13
(Day Two)
T he next morning Blake awoke to find the space in the bed beside him empty and the apartment filled with the smell of fried rice.
He was overcome with a burst of nostalgia at the scent; it had been ages since he’d eaten any that was homemade.
The last time was probably back when Matt’s mom was still alive.
“Morning! It’s almost ready,” Marin called from the kitchen as Blake made his way out of the bedroom. “Sorry, it doesn’t have any vegetables in it. Also, I had to use canned chicken, hope you don’t mind.”
“Don’t apologize at all, this is amazing enough as is—” Blake did a double take as soon as he turned to look at Marin. “Your hair!”
Marin ran a hand over it, looking sheepish. “Yeah, it was getting to be a little much, so I gave it a trim.”
A “trim” was an understatement. The long, blue and lilac hair that had once reached Marin’s lower back now barely brushed his shoulders, bangs cut and styled into a trendy wolf cut. Blake was stunned that he’d managed to pull it off with nothing but their shitty kitchen shears.
“It looks great,” Blake told him, stepping up beside Marin at the stove. He was spooning the pink rice into the pan with a crepe-thin omelet. “That looks great, too.”
Marin smiled. “Hand me a plate.”
Blake did as he was bidden, grabbing a dinner plate out of the cupboard and handing it over.
Marin nodded in thanks and placed the plate face-down over the rice.
Using an underhanded grip, he flipped the pan up over his palm, nudged the omelet into a football shape over the rice, and topped it with ketchup.
“You’re a guest, so you really don’t have to cook for me,” Blake told Marin, accepting the plate. “But I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal before you showed up.”
“You don’t cook for yourself?” Marin asked, more curious than judgmental. Blake shook his head.
“No. Generally, fresh groceries are too expensive, but sometimes I’ll get frozen meals. I can’t afford a meal plan on campus either, so I usually eat instant ramen, siopao, or bread from the bakery down by City College,” he said.
“You’re going to get scurvy if you keep that up,” Marin scolded him.
“At the college where I did undergrad, I knew a guy in the dorms that managed to get scurvy,” Blake told him, setting aside his food to wait for Marin to finish cooking his own portion. “He only ate pizza rolls for like three months.”
“Jesus, that’s wack.” Marin shuddered. Blake chuckled. “What is it?”
“‘Wack’,” Blake echoed him, amused. “You’re so cute. You talk like you’re from the nineties.”
“Well, I guess I am,” Marin mused, flipping another rice omelet onto a plate. “Our dates are between ’97 and ’03, right?”
“Guess that’s true,” Blake remarked as Marin joined his side at the counter. “Sorry we don’t have anywhere to sit. I haven’t gotten around to buying a table or bar stools.”
“It’s fine,” Marin told him, digging into his food with a soft: “Itadakimasu.”
“I wonder where you learned languages other than English, though,” Blake mused, cutting into his omelet with the side of a spoon.
“Maybe I’m part Japanese?” Marin replied. “Or it has something to do with where I lived?”
“That’s a good point, it would explain why you know how to speak it and cook Japanese food.
Omurice is a pretty staple Japanese dish,” Blake said, taking out his phone.
“I was thinking that the company that manufactured you might be near to where you lived or died, too.” He scrolled through his search history, bringing up the page he’d found for Splashgrounds Manufacturing the previous night.
“It’s in South San Francisco,” he told Marin.
“That might explain a little. A lot of people speak Japanese down in the Bay Area.”
“South San Francisco,” Marin whispered to himself, looking thoughtful. “That’s by San Bruno, right?”
“Yeah, it’s north of San Bruno, over by where the airport is — ” Blake faltered and then brightened, seeing Marin’s words as confirmation of his theory. “Wait, that’s great! If you know information that specific, it means you probably lived nearby at some point in your life.”
“It gives us a more narrow scope to work with, at the very least.” Marin smiled.
Invigorated by the discovery and in high spirits, they set off to meet up with Celeste and Noel.
The Sacramento Central Library was a giant building of glass, concrete, and tan stone, the great arches of its windows reflecting the verdant boughs of the trees occupying Downtown’s streets.
Noel greeted them on the front steps with a Tupperware full of raspberry danishes and a carafe of cold passionfruit tea.
“Sorry if it’s too much,” he apologized as the three sat down on a glossy stone bench to eat while they waited for Celeste.
“No, no it’s delicious!” Marin praised, accepting the small container of tea that Noel handed him.
“Did you make this?” Blake asked, hand cupped around his mouth as he chewed. “It’s really good.”
Noel shrugged and then nodded in quick succession before pulling his hood up over his head. “I like baking,” he said by way of explanation.
Blake was surprised—he knew from Matt and