Memorial(14)

You’re his son, says my mother.

And you were his wife, I say.

I drop that to shock her, but I don’t know if it does. My mother just blinks at me. Like she’s reevaluating something.

He kept you, says my mother. He didn’t have to do that. But he asked to. He wanted you to stay with him.

And now he needs you, she says.

He needs medication, I say.

And who better to bring it to him than you, says my mother.

She adds, You clearly aren’t doing anything else.



* * *





My mother leaves first. She doesn’t say goodbye. Just slips on her shades and steps right out the door. But Lydia hangs around and gives me my father’s new number. When she asks if I need the address, I tell her I know where I lived.

If you say so, she says. Call me when you see him.

I’ll do that, I say.

No you won’t, she says.

There’s a beat where I should ask how she’s doing, but I let it pass. And she does, too. I don’t know if she’s grateful or disappointed.

But before she turns to leave, Lydia touches my shoulder.

You never said where Mike was, she says.

You’re very observant, I say.

That’s what they tell me.

Just like Jesus. Worked out for him, too.

You’re a real catch, little brother, says Lydia. Premium grade.



* * *





When Mitsuko comes back, I’m lying on the sofa. She takes one look at me, opens her mouth, and closes it again.

Then she says, My son called.

She says, He sounded horrible.



* * *




? ? ?

Mike and I once spent the night in Galveston for a long weekend. We hadn’t gone on trips together, not a single one, so this was a brand-new thing. But for the first time in months, he’d taken time off from the café. My gig was closed for a holiday weekend. We had a weird energy brewing around the apartment with both of us there, just lying around. And then there were the neighbors, who’d knocked on our door the night before, warning us that they’d be hosting some sort of marathon quincea?era. They spent the entire first night outside in the yard, shouting and dancing and beating a pi?ata. Around two in the morning, they locked hands to sing a song about Jesus. Once their sixth chorus rolled around, I told Mike it didn’t matter where we went, as long as we went somewhere else. But he was already snoring.



* * *





So the sand was a grimy pale. Our end of the beach was scarce. A high school couple argued about prom under a makeshift fort behind us. Some girls rolled around in the water in front of us while their mother tucked her head in a Ferrante novel. Every now and then, she’d look up at her girls, and then at us. When Mike finally waved, she wiggled her fingers.

We laid out a towel, took off our shirts, and glazed in the sun for the whole afternoon. For lunch, we drifted up the pier for fish tacos. The woman who sold them was missing an ear. They were delicious, and we ordered four more, and then we watched some boys do somersaults in the sand by the dock. A pair of older couples mimicked them, lounging around the corner, husbands and wives looking round and unbothered.

Eventually, we bought more tacos from the one-eared woman. She said, Buena suerte a ambos, and I asked Mike what that meant.

He told me we were lucky charms. Everything we touched turned to gold.

And we walked the food back to our tiny spot in the sand. I fell asleep with Mike’s calves on my shoulders.



* * *





When I woke up, the beach had cleared out. Windows glowed from beach houses lining the pier.

I felt around for Mike. He wasn’t on the towel. But his trunks were right beside me, and I felt this sort of chill.

That’s when he called from the water. He stood in the coastline, far enough out to float away. He yelled my name, waving his arms, with this big-ass grin on his face, and when I started to make my way over, he yelled for me to strip.

I looked to see who else was on the coast. Mike yelled for me to stop.

He said that nobody cared.

And if they did, it didn’t matter.

And, sometimes, it helps to think that I was someone who could do that. I could strip buck-naked on the beach, sprinting through the sand, because I felt that strongly about anyone.





10.



I don’t visit my father the next day. I don’t call.





11.



Or the next day after that.





12.



Then the weekend’s gone, and I’m back at work.

   Ximena ambushes me immediately about her reception.

   I watch Barry wrestle with the twins.

   I stare at my phone, and Mike hasn’t reached out, and all of a sudden the day is over.





13.



Mitsuko buys nine cookbooks from I don’t know where. She says we’re going to start with the classics. She’s been brighter since she heard from her son, a little like Mike’s given her a charge—and that night, Mitsuko cooks what she tells me is his favorite: potato korokke, crowded beside onions and gravy, surrounded by sliced tomatoes and lettuce. She mashes the potatoes with pork through her fingers, drizzling the mixture with salt and pepper, molding tiny patties and flipping them in flour and egg yolks and panko. I watch them crisp from the counter, and Mitsuko watches me watch them.