Memorial(13)

A better question is why we aren’t, he says.

That’s fair, I say.

If you and I started one right now, says Omar, how long do you think it’d last?

Seventy-two minutes.

That’s very specific.

Specificity is important.

I’d like to think we could do better, says Omar.

I don’t even know what I’d do, I say.

The same thing we always do, says Omar, palming his brother’s head.

But he doesn’t say what that is.



* * *





That night I’m dicing onions beside Mitsuko at the counter. She strains dashi into a bowl, while I do my best to hold on to my fingers.

Once she sees my vegetables, Mitsuko sighs. Takes the knife from my hands. She chops my halves into quarters, again, and my quarters into halves, again.



* * *




? ? ?

Even after we started throwing furniture at each other, Mike always brought back food from his job. He’d set the Tupperware on the counter. He’d cooked it himself. And it was always, always delicious.

One time Ximena told me that was a sign. We were at her place, watching Juan assemble a Lego train set. I texted Mike that I’d be out late, that I might be gone until the morning, and he’d responded immediately with a solid OK.

Noah never brings me food, she said. Mike’s thinking of you.

Noah isn’t fucking half of the city.

Wouldn’t it be less than half? There aren’t that many of y’all out there.

Y’all?

People of the gay, said Ximena.

Eh, I said. There’s more of us than you think.

And even if Mike’s thinking of me, I said, I don’t know if they’re good thoughts.

But you don’t get to control that, said Ximena.

You’re taking up space in another human’s brain, she said. You’re a foreign entity. A parasite. That’s a lot by itself.





9.



On weekends with Mike, I’d lay in bed until noon. He’d eat pancakes at the table, three or four at a time, frying another handful for me at midday when I got up.

But now, when I wake, I hear voices in the kitchen. Then I recognize them. The synapses click into place. And I’m flying across the bedroom.

Mitsuko’s sipping coffee. Lydia’s on the sofa. My mother’s sitting beside them with her hands in her lap. They’re laughing about something, and Mitsuko’s actually smiling, and when I walk in the room, she leaves it on her face, just for a moment, long enough for me to see it.

Lydia’s the easiest, so I start with her.

Holy shit, I say.

Holy shit yourself, she says.

You’ve got some fucking balls, I say.

Yes, says Lydia, more than you.

Stop it, says my mother, standing for a hug.

I don’t want to give it. I’d rather just cross my arms. But I cannot even make myself do this.

No hello? says my mother.

Buenas, I say.

Why are you here, I say. How are you here.

Why are you here, mimics Lydia, in a pitch two octaves higher.

Also, says Lydia, where’s Mike?

Enough, says my mother.

When I turn to Mitsuko, she only shrugs. Her smile’s back.

Benson, says my mother, when was the last time you heard from your father?

That can’t be what you drove here to ask, I say.

Can you please just answer the question, says Lydia.

I toss a pillow at her. Lydia tosses it back. My mother tells us both to chill the fuck out.

He’s not doing well, she says. It’s the drinking.

Then take him to a doctor, I say.

Benson, says my mother.

People detox every day. You can all go together.

If you really think it’s that easy, says my mother, we shouldn’t have come here after all.

That’s when Mitsuko clears her throat.

She tells us she’s going for a walk.

Mitsuko looks at me, says to leave the door unlocked, and when she’s gone, Lydia and my mother exhale.

I mean, she’s a little older, says Lydia. Plus you’re starting late. But I approve.

Stop it.

You definitely have a type.

I can’t talk about this with you. I need to take my fucking pills.

Then you should probably do that, says Lydia.

Tell me what’s wrong with my father, I say, and Lydia’s cheeks descend.

Honestly, she says, I think he’s just lonely. Like, he only needs some company. But my opinion means nothing in this family.

You don’t really believe that, says my mother.

Don’t tell me you don’t see it, says Lydia. There’s solitary, and then there’s Dad.

If that’s true, you did it yourself, says my mother.

We all did it, says my mother, looking at her heels, and my sister and I look down with her.

Because, truthfully, our mother looks as well as I’ve ever seen her. She’s got these bracelets, and these boots, and a jacket that clashes with everything. When she lived with my father, she mostly wore brown. In all of my memories, that’s what I see her in.

Look, I say, I’m sorry. Really. But I don’t think there’s anything I can do. Especially if you’ve tried.