Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 7

I heard my phone ring

  But couldn’t answer

  Because you still don’t

  Understand how I feel

  About you leaving

  Again

  After you swore

  You wouldn’t.

  I’m not okay.

  Don’t tell

  Nell

  A thing.

  A weatherman’s philosophy, according to Dew: The sun sets the tone for a day while the stars set the tone for a dream.

  I don’t mean to startle her while she’s bent over, crying in the rose garden, but I could tell she needed someone to hear her.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t know anyone was out here,” she sobs. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  I walk around the fencing to where their gravel drive meets ours. “Ma’am?”

  She looks up at me. “You met Naima.”

  I nod with delight. “She’s such a treasure. And you’re?”

  “Penelope—Nell—Ray’s, uh, her step, um. Just Nell.”

  “I’m Dew. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Just Nell.”

  “Likewise.” She dabs a tissue to her nose. “Can you promise me something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask from someone you’ve just met, and Lord knows she doesn’t want anyone’s help—because she’s stubborn as hell—but maybe you can humor me and make sure she gets along okay? She’d kill me for asking, but I need to know, for me, she’ll be all right when I go.”

  I smiled. “That’s the very thing I promised Staff Sergeant Rodriguez.”

  She blinked away her tears. “You knew Ray?”

  “Ordered his coffee black, no sugar. Said Naima is fiercely independent, but like a house of cards, may fall apart with the slightest of moves.”

  “Accurate,” she says. “What else did he tell you?”

  “She loves hard—if you can make it past the intricate obstacle course she’s set up around her heart. She’s headstrong and fiery, but delicate and breakable. He said she feels in color; when she’s angry the colors fade translucent. And despite her confidence, there’s always a voice reminding her she doesn’t belong. So she’s always searching, she just isn’t sure for what. He described her as a paradox not meant to be solved, but one worth trying to.”

  She leans in, awed. “Wow. That sounds very much like the Naima I’ve tried to know for years. But I never fully succeeded.”

  “He said she’s hardest on the ones she cares about most. Maybe you’re one of her favorite people, but she wouldn’t dare tell you because it’d mean admitting she needs you.”

  She perks up, a glimmer radiating in her eyes. “He said that?”

  “He did.”

  She steps a little closer, clutching the fabric of her shirt. “Thank you for telling me. I never know.”

  “Never know what?”

  “Anything. I’ve been on the outside of Ray and Naima since we met. I’ve learned to accept it, but it hurts, you know? I love my son, but I always wanted a daughter. But Naima, she loved her dad and never wanted another mother. It was a permanent impasse. Maybe she can find some peace here. With the people she wants to be with instead of the ones she’s stuck with.” She looks away to draw in a deep breath. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. Just sorting through my feelings. It’s not your problem.”

  “I don’t mind,” I tell her. “I like speaking with you. You’re kind. I hear it in your voice.”

  She forces another smile. “So, you work at the bakeshop here in town—is that where he got coffee?”

  “Correct.”

  “You’ve been here how long?”

  My head hangs. “Approximately one year.”

  “And you didn’t meet Naima then?”

  “We did not meet,” I say. “Only Staff Sergeant Rodriguez. But it feels like I’ve known Naima as long.”

  “That’s strange.” She thinks on it, seemingly lost in a string of silent conversations.

  “I agree.”

  “You didn’t see her outside, coming or going—anywhere?”

  “I did not.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Dew, but if you’ll excuse me…” She marches back to the door and I suddenly fear I’ve done something wrong.

  AUGUST MOON AND THE PAPER HEARTS: “FIRE”

  The very afternoon Staff Sergeant Rodriguez spoke of his one and only daughter’s ability to befuddle the hearts of all who knew her, Dew Brickman skipped home to the sounds of August Moon and the Paper Hearts streaming through his earbuds with a renewed sense of purpose. However wrong those feelings, he clung to them with all his might, singing along to the words his mother and father sang to him every day of his life, until the last day of theirs.

