Memorial(68)

The hoodie I’m rocking looks entirely too big on me. My father’s still got a headful of hair, and some of it sits on his shoulders. He’s smiling way too wide for his face, with his hands under my arms, and I’m sitting on his lap with the ocean and the pier and the whole country behind us. I don’t know if I’m smiling because I was told to or because I was happy, but my father’s expression is entirely unmistakable.

Ma must’ve taken the photo when we were in Cali. I don’t remember her doing that. But I guess that’s the thing: we take our memories wherever we go, and what’s left are the ones that stick around, and that’s how we make a life.



* * *





So I’ll take that photo with me.

I’ll say that’s what happened.

It’ll be all that’s left, as I step onto the plane.

And when I land on the tarmac, back on the ground, unbelievably, inconceivably, until the day I die, I am taking my dad home, I am taking him back, he will follow me wherever the fuck I end up next.





Benson





1.



Mike unpacked his bags and caught a whole night’s sleep, which became a whole day’s sleep, which left me and Mitsuko tiptoeing around the apartment. Like we’d made some unspoken agreement to let the bear hibernate. To catch up on his rest. To ignore the problem he created, although of course he didn’t create it, and now I’ve gone back to work barely having seen him.

The kids track mud all over the carpet. They’re eager for spring break. Totally wired. Barry and I slump across the counter, watching Ethan and Xu poke each other’s noses.

You heard from our girl yet? says Barry.

No, I say.

Ximena flew to Amsterdam to meet the rest of Noah’s family. She’d insisted, vehemently, that it wasn’t their honeymoon, which could only be in Oaxaca, with the rest of her family.

Sounds about right, dude, says Barry. Of course she’d leave us with the kids.

She just got married, I say. Dude.

Which is totally cool, says Barry. But when I got hitched, I showed up to work.

I don’t say anything to that. Barry just smiles, satisfied with his case. Margaret joins Ethan and Xu in their roughhousing, and I look up at Ahmad, who’s coloring crossword puzzles on the carpet.

Eventually, I ask him why he’s doing that. The kid doesn’t even look up at me. But then I get down on all fours, at eye level, and Ahmad rolls to the side.

I say, You know the boxes are for letters, right?

Not always, says Ahmad.

Well, I say, at least a significant chunk of the time.

Nah, says Ahmad, sighing and rolling toward his stomach, bringing our chat to a close.

They just need to be filled, he adds, already scribbling again.



* * *





Back at the apartment, I catch Mike in the living room.

He’s sitting with his mother. Mitsuko’s fucking around on her tablet. An urn stands between them, and it hasn’t moved for the past two days, and I haven’t asked what’s in it because I already know.

They’re making arrangements. Mitsuko’s hair is precisely all over the place. But her poise is postured, perfect. She and her son couldn’t be any more different, and yet they look exactly alike. A few hours earlier, Mitsuko booked her flight back to Tokyo, and she chose a seat by the emergency exit. She’d decided that it was time to go, and Mike hadn’t disagreed.

I figure there won’t ever be a better time to tell him.

Hey, I say, do you have a minute?

When Mike looks up, there’s something new on his face, underneath this grin. He’s been cheesing since he landed. It’s fake, and I wonder if I’m the only one who notices. We’ve spent too much time together for me to miss it—and in reality, underneath the smile, he looks entirely exhausted. But if Mitsuko sees that, she doesn’t show it.

Ma? says Mike.

Mitsuko doesn’t even blink. If anything, she licks a finger for her tablet.

No, she says, we’re busy.

It’ll only take a second, I say.

Ma, says Mike.

Really? says Mitsuko. Right now? With everything that’s going on?

She follows that with something in Japanese to Mike, but now she’s looking at me, and all I can do is smile.

What’s up, Ben? says Mike.

You know what, I say, it can actually wait.

It’ll have to, says Mitsuko, slipping off her glasses, shifting her body toward mine.

Ma, says Mike, and when his mother groans, he adds, Just let him talk. We’re all family now. You two have gotten to know each other.

Whatever kernel of loss Mike’s feeling is in his voice. Right there.

Mitsuko puts her tablet facedown. She looks from me to Mike.

Boys, she says, I haven’t asked any questions. I’ve gone along with everything. Michael left, and I said nothing. I stayed with a young man I’d never met, for an undetermined amount of time, and I said nothing. But now, of all moments, you’re telling me to wait. No.

You can wait, says Mitsuko. Just this once. It won’t hurt you. Michael is back. Soon, you’ll have him all to yourself again, and you can tell him whatever you want to, for however long you want to tell him. But right now, we have things to do. Right now, we’re busy.