Memorial(82)

Okay, I say.

You’ll be fine, says Mitsuko. You’ll figure this out. It’s not a waste, is what I’m saying. There are no wastes. Either nothing is a waste, or everything is a waste. But you two could do worse than each other, than being in each other’s lives. Do you understand?

I do.

So don’t be upset.

I won’t.

You have to promise, says Mitsuko.

I promise.

Good, says Mitsuko, lifting another forkful.

We sit outside, watching the traffic, until all we can see is each other, but we don’t have to see everything around us to know that it’s there. And, eventually, Mike opens the screen door to say that Mitsuko really should get to bed, before she tells him that of course she knows that, does he think she’s never flown before?





9.



The first time is a memory that I’ve thinned down to the basics: We are, I think, walking through the neighborhood. I tell Mike that I love it, or that I could learn to love it here. He looks up entirely too quickly, but it’s too late, I’ve already seen his grin. But right there, at the height of a potential catastrophe, Mike points to a house and tells me that he loves the way it leans. I point to a cat sunning under a streetlight and tell Mike I love how it’s navigating the world. Mike points to the wildflowers growing next to the road. I point at the lamps above us. We both point behind us, below us, in the corners, through the windows of the houses we’re passing, at everywhere but each other, although of course I’ve since realized that this was an acknowledgment, too.





10.



The next morning, I wake up and look at my phone, and there’s a message from Omar: an assortment of hearts.

There’s a message from Ximena: a selfie where she’s smiling, on a plane, with the kid in her lap and Noah cradling her elbow.

There’s a message from my mother: she’s asking how I’m doing.

There’s a message from Lydia: wondering when I’ll be free for lunch.

And there’s a message from Mike: a series of photos.

He must’ve taken them when I wasn’t looking. The first one is of me and his mother. And then there’s another one of just me. And then there’s one of our front porch.

And then there’s one of my butt, filtered and expanded. And then there’s one of Mike, smiling into the camera.

But it’s a real smile. And that’s the one I know I’ll remember. Regardless of how this goes. That’s the one that I save.



* * *





Mike’s already up, lying next to me and staring at the ceiling.

When we’re finished dressing, Mitsuko’s sitting in the living room. She’s wearing the same clothes we picked her up in, the very same jacket and the very same shades.

The drive to IAH is short. Mike’s crabby at the traffic, even this early. Mitsuko glances at me once, and then once again in the rearview mirror, and it’s early enough to count whatever ugly stars are still in the sky. The moon is an ugly purple, a shade I’ve only ever seen in this city, but one I’m pretty sure you won’t find anywhere else, and I know that I’ll look for it wherever I go.




When we stop at Departures, Mike and I help Mitsuko with her luggage. Her son opens his mouth once, and then he closes it. Then he tells her that he’ll see her soon. Mitsuko asks if he means soon, or sooner, and before Mike can answer, his mother leans over to whisper something in his ear—and that’s when Mike’s face cracks, and he is bawling, again, with his mouth hanging open just a little bit.

Then Mitsuko leans over to whisper something in mine.

But instead of words, what I get is a kiss.

So I watch Mitsuko take her luggage. She doesn’t look back as she steps into the airport. She turns the corner for her ticket, and she swivels up the escalator, and she ascends slowly, gracefully, beatifically, until she’s gone home.