  You’re crackling fire, dark can’t break,

  Lemon drop moon, sky won’t take,

  Saltwater waves, pain you ache,

  Burn, lava fire, neon stake.

  Burn.

  NAIMA

  Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.

  So far, the “celebration” of my seventeenth year on this burning Dumpster fire of a sphere hasn’t been great. I have a web-shaped rash on the back of my hand from all the scratching and the walls of my throat are slowly smashing together so all the air around me is wasted and I’m pretty sure my pulse is, like, impossibly slow for a living human, but by the time anyone notices anything about me, I’ll have decayed. I’ve put a lot of thought into it, as my therapists are acutely aware. And there’s currently this endless knock at the door. It’s GD Nell and now she and JJ are whisper fighting.

  “What the hell happened last summer?” Nell asks, louder. “And why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  JJ tries to shush her, but her whispers grow louder, too. Nell’s hands shake, cupping over her mouth, and JJ is confessing the thing we hoped to never tell. She turns to me. Kam, too. Busted. I look away and let JJ take the hit.

  “She’s fine,” JJ says.

  “I knew something was up but couldn’t figure out what it was. Tell me.”

  JJ sighs. “She came to us and said she needed help and didn’t want anyone to know, so we got her help, and that was that.”

  Nell’s eyes threaten to bug out of her head. She rushes up to me. “You were struggling and I wasn’t there. You can’t keep things like this from me—you can’t. You can’t.”

  I feel her fear in my bones. It’s the same fear I had when I took those pills, not wanting to die, but not sure how else to stop the pain. How to stop my head from spinning out of control into a dark place I couldn’t see my way out of.

  JJ places firm hands on Nell’s shoulders. “It’s my fault. Ray and I thought—”

  “Ray knew? And didn’t tell me?”

  Kam intervenes now. “He knew because he was here.”

  Her eyes are desperately piecing things together, a time line of events. Things that didn’t make sense to her last summer because we lied.

  “She was fine. If she weren’t, he would’ve told you.”

  “She wasn’t fine, Joelle. She wasn’t fucking fine.” Nell’s finger is pointed in JJ’s face, but she steps backward, slowly making her way out.

  JJ stands in the doorway, watching. Kam rests a hand on her. “She’s right,” JJ says. “She should’ve known.”

  I interject, “It had nothing to do with her.”

  “But it did, Ima. It did, and you know it.”

  I watch Nell struggle to settle behind the wheel. She’s sobbing into the open air. Maybe we should’ve come clean sooner. She knows I get really dark, and fast. It’s intense, all-consuming. After I nearly died, I did what Dad called “the mature thing” and told them I was scared. That my depression was sucking all the air from my lungs, and I needed help: serious help. Yes, Dad leaving again triggered it, but ultimately, the chemicals in my brain had misfired and I still hadn’t learned to cope. There’s no mystery around my stay at the treatment center. I had dark thoughts that scared me, an
d wanted to get better. We just didn’t want Nell involved.

  I didn’t.

  Last year, I had Dad to keep me level and Nell to mess with my level. As long as he was home, it worked. She’s not the total worst, and I’m “lucky” to have her, or whatever, and she was actually kick-ass in her own annoying way. But she wears a crocheted beanie and fingerless gloves in the heat of the summer, for Christ’s sake. No. Like, doesn’t she realize how many germs reside on the fingertips alone? Little pads of bacteria on display.

  But there’s always a strange lump in my throat when I leave her for the summer. It’s not like I need her—but maybe she needs me. Or maybe that’s another lie I tell myself. And maybe I didn’t want her to know because it’d be another reason she wouldn’t understand me. Another thing in our way. More problems she can’t solve. She’ll tell you it’s my avoidance of “normal” things like cereal additives and white-on-white cake. I’d argue she’s both of these artificial things, so no—I don’t want “normal.”

  Instead of unpacking, I find my glossy poster of Rosie the Riveter (which is actually Beyoncé dressed as the iconic image of Rosie) (because, Beyoncé) (known henceforth as Bey-Ro) that’s been folded and refolded more times than I can count, smoothing the edges with the side of my palm. As I look into the mirror at the fierce badass-ness staring back at me, I line my eyes thick with black-winged liner—bottom rims, too—swipe on red lipstick (NARS Velvet matte pencil via Dragon Girl), and rummage through my random barrettes and things until my fingers clasp the very symbolic item I need right now. I tie the red paisley bandanna into my hair like Bey-Ro to wave off Nell, this time with a twinge of regret. She waves back, however it drags.

  “Are you trying to make a statement with that?” she’d always say.

  “Yes,” I’d argue.

  “Feminism ruined conservatism, you know. Now women are expected to work and take care of the kids without a single complaint. It’s too much pressure. You’ll see when you’re older. Being independent isn’t that great. Believe me. I went through that phase, too.”

  “Equality isn’t a phase,” I’d challenge. “It’s a basic human right.” I loved tightening the knot while holding eye contact until she broke. She always backed down, cheeks flushing crimson across the apples of her otherwise fair palette.

  “I didn’t mean … I just meant … oh, never mind.” I enjoyed when she retreated because it meant I was heard. See, Dad—I will not shrink. The way she argued, I always felt like she never believed her words. Like someone branded them into her. At the core, when you cut all the shit, she was okay. More than okay. She cared if I lived, and packed my crappy lunches, and offered to tuck me in even after I’d yelled at her for something random.

  I run up to the back door, hoping to go through this series of familiar motions one last time.

  Only, she’s gone.

  Dad

  cell

  September 9 at 3:33 PM

  Transcription Beta

  “Ima! Just wanted to know how school went. Make any new friends? Nell says Christian and Caroline have both gotten into Stanford. I bet they both said “babe!” right? Call me back. Love you.”

  Email Draft (Unsent)

  To

  ___________________________________________

  Subject

  ___________________________________________

  Nell said if I applied myself

  I could be like Christian

  And go to a good school

  And prepare for my future

  As if I’m just sitting here

  Wasting time

  Until you’re home.

  I guess

  She’s right

  Because I can’t see

  Past this moment,

  Let alone the rest of my life.

  Top story: Local boy’s virginity exposed—tonight on Dew’s News at 10.

  “Today, Venus and Jupiter’s alignment are perfect for new beginnings,” Violet says between espresso shots. The sparkle from her silver metallic winged eyeliner is bold enough to speak on her behalf. “Harmonious is how my astrologer put it.”

  I can barely hear through the milk steamer. I keep my distance after witnessing the way the nozzle sprays in all directions. It blows like a freight train’s emergency whistle and her voice carries with it, rivaling both its volume and urgency.

  “What’s your sign?”

  I shrug. I’m holding a gallon of almond milk and a bottle of non-dairy whipped cream, awaiting my chance to lay them next to her. “My birthday is August twenty-third.”

  “Ooh, a Virgo! You definitely read Virgo to me. I should’ve known.” She pulls the milk, letting it splatter, to get a full glimpse of me. “I guess I can see it.” The door rings, a line of customers forming. “Virgin.”

  “Pardon?” I shout.

  She laughs to herself, and—finally—shuts off the steamer.

  “YOU’RE A VIRGIN!”

  My face blushes every shade of crimson on the spectrum. The room quiets, except for small bubbles of conversation and giggles between customers. I hand her the milk for the next drink and return to my designated spot. “Your astrological symbol is the Maiden—she represents purity and innocence. It’s an Earth sign, meaning you’re motivated but can make people anxious with your energy.”

  She pours the milk into the brewed espresso shots, creating a beautiful splintered heart with the milk foam that drips from the spout. I study her. She’s so comfortable in her skin, the discomfort of others almost doesn’t register. I wonder what it feels like to know yourself so intimately that you’re allowed to just be.

  “Doesn’t sound like me,” I say. “I mean, the motivated part.”

  “You’re also inquisitive and observant, honest, and unwavering in your support of something, or someone, you care about. Very avant-garde. Totally unorthodox. Basically, you’re an original, Dew-Was-Diaz-Brickman.”

  “Amazing—how do you know all this?” She turns the steamer wand on for the next drink, leaning back so I can hear her extremely loud, incredibly close words.

  “I’M A VIRGIN, TOO!” She says it with a slight wink, or maybe there’s espresso dust in her eye, and the line of coffee-obsessed faces snicker in a more obvious manner. However red my face blushed previously, the heat strengthens.

  Violet is void of a filter. I feel a twinge of envy and a pang of intimidation. Who am I to be in the presence of someone so unapologetically bold? I want to match it, but I am too fearful I never could.

  I look up to find the source of a particularly harsh laugh—from the very same fellow I bumped into on the sidewalk: Dodge Teagarden. Violet explained he’s a transplant from Boston who likes medium mocha lattes with no whip, and will be a senior at East Clifton High. I’ve tattooed those details into my brain, hoping we can find common ground. Violet uses her eyes to delicately urge me to put my MP3 recorder out of sight.

  “Can I help who’s next?” I ask with a nervous crack. When Dodge makes his way to the counter, towering like the Eiffel, he lays a five and states his order, medium mocha latte, as expected.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “Four dollars and fifty cents, out of five?” The drawer refuses to open. I slap it with the edge of my palm. I would love to report working around people has eased my social anxieties, but it would be a lie. There are times standing here only emphasizes everyone’s stares. Like now. Dodge’s impatience is assumed, his eyes frowning. I swing a hip to the drawer. The computer beeps, the screen freezing completely. “Violet,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Help.”

  “Be right there,” she says. “Let me get his milk steaming.”

  Stella once told me working through anxiety is a lot like figuring out the perfect recipe for her blog. “You have to needle with the parts that aren’t working, and accentuate the ones that are. It’s all about self-editing.”

  Dodge huffs, his arms crossed tight. He decides now is the best time to make direct eye contact, and I find myself falling into the center of each iri
s. Two endless pits of darkness I can’t seem to look away from. I’m falling, falling, sweating, falling, until Violet squeezes between me and the counter to reset the computer.

  “You hit the wrong key,” she says with a warm smile. “Should restart in a sec. Sorry, Dodge.”

  “No worries,” he tells her with a crooked grin. When he drifts back to me, and my inability to look away, the smile vanishes.

  Violet rushes to concoct the perfect drink, setting it on the counter in front of us. “This one’s on us. For the delay.” She pushes his five back, at which his face becomes alight.

  “Thanks, Vi,” he says as he heads out. Relief washes over me. If I were to walk in Dodge’s shoes, I wonder what I might find. If his days are spent in such anguish, it’s all he can do to wake up each morning. Or if, as Violet says, there are some people in life that have a bad aura no matter what. Regardless, I refuse to write him off as a flat, 2-D character with nothing but a few bad lines for no good reason.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Anytime, Dew-Was-Diaz-Brickman.” She winks again, and this time, I’m sure of it.

  Breaking news: Boy imagines having friends, may actually have one (or two if Naima will allow it).

  THE ORIGIN OF NAIMA

  “Naima” by John Coltrane.

  When nineteen-year-old Josephine threw up her Egg McMuffin in a McDonald’s parking lot, Ray had this song playing on their car stereo. She looked up at him as she wiped her chin and said, “I’m pregnant and we’re naming her Naima,” to which Ray replied, “WUT?” and after they cried and cursed a little, he said, “What if she’s a he?” Josephine smiled and said, “Naima will become Naiman, and it will be lovely.” When Ray reminisced about his one and only (with no offense to Penelope), Josephine always used the word “lovely,” which made Naima envision her mother visiting with the Queen, drinking tea at high noon. She likes tea, and high noon. And she forever wishes she could hear her mother say “lovely” just once.

  Ray would tell Naima how often Josephine listened to that Coltrane record, and Naima always got caught up in semantics, asking, “WTF is a record?” forcing Ray on a tirade about the evolution of music that grew from a record player to a cassette tape and so on, joking that someday, we’d hear the music in our minds. He made it sound mysterious and magical—two words he also used to describe Naima and her mother.