Memorial(25)

Once we’ve reached the head of the pulpit, Mitsuko takes to her knees.

I feel ridiculous standing behind her, so I settle into the space on her right.

We stay like that for a while. Mitsuko mutters gently, quietly, in Japanese. Her hands are clasped. Her head is bowed. At one point, I hear Mike’s name, and then once again, but that’s all I get.

It’s been at least a decade since I’ve stepped in a church. I’d been baptized, as a teenager, because my mother had insisted. The pastor dunked me in the water and everything. Afterward, I came out soaking, feeling brand-new, like money, and I ate a wafer and drank some wine and never went back again.

I wonder how long Mitsuko’s been doing this.

I wonder if it’s even legal. If we’re trespassing somehow.

But once Mitsuko’s finished, she nods toward the choir bleachers at no one at all. Then she stands beside me, steadying herself on my shoulder.

Hurry up, she says. We’re leaving.



* * *





Back in the apartment, I pour us both a glass of water. Mitsuko doesn’t thank me, but she takes it anyway.

In case you’re wondering, she says, that’s what it’s come to. It’s absurd.

I don’t think it’s absurd, I say.

It’s absurd, says Mitsuko.

I watch her drink her water. That’s all she has to say. So I take my glass back to the bedroom, draining the rest on the way.





32.



And then there’s the morning of the reception.

I wake up to two texts.

The first one’s a photo from Ximena, smiling with Juan in tow. She’s written It’s the big day!!!!!!! with about nineteen different emojis.

The next one’s from Lydia, asking if I’ve heard from our father.

I’m already typing when my sister sends another one, clear out of the blue.

False alarm, she says. I’m handling it.

Have fun at prom, she says.



* * *





When Mitsuko sees me in my tie, she gasps, jumping from the couch.

Oh, she says. It’s you.

Just me, I laugh.



* * *





Even after my protests, I end up leaving Mike’s car at Ximena’s place. I tell her it’s imposing to ride along with the newlyweds, but she says denying her invitation on the wedding day would be gravely rude.

But you’re already married, I say.

Exactly, says Ximena. You’re fucking with a real-life wife.

Her mother’s standing by the door, on the phone. She raises a finger when I wave. And in the living room, Ximena’s husband sits on the sofa, legs crossed, bouncing her son on his lap. The kid looks enraptured, and the man does, too, and they’re both already dressed for the evening.

They look up at the sight of me.

Noah raises the kid’s arms.

Ben, says Noah.

Noah, I say. Hey.

And congrats, I add.

Thanks, says Noah.

That means a lot, he says, especially from you. You know how much Xim thinks of you.

Only on paydays.

At least you’re a good sport about it.

Noah rocks the kid on his lap, making ridiculous faces at him. Ximena told me that he’s from Amsterdam, that he’d lived there most of his life. They met a few months after Noah arrived in Houston, after he’d rear-ended her at a gas station. He hadn’t gotten insurance yet, and of course Ximena was pissed, but she gave him her number anyway. It only took a few weeks.

She’s still getting dressed though, says Noah. The makeup thing. I tell her it all looks good, but she has to get it right, you know?

And she’s supposed to be the one who doesn’t care, I say.

Everyone cares, says Noah.

You think so?

Trust me, says Noah. My family? They’re the least sentimental people on this planet. They all work in the woods, making babies with whoever’s closest.

But I just got off the phone with my brother, says Noah. They’ll be here today. The ones that are left. And I’m grateful.

Juan lets out a burp, shaking his hips, and Noah opens his mouth to catch it. The kid laughs a little bit, and then a lot, and then he’s burping again.

But hey, says Noah, where’s your better half? Is Mike coming?

He’s out of town, I say. He sends his best wishes.

He’d better, says Noah, rubbing his nose against Juan’s.

The kid can’t stop laughing, like he’s the luckiest boy in the world.



* * *





Ximena’s mother informs us that we’re all going to make her late. Her ex-husband, Ximena’s father, stands beside her, smoking a cigarette by the doorway in a cowboy hat. They’re both wearing this formal red, nearly matching from top to bottom, and I wonder if they’ve planned this or if that’s just what sharing a life with someone does to you.

But when Ximena finally pokes her head around the corner, she really does look beautiful in her dress. It’s a purple gown. This lace-up thing.

She shouts at everyone from the bathroom, a volley of Spanish I can’t understand.



* * *





A few days back, I’d asked Ximena if she was worried. We were smoking at lunch, which Ximena never does.