Memorial(72)

* * *





The last time we’d all sat in the same room, we were still together in the old house, picking at a meal my mother cooked. A few days earlier, she’d told us she was leaving. Dinner felt like a consolation prize. She’d made beef patties and ackee. So we all took a bite, and we did our best not to enjoy it, but we found ourselves filing back to the kitchen for thirds and fourths.

At one point, the three of us stood with a patty in each hand. For a beat, we waited for someone else to snatch the last one. But the palm that finally swooped in belonged to my mother, sweeping her fingers over the entire bowl.

We watched her chew through the flakiness, slowly, and then she stood up and she left us.



* * *





Now my family sits on the sofa. Crammed like donuts in a basket.

Your father has something he wants to share with everyone, says my mother.

It’s not a big fucking deal, says my father.

I’m in therapy, he says. Surprise.

My mother wipes her face. My father sneezes. In the dim light of the apartment, we all look filtered. Sickly.

I squint at my parents, and it doesn’t look like they’re joking.

What, says my father to me.

When I don’t respond, my mother says, It is a surprise.

Dad’s making an effort, says Lydia. That’s good.

Right, Benson? says my mother.

It’s great, I say. Lovely. Wonderful. Fine.

But, I say, what the fuck does that have to do with me? Why the fuck did you have to come here to tell me this?

Everyone shifts in their seats. My father flexes his toes.

Are you going to say it? says my mother, nudging my father.

He obviously doesn’t want to hear it, says my father.

That’s a part of the process, says my mother. Remember?

When I make a face, my father says, Guillermo thinks it’s important to share.

Guillermo, I say.

The therapist, says my father. He says that my successes are my family’s successes. Your successes are my successes.

And Guillermo is correct, says my mother.

Albeit nine or ten years too late, says Lydia.

Guillermo sounds like a fucking grifter, I say.

The three of them look at me. But, really, they’re taking in the apartment. They’re looking for something to explain me, clues to my life, I think—except there’s nothing to find.

I still don’t understand why this couldn’t have been a text message, I say.

Really, says Lydia.

For fucking real. You could’ve called.

We did call, says my mother.

And anyways, she adds, you wouldn’t have answered.

The light in the room shifts from a dingy blue to a muddy red. We all turn a shade darker. My mother crosses her legs.

We came here to see your world, says my father.

You just wanted to take the pressure off yourself, I say.

Benson, says Lydia.

It’s the truth, I say. He knows it’s true. Things get hot on your end for once, and you’re trying to deflect.

You aren’t being fair, says my father.

It’s all you fucking do. Has Guillermo told you that yet?

And you’re no better, I say to my mother. Why do you even care? Don’t you have somewhere to be? Isn’t there a whole other family out there you should be taking care of?

Ben, says Lydia, don’t be a dick.

How about you don’t be fucking complicit, I say. I’m here taking all of this heat, and what are you doing? Chilling? Going with the flow?

The air behind my eyes feels warmer and warmer. It’s a little like gravity—I know I should decelerate, but the words just keep coming.

Do you know how it felt when you didn’t say shit once I came up positive? I say. When you guys left me? When you fucking shit me out on the street? And I had to deal with that fucking shit on my own? It felt like the worst thing. I can’t even fucking tell you. And now you really drive up here looking for some sympathy heart-to-heart bullshit? From me?

All Lydia and my mother do is stare. They don’t look upset. Or even exhausted, really. But my father’s got this look on his face, like he’s got some big secret in his chest. It slips a bit, and a grin cracks his face.

Say it! I yell. Fucking speak up!

Son, says my father, that’s the most I’ve heard you talk in who knows how long.

This Mike must really be doing a number on you, he says.

You sound like a little boy in love, he says.

Lydia bites down a laugh. My mother chews her cheeks. It feels like the four of us are caught in a loop, like we’ve already lived through this moment before. And before I can curse my father, before I can really unload, the door unlocks behind me, and it’s Mike and his mother standing in the doorway.



* * *





Mitsuko speaks first.

She says, Not again.



* * *





My mother says, Hello.

Lydia says, Hey, Mike.

My father just sits there with this blank look on his face. He makes a noise with his throat.

Mitsuko stands with her arms crossed and a satchel on her shoulder. She’s dressed in Mike’s clothes, a too-big SUPREME sweater and basketball shorts. They both smell like cigarettes, and Mike’s in a tank top, and he’s got a sack of groceries in his arms, and his face is entirely unreadable, and I don’t know if it’s on me to speak up or what.