying to figure me out, I know. I’ve felt it before from far meaner people. Beneath my breath, quiet enough Kam or Joelle can’t hear, as I pass, I feel it my duty to tell her something I can’t seem to hold on to any longer. “Whatever was in the package, I suspect Staff Sergeant Rodriguez had something to do with it. I hope it helps.”
She doesn’t stop me from going, and she doesn’t ask how I’d know. It feels like a time, like Stella said, when I should allow her the space to grieve. I’m trying to understand that notion, but I suppose, in the desperate need for someone to understand my own grief, perhaps I’m dragging her down with me.
Kam walks me to the door, where I take the box off his hands. “Thank you for your help, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” He pauses. As if he has something more to say. Something heavier than he could carry within the walls of their house.
He clears his throat. “JJ pulled me aside earlier and told me she thought you’d left the balloon. Timed it with the mail. That Ray likely planted the seed in your head.”
My stomach lurches. Maybe I have done something wrong. The very thought of it triggers my heartbeat to skip a little faster.
He lays a hand on my shoulder and I calm. “Naima may not understand your kindness, but we see it.”
“It was nothing,” I say.
“Andrew,” he continues, “considering what she’s been through, what you’ve been through, it was a very kind gesture. Your parents would be proud. Stella and Thomas sure are.”
He leaves me here as I tear up, my fingers fumbling inside my pocket, and I realize I’ve been recording the whole time. I don’t tell him how many times I plan to listen to the clip, but I hope he’s right.
NAIMA
“I get that you miss Ray—we all do—but don’t take it out on Dew. None of this is his fault.” JJ’s finally grown tired of my antics. I want to give an excuse for treating him the way I have, but I don’t. “So he left a balloon. It was a nice thing from a nice boy who wants to help you feel better. Leave it at that.”
My teeth grind. Maybe if he understood how symbolic red balloons were to Dad and me, he wouldn’t have done it. They’re ours. And I don’t know where his hands have been. What if the portion of string I grabbed on to had anthrax? I can feel my throat closing in on me.
“You two would get along if it were any other time.”
The letters. The letters. The letters. The letters. The letters. The letters.
The thought of this strange kid waiting for Dad’s letters to arrive so he could run over and attach a symbolic balloon to them is beyond me. What reason would there be to do this to someone (other than to torture me)? I want to scream, and punch the wall, and rip that dumb smile off Dew GD Brickman’s face until he tells me why he did this—why?—and I can’t breathe, so I abruptly stand from the chair, shoving it into the table in one angry motion.
“Can I take a walk?” I ask. My breath is hot, my knuckles clenched at my sides. Thoughts of Dad’s last voicemail overcome me.
“Walk? It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“I need some air. Please?”
Kam returns, catching us in this silent standoff, which seems to be the only thing we’re good at. “What’s up?” he asks.
JJ leans back against the sink, arms crossed. “She wants to go for a walk. At night. Alone.”
“I hate people,” I say, “it’s the best time for a walk—no one’s out.”
The look in Kam’s eyes changes. He turns his back to me, leans over to JJ’s ear and whispers something I can’t hear. A minute later—fifty-seven seconds, actually—he turns around.
“Go,” JJ says. “But take your phone so I can keep track.”
When my feet move toward the door, they follow with a peace offering—a hug. Their arms tie around me like ropes, knotted and firm. I wiggle, try to pull away, but the harder I fight them, the tighter they squeeze. Whenever I try to run, this is what they do. To show me they’re here, that they’ll always be here; steadfast and unwavering, even when the rest of my life is an island crumbling into the ocean.
I don’t say another word about the letters. It feels like they’re only mine; between Dad and me, like the galaxy created just for us to see.
We stay locked in this embrace until I get a glimpse of the clock.
The time is 8:59 P.M. EST.
Not that it means anything because time is now irrelevant.
Nell texts me a link to a story about Dad. I shouldn’t read it, but I do. The focus is on the specifics. The details of what happened. I don’t want to know the how. What does it matter how he died if dead is dead is dead is dead is dead is dead? I suppose it matters if it were something profoundly absurd such as death by flashlight or death by ladybug. I’d been raised to understand my father’s possible death would be important to our country in some patriotic way, heroic, but to me, he’s just … gone.
Nell, and a lot of others, think it matters—the how. Nell always thought a lot of stuff mattered that didn’t. The way my hair lies, the choices in clothing I made, the path I veered violently toward to piss her off.
The day the sedan pulled into our drive, she asked the CNO about the how and wanted to shout it from the rooftops, as if Dad would hear and glide back down from above. The words “with honor” bounced between the walls. She persisted so he respectfully instructed her to call the Casualty Assistance Call Officers (CACO), who could give her the gory answers she sought. It was an extra step she had to do, though I wished she hadn’t. If he’d died by a ladybug, would it feel any less traumatic?
I think of the sequence, the how with Mom, for Dad and Nell’s paths to have crossed. How, if Mom had lived through my birth, Dad wouldn’t have joined the military, maybe. How he wouldn’t have been shot on his third tour, probably. How he wouldn’t have needed physical therapy, where he’d meet this stranger, this woman obsessed with clean eating and boutique clothing pop-up shops like Lee Lee Rose in her living room, who had a kid my age who’s nothing like me; how he’d decide she could fill the void Mom had left in both of us. How it would be good for me, for us (not realizing how many of those pop-ups I’d have to partake in) (too damn many). That’s a lot of hows that didn’t create an entire galaxy from nothing. It merely interfere
d with a system already in place.
I heard Nell on the phone after. After the CACO call, when she spoke to people from her “just in case” list—those to contact “in case of Dad’s death.” We had it pinned up on the inside of the cabinet for months, but pretended not to notice it. I noticed, always. As she spoke in one long incoherent ramble, I kept my ears pinned back from the noise. I couldn’t help what I heard. Pieces of the how uncovered. She pressed and pressed.
How Dad stepped on an Improvised Explosive Device (IED).
How it alerted his platoon allowing them to take cover.
How proud we should be of all his years of bravery.
And we are.
But not without the anger
That selfishly comes with losing him.
So, really,
This article doesn’t say
Anything I didn’t already
Know, but wish
I didn’t.
Dad
cell
March 19 at 1:11 PM
Transcription Beta
“Thought I’d try back while I have the chance. You’re mad I’ll miss your birthday—I get it—but I’ll be back to take you to Ivy Springs. That’s something I’ll make happen. I swear it. Nell’s been worried about you. Said you came home crying from school but didn’t want her to know. What’s going on, Ima? Is someone treating you bad? Tell me and I’ll take care of it. But I know if there’s something to take care of, you’re the girl who’ll do it yourself. Am I right? Maybe I’m worrying over nothing. Tell me it’s nothing. Is it nothing?”
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Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 17
