Memorial(26)

Noah’s a good dude, but what if it doesn’t work out? I asked. What if you don’t know?

Nobody ever knows if it’ll work, said Ximena. That’s why you do this shit. To find out.



* * *




? ? ?

Once, I asked Mike about his parents’ wedding, and he didn’t know much about it. He told me they’d had it in a living room. Mike’s father shouldn’t have even been the groom, but the story behind that was messy, too.

Messy how, I asked.

Who fucking knows, said Mike. I can’t exactly ask now.

My folks got married in a living room, too. But they didn’t have a grand reason. They were young and fucking broke and they thought it was a good idea. That’s it.

When I told Mike about that, he just shook his head at me.

That’s the thing, said Mike. Most ideas are good at the time.

We don’t find out that they’ve gone wrong until they actually do, said Mike.



* * *




? ? ?

The wedding reception is a wedding reception.

Ximena and Noah kiss.

Ximena and Noah smile.

Ximena and Noah take a fuck-ton of pictures for IG.

We’re on the taquería’s patio, a wooden deck laced in Christmas lights, and the staff stands around with their cell phones, recording the whole thing. Three old men and a kid strum a warbling “Amor Eterno.” You’d think the arrangement wouldn’t work, but it does. When the youngest one opens his mouth to sing, it’s almost shocking how beautiful it is. We all cry.

After the performance, and a couple of first dances, the reception devolves into people talking to the folks they already know.

I know Ximena and Noah, who are otherwise occupied.

And that’s how Omar and I end up beside each other.

I don’t think either one of us means to. His coat is frumpled. And also a half size too small. But it’s fitting, still, like I couldn’t have imagined him in anything else.

Why are you even here again, I ask.

Friend of a family friend, says Omar. Friend of a friend of the family. Steward of the bride.

Well, I say, at least no one died.

There’s still time, says Omar.

True. But they’d have to make it quick.

Maybe they could feel too much, says Omar.

A sweet death, I say.

Yeah. That might work.

Before we can veer the conversation anywhere more sensible, my phone starts buzzing.

I nod at Omar, touch him on the shoulder.

Hello, son, says my father.

Whoa, I say. What? What’s wrong?

It’s nothing, says my father. Or just one thing. A tiny thing. I’m having a little trouble breathing.

I ask where he is, what he’s doing. I’m already trashing my plate.

I’m at the house, he says. Sitting down. I read something about squeezing concrete things whenever this happens, so that’s what I’m doing.

You’re having a panic attack, I say.

If you say so.

I tell my father I’m on the way. He says that isn’t necessary. I give him twenty minutes, tops, and then I hang up.

That’s when I remember that I have no speed, no wheels.

Ximena’s sitting on Noah’s lap. They’re already drunk. Already smiling too wide. Ximena’s mother is holding the kid, sharing a drink with her ex-husband, and together they look like a family, or the closest thing to a family that any of us gets.



* * *





Out of nowhere, Omar asks if everything’s all right, and I give him a look. I tell him what’s happening. I tell him it’ll be fine, I’ll get an Uber. But then he’s already walking toward his table, grabbing his keys, telling me to follow him outside.



* * *





We glide across the freeway like bats. Traffic is light.

Omar doesn’t play any music while we drive, which I appreciate.

He doesn’t ask questions that aren’t navigational, which I also appreciate.



* * *





When we pull through my father’s neighborhood, to my old house, I tell him I’ll figure out a ride back to my place.

You’re sure? says Omar.

One hundred and ninety-nine percent, I say.

Eighty-five would be more believable, says Omar.

But he doesn’t argue with me. He rolls up the window and waves me away.



* * *





My father sits on the carpet. He’s choking down a bottle of water.

I told you not to come, he says.

When have your kids ever done as you’ve asked, I say.

Figures. And if I’d told you it was urgent, I’d still be here by myself.

Probably, I say. Can I have a sip?

My father says he doesn’t know where my mouth’s been, but he passes the bottle anyway.

The house looks dainty, and unperturbed, which is infinitely more terrifying than if it had been trashed.

I’m seeing a man about it, says my father. This whole thing.

You too?

You’ve always thought you were funny, says my father. I mean a shrink. He’s mostly good, I guess, and the insurance covers everything. He says to focus on solid objects. Things you can touch in the room.