Like a Sister(80)

The music was louder in the apartment but somehow more enjoyable. The new MacBook Pro was being put to good use. Naut sat on his couch directly across from Desiree’s mural, eyes closed. Guess this was the Zone. Trevor plopped next to him, head automatically nodding along. Someone else would be able to describe what I heard in detail. Throw out words like “breakbeat” and “bass lines.” I just knew it sounded good.

I didn’t know what to do. Sit. Dance. Go to his bar-like kitchen and raid his fridge. So I just stood there and tried to get in the Zone myself. Just as I was getting into the music, it stopped. The silence so abrupt I almost screamed. Naut’s eyes popped open. Trevor dared to speak first. “That’s fire, man.”

Naut nodded, then looked at me. Expectant.

“Definitely fire,” I said. “Your neighbors must love you.”

“Especially when I get them tickets.” He stood. “Want something to drink?”

“It’s ten a.m.,” I said.

Then I realized I was supposed to be in Strategic Management class. For once, I didn’t give a shit.

“So mimosas.” Naut walked to his kitchen as Trevor put on a pair of headphones. “I got the invite to the funeral.”

“You going?” It felt weird to ask.

He didn’t say anything until he’d gotten out his ingredients and was pouring champagne into three glasses. “Is it horrible to ask if it’s open casket?”

I shook my head. I understood, too well. Desiree hadn’t been old. She hadn’t been sick. And even when you’re not talking to someone, there’s a comfort knowing they’re out there somewhere. I understood if Naut still wanted to pretend the woman he loved—we all loved—wasn’t in a steel box with a silver brush finish interior.

“It’s not,” I said. He stopped just as he was about to top me off with orange juice so I clarified. “It’s not horrible to ask. We’re Black. It’s definitely going to be open casket.”

He took a long sip. “You sleeping okay?”

“I’ve been taking melatonin like they’re vitamins.”

“I don’t even bother. The dreams get me.”

“I have those too. Hide-and-seek. I can never find her.”

“I’m always in a bathroom washing my hands while she knocks on the door.”

“You ever let her in?”

“No. Maybe tonight’s the night, though.”

“We’ll have to keep each other updated.”

He laughed. “What’s going on? I know you didn’t come here to analyze my dreams.”

I hesitated, remembering how our last conversation had gone. “Did Desiree ever mention her DUI?”

He gave me a strange look.

“I know you think she killed herself, but she didn’t,” I said. “And it’s not just me being in denial. Her death had something to do with her DUI. I just need to know what.” When he still didn’t say anything, I kept on. Sounding more desperate with each word. “I know you didn’t know her then, but did it ever come up? Bedroom talk, maybe.”

“It wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. How do you think it’s connected?”

I took in a breath. “She always insisted she wasn’t driving that night. And—”

He broke in. “She told me that, but then she told E! that too. It was years ago, though.” He downed his drink and prepped another, heavy on the champagne.

“I think she recently found someone who saw her car,” I said. “Maybe even someone who took a video. We can’t find it, though.”

He caressed his glass as he stared at her mural. “Well, then she definitely didn’t let me see it. I wasn’t the one in her bedroom, remember?” Suddenly, he slammed his glass down with such force I was surprised it didn’t shatter. “If she had told me, I could’ve helped her. Made sure she was okay.”

He was silent for a bit. We both were. Then he calmly picked his glass back up. “Another round?”

*



Naut had been angry, but he’d also been right. He wasn’t the one Desiree was talking with before she died. That person was in England, probably looking at naked pictures on the non-family phone.

I would have called Free as soon as I got into the Uber, but I didn’t have his number. Either of them. I’d already forgotten he’d seen Desiree the day she died, that he’d mentioned she was in a rush to meet someone. I hadn’t followed up at the time because I didn’t know I needed to.

Aunt E had her door open when I got back, her whites piled high in a hamper serving as a doorstop. I peeked in, but she wasn’t in her front room. I’d stop by after I made my call.

I grabbed Desiree’s phone, sat on my couch, and said a quick prayer. Please let me find his number. I knew he wasn’t in her contacts, but they’d definitely texted. It took me a half hour to find the exchange. I’d bypassed it before because it was one of dozens she’d replied to with three heart-eyes emojis. I’d assumed it was a standard birthday text.

I was wrong.

Here’s the thing. Texts and replied-to emails are stories told in reverse. Like Memento. Or How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents. Or those scenes Virgil did in the Aeneid. And like any good story, heart-eyes emojis aside, my scroll up through Desiree and Free’s ended with a single image, this one a screenshot of Desiree’s Wells Fargo transactions. An expanded view of the $250,000 I’d seen in her bank balance. It was followed by a thank-you with exclamation points only outnumbered by the heart-eyes emojis and the eggplant thrown in for good measure.