Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 8

  He said “Naima” calmed Josephine when she felt the pains of growing a baby. It empowered her to bring a child into a life surrounded by love—despite an overwhelming resistance from Josephine’s parents. She was too young, too smart, with too much potential to sacrifice for anyone. Josephine fought for the life of Naima, and the life she wanted with Ray. Sounds “lovely,” doesn’t it?

  Except Naima came into the world the day her mother left it, and that is the very essence of Naima’s heart—existing because of, and in spite of, loss.

  As she grew older, Naima would find the courage to listen to the song her mother treasured. It reminded her of all her parents deemed worth protecting, never knowing it was her existence that would forever change the lives of many. Everything Naima is, ends and begins with the love between her parents, and the ultimate sacrifice both have made, for different reasons. Never ask her about her name.

  The day before Naima got the news of her father’s death, she forgot to count the tiles in the bathroom, just as the day she was born, she didn’t have the slightest concern for counting the seconds her mother had left in the world.

  Because she forgot to count, they are dead. Or

  Maybe it’s because

  She did count.

  And so, she can’t ever forget to count.

  And she won’t forget.

  So nothing else bad happens.

  There are ninety hexagons.

  Never ask her about her name.

  NAIMA

  My “room” is in the finished basement, next to an old washer and dryer (because they refuse to buy new, working ones). This means, because JJ does seventeen thousand loads of laundry a day, I get zero privacy. I do get the privilege of listening to the continual knocking sounds from whatever’s broken that they refuse to fix. So, there’s that. I think it’s JJ’s way of checking on me without being obvious but HELLO—THIS IS SOOO OBVIOUS BECAUSE NO ONE DOES THIS MUCH LAUNDRY EXCEPT MAYBE INMATES SENTENCED TO LAUNDRY DUTY!

  I’m sprawled out on an air mattress the size of a toddler’s bed. It’s the same one I sleep on every summer. It knows the curves of me before I even lay my head to its lumpy ridges. When Dad stays … stayed … he took the upstairs couch to give me privacy. He forgot about JJ’s EFFING LAUNDRY ADDICTION, or he totally knew and didn’t want to be the one she snooped on. Probably that.

  The upstairs door—the third Kam cut from a wooden block and varnished—is slightly askew, in case I “get scared” or whatever, so I hear the latest podcast streaming from JJ’s laptop. Every few sentences, Hiccup barks to remind us that he’s still here.

  Would you rather bark as your only means of communication or never speak again?

  As a women’s and gender studies professor at Ball State for over twenty years, JJ’s more Beyoncé or Rosie than Bey-Ro put together. Even in retirement, girl power, equality, and women’s rights saturate her every breath. When I was little, I was afraid she’d see me only as broken parts—that I could never be strong like her. Next to her, it’s easy to feel inferior. No matter how fly I feel, she’s that, and more. Without a mother, I learned by watching her. It’s her voice that never shrinks, and if mine does, she helps me find it.

  Back in Texas, when I felt uninspired, I’d do some online stalking to read her work. It’s everywhere. Her words made, make, me want to fight for something, but I’ve never been sure what that something is.

  Kam paces near my entryway, his six-foot frame holding a thick book in hand—no doubt one of JJ’s latest creations—mumbling an occasional “Amen to that.” JJ’s last book didn’t sell well, but her first was a “near overnight success” (this phrase is a myth, BTW), bringing her voice to the world in ways I couldn’t imagine. This is the book of her heart. The one, she says, poured out of her soul; the very thing that made her want to be a better human. When she speaks about her life, her passions, it’s hard to remember how much she’s lost, too. Her mom a couple years back, a sister years prior. Never knew her father. Always questioned her existence—an unspoken truth we share.

