Memorial(8)

Nice chat, says Mitsuko, and I apologize, but I’m not sure why.



* * *




? ? ?

At some point, Lydia and I started talking about our mother’s new family. I never asked when my sister found out, or from who. But she never asked me either.





4.



The next day, Mitsuko’s cooking potatoes and okayu and a sliver of fish. She sets a bowl aside for me, with some scallions dashed over the porridge. Then she sips tea by the counter, and I drink water like a drowning man, and I never see her take a pill or check her blood pressure or anything else.

Once she’s finished, Mitsuko slips on a jacket and shoes. I don’t ask where she’s going. I won’t make the same mistakes twice.



* * *




? ? ?

At work, Ximena asks where I think Mitsuko heads during the day. We’re looking at photos of the reception venue. She’s opting to skip the actual wedding. A while back, Ximena told me that she’s already walked down the aisle, and it didn’t do much the first time around, so why the fuck would she try that again?

Mike’s mother goes wherever brokenhearted mothers go, I say.

The laundromat, says Ximena.

The mall, I say.

The dog park.

The spa.

The market.

The gym.

The bar.

No way.

What, says Ximena, you think you’re the only one who needs to fuck?

I try not to think of Mitsuko like that at all, I say.

And that’s why you’re stuck, says Ximena. She’s not human to you. Go figure.

As opposed to an angel, I say.

As opposed to anything else, says Ximena.

You’re really calling me a misogynist.

I’m calling you a man, Benson.

Before I can open my mouth, Barry sprints around the corner with Ahmad. He’s got the kid by his shoulders, and Ahmad’s hanging tight to Barry’s stomach.

Barry is actually married himself, to the woman he’s been with since high school. She’s a surgeon. And here he is, cleaning playpens with us. Whenever his wife drops by the building, she smiles at nearly everyone, but one day Ximena told me that she never actually touches anything. To just watch and see if she did.

And Ximena was right. It never happened.

When Ahmad tugs Barry’s neck, he nearly drops the kid.

Your son is having a day, says Barry.

He’s not my son, I say.

Benson’s son needs a haircut, says Ximena.

Stop, says Ahmad. I’m not his.



* * *





Here’s the running joke: as the most child-ambivalent employee in the building, the one who thought he’d only be flipping through paperwork, it turns out that they don’t much mind me at all. That most of the kids we take care of actually like me. And I’m the only one, really, that Ahmad tends to bother with. So whenever Ximena and Barry had an issue they couldn’t handle with our charges, I was their last resort. And then things usually worked out. I still don’t know how I feel about it. But one day I told Mike about this, and he said it made sense and that I just couldn’t see it myself, that this was a part of the appeal.



* * *





Eventually, I ask Ahmad what’s happened, what is the problem, and he tells me that Marcos slapped him.

You mean Marcos slapped you back, says Barry. You started it.

He started it, says Ahmad.

You hit him first, says Barry.

Yeah, says Ahmad, but he started it.



* * *





I could tell Ahmad that, in his own way, he’s right. You don’t have to hit first to start it. And I’d like to tell him that, as young as he is, it doesn’t get any easier.

But instead, I pick him up and flip him over my shoulder. And he looks around at me, a little suspicious. He lets out a grown man’s laugh.



* * *




? ? ?

At one point, Mike started staying out. Heading who knows where after his shifts. Or maybe he was still at work. Or maybe he sat in his parked car, biding his time, chewing his fingernails. But, in any case, I started camping out on the sofa, which is a thing I probably picked up from one telenovela or another.



* * *





One night Mike stumbled through the door, drunk. He set his phone on the counter. I leapt from my blankets and threw that shit against the wall.

The cell cracked clean in half. We watched it pop in silence. Then it started ringing, and before it stopped, Mike looked at me and asked if he should answer it or what.



* * *





When I told Ximena about it afterward, she wouldn’t stop shaking her head. We were at her place. Her mother was out. So we watched Ximena’s kid, Juan, sprint from wall to wall, giggling at nothing, waiting for the delivery guy. Her fiancé was out of town, at a conference for incisors, and we’d ordered pad thai with some cash he’d left behind.

It’s like we’re in some fucked-up rom-com, I said. It’s like we’re both fucked-up rom-com villains.

Juan ran into the coffee table, bounced off, and careened into a bookshelf. I thought Ximena might stand to check on him, but she just sat there until he jumped up.