  At every pass, Hiccup nips at Kam’s heels, tugging on the backs of his dingy white socks. His slobber is thick, leaving a string of mucus. I gag—like physically gag. Kam reads on, cradling the spine between his palms as if the book were a newborn babe. Hiccup is a boundless ball of energy on my last GD nerve and it’s only day 1. He will legit never die and if he does, he’ll haunt my nightmares, tearing holes in all my pants. The moment I think it … I miss Dad so much, it’s a wallop to the gut and I’m being sucked from the universe into a place with no oxygen. I look to my phone, think about the last voicemail, and leave it be. A star in the sky; untouchable.

  The time is 10:53 P.M. EST.

  I close my eyes. Toss to one side, and the other. Musk and detergent scent the air, and the knocking between the washer and dryer tubes echoes into an infinite black hole. I look up, there’s Dad. I look left, right, there’s Dad, too. Pictures of him, memories inescapable. Seeing him at every angle forces me to think, and I don’t want to think—I want to not think. It’s hard to think of Ivy Springs without Dad. As much as it feels like home, being here is an evergreen reminder of his absence.

  For a solid fourteen minutes, I debate the pros and cons of moving back to Nell’s in Albany versus staying—something I never thought I’d wager. The winning bid comes when the dryer stops and the banging stalls. Kam has moved to another room. Hiccup, too. And it’s quiet and my thoughts are all I have to hold on to. Except for the podcast.

  I take one last look at Dad, I miss you, and drag myself up the stairs to the kitchen table, where JJ’s hunched over her laptop with a steaming mug of tea. Her hair is wrapped in terry cloth, and she’s dressed in floral pajamas and a ruby robe. When she sees me, she pushes the third chair out—because Dad, it, is still in the second chair—and points for me to sit.

  “Tea?” she asks. “It’ll help you sleep.”

  Tea is never just tea. It’s an offering.

  “Okay.” The smell of chamomile twists into the remaining scents of apple and cinnamon from the apple butter she concocted after dinner. She boils water in her rusted antique kettle—the one Gi Gi gave her—while I strain my ears to hear what’s being said through her laptop’s small speakers. The voice cites excerpts from an essay by former President Obama called “This Is What a Feminist Looks Like.” In it, he says he raised his daughters to know their dad is a feminist because “that’s what they’ll expect from all men.” The words ring out, clanging against Dad’s urn. It’s as if he’s saying “preach!” right along with Mr. Obama. Without realizing the consequences of the choices he made (moving, marrying Nell, joining the military, even being there for me), I see how Dad did the same. Maybe it was how JJ and Kam raised him, the way they’ve raised me.

  As the podcast goes on, JJ hands me my mug. Inscribed with I Donut Care Right Now, it’s the mug I always drink from; no other. My hands are wrapped tight around the ceramic as I sip. She’s nodding along the length of the audio, a slight smile rising from the corners of her lips when something strikes her, and I find myself doing the same. When it ends, we’re connected by the silence that follows.

  “Oh, honey,” she says, “that was something. If all men were feminists, we wouldn’t be in this political nightmare right now.”

  My eyes connect to the urn. It shines brightly beneath the kitchen lights and I can’t look away.

  She grabs my hand and I don’t let myself pull away. “He loved you so much,” she whispers, her voice breaking apart. The same way I have.

  I take another sip, letting her hand fall to the table. My eyes don’t abandon the urn—Dad. God, it’s so weird. Like, seriously, why hasn’t anyone moved it/him? But it kind of feels okay. Almost like he’s here, but not.

  She follows my stare. “Not really sure what to do with him … it … just yet. I can’t seem to … move the damn thing. I can teach college honors classes, run ultramarathons, and open the damn pickle jar without help, but with every fiber
in my being, I can’t move that urn.”

  I nod, and take another sip.

  With the room quiet, she does the same.

  We alternate without another word spoken as we sit with my father, enjoying our tea. This is normal; everything’s normal.

  Come home. Dad, please.

  Dad

  cell

  September 20 at 3:57 PM

  Transcription Beta

  “How is school so far? Hanging in there? Taking your medicine? Going to therapy? Nell said she overheard a call you made to Dr. Rose. That you said you don’t trust Dr. Tao. You deserve some peace in your heart, so please reach out to someone, anyone. I need to know you’re okay. And baby—could you stop returning my letters? I thought we were past that. Love you.”

  No New Emails

  In today’s top stories, virgin Virgos make great friends, not so great espresso.

  Lady Clean Cuisine never explains the inner workings of building a recipe from the ground up. Not the way my mother did. While Stella is content scribbling, tasting, and editing a dish until its near-blog-worthy perfect, Mom baked by feeling her way through a recipe. In the chaos of burned Baked & Caffeinated shots and brownies alike, this is all I can think about. Big Foot says customers complain, that I need to remake drinks if the shots are burned, and I should toss a batch of perfectly okay (however burned) brownies in the garbage. He tells me to speed up, to stop wasting time. There are too many steps, too many things happening at once, making beverages shouldn’t be so difficult—especially when I’ve been making them for two summers now—but like most things I’ve found, everything is difficult.

  Everything.

  “You need to relax, man,” Big Foot says during my break in the back room. His brown hair is pulled back into a low bun, sparse strands dangle in his face, begging to join the rest of the hair. “You smoke?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Then do some yoga or puzzles. Something to settle those nerves.” His Converse sneakers are kicked up on the small desk that lines the break room wall where the motivational bulletin board resides, shouting slogans like You’re better today because of what you endured yesterday.

  “If you’re ever interested, I own a dispensary,” he says.

  “A legal one?”

  “Not technically.”

  “Cool.” My fingers fumble in my pockets to be sure the record function is in the Off position. I’ve recorded entire conversations entirely by accident. I’d hate to be an accomplice in drug-related activity without my parents’ permission.

  While Big Foot, who’s become the equivalent of a campfire storyteller in this small space, tells of how steep the start-up costs are to get a dispensary approved and opened and thus, why he’s found his clientele don’t mind he’s unlicensed because he’s “helping them and that’s what matters,” I overhear Violet taking an order so I peek around the corner.

  “Thank you so much,” she tells Dodge. “You know, you have beautiful eyes.”

  He blushes, unaware Violet is the most open soul he’ll ever meet. Her compliments range from the mundane “cute shoes,” to the unbelievable “you have the greatest personality I’ve ever known in all my lives.” I’ve yet to see a single one mean anything more than a way to make someone’s day a bit brighter. I feel for Dodge when his posture shifts, as he leans farther into Violet’s zone.

  “I was going to say the same about yours,” he says cunningly.

  “They are the windows to the soul.”

  She brews a perfectly caramelized shot then turns the steamer on to froth the milk.

  “Your windows are great,” he yells through the steamer’s ear-piercing hum.

  “Thanks! My ideologist, Althea, diagnosed me with allergies by looking into my irises. Said they were inflamed.”

  “Was she right?”

  She shuts the steamer off, accidentally yelling over the silence, “IT WAS THE ESENTIAL OILS—” She quiets, giggles at the sound of her voice. “I was allergic to the oils she used near my eyes. Anyway, here’s your mocha.” I lean more into the doorway as Dodge takes the drink, lingering in Violet’s ethereal glow.

  “Anyway,” Big Foot concludes the story I’ve blocked out, “I’m lucky he survived or I’d have been charged with more than a misdemeanor, you know?”

  Reluctant to nod, as I clearly missed a big chunk of his criminal history, I smile. When I turn back to Violet, Dodge has left and she’s helping another customer. “I better get back to work,” I say.

  “Good dude.” He flashes a thumbs-up. “Just chill out when you’re busy. Breathe. It’s all good, cool?”

  I nod again.

  “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  Violet refills the espresso beans when I drift back through.

  “Mr. Dodge seems to have a thing for you,” I say.

  She appears confused. “No way.”

  “Way. Don’t you notice the way he looks at you compared to me?”

  “No?”

  “There’s an obvious difference, I assure you.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s doing that.”

  “Or maybe he likes you. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  She thinks on it, tilting her eyes up at the ceiling. “Interesting theory, Dew-Was-Diaz-Brickman. But I’m not interested.”

  “Not your type?”

  “I don’t have a type. If you’re a living, breathing soul, that’s my type. Although, some of the dead have captured my heart as well, so who knows? I’m open to all possibilities.” She smirks, wipes her area clean. A vision of vibrant reds catches my attention through the storefront window. My eyes follow.

  “You okay?” Violet asks.

  “I want to be with you in the colors.” The words to an August Moon song quietly pour out of me, but I don’t intend to direct the words in her direction. They come as effortlessly as each breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Classic Virgo.” While she runs a cloth beneath scalding tap water, I excuse myself to the bathroom and lock the door. I stand in the damp corner, near the double-pane glass window, rewinding through my four-thousand-hour audio file until I locate the exact sound byte I need to hear, to validate the emotion I’m feeling.

  “I don’t know how to leave her again,” Staff Sergeant Rodriguez says the day before his final departure. “I’ll have to send a red balloon every day to make this one right.”

  I stop the recording. The colors. I’ll give them to Naima (yes; classic Virgo).

  NAIMA

  It’s after midnight. I count the seconds. The ceiling tiles. The sounds outside my window. My fingers grasp at the tightly wrapped silk kimono I’ve laid atop the rest of my things. I drape it over my pajamas, taking in the soft sheen with each pass of my hand. You should never wear silk when it’s seventy million degrees out, but I need to. Dad sent it after his brief stint in Japan a few years back. It’s my “favorite.”

  No, but really—it’s gorgeous and I appreciate the culture, which is why I prefer to not appropriate. But I also hate the way the fabric feels on my skin (it’s a textural thing I can’t get past; like cotton balls = ew). Like, I seriously loathe silk. It’s the equivalent of a boa constrictor squeezing me into a dizzied state of reality, making me wish it would end already. And don’t even think about raising your arms or bending forward because this shit will rip right around your delicates.

  Would you rather let a boa constrictor squeeze you to death or walk around in a revealing item of delicate clothing the rest of your life?

  Dad never acknowledged my size. Not that he was ashamed—I don’t think weight was ever a factor in how he viewed me. I’m fat. Not pudgy or plump. Not thick or curvy. I was born with gorgeous, insulated layers. I’ll likely always have them and I’m good with that. Handing me something three sizes too small wasn’t his way of trying to change me. Maybe it didn’t occur to him because I’m just me. And anyway, when I look in the mirror, I see my w
orth. I’m capable, strong, fierce. I’m a goddamn beautiful powerhouse not to be fucked with. You don’t have to be thin to love yourself (fact), and I love my body, for the record.

  It’s my mind I take issue with.

  I don’t know how long I sit touching the silk. Moving feels wrong, so I don’t. The hands on the clock climb forward, tick-tock, tick-tock, but I don’t worry about the seconds lost. How does anyone move forward with the passage of time after something like this? I wish I knew.

  The time is now 12:47 A.M. EST.

  I finally stand and walk toward the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the small bathroom door. My steps lull. I don’t see me. I pay no attention to the kimono. And in this dim lighting, my perfectly frizzed hair bleeds into the background. It’s as if every last part blurs, except the details of my face; the places that most resemble Dad, Mom, too. I’m not looking at myself. I’m looking at my parents, two planets who collided into one another until I burst into the world.

  My chest pangs, heart ripping down the middle. I tear off the kimono, leave it on the floor, and collapse onto the mattress with my face buried in a pillow. The moment of impact, I’m startled upright by a muffled crash. The culprit—a hanging photo of my parents—is nestled in the middle of the kimono. I grab the last of my marshmallows in the Ziploc I’ve hidden beneath my pillow and chew them slowly, savoring the sugary sweet calm that washes over me; trying to ignore the enormity of the picture before me.

  I am seen.

  * * *

  I wake with JJ and her scarlet and gold-plated flower earrings dangling over me. The plastic laundry basket is tucked beneath her arm with literally three garments in it (which is not enough for another load). She smiles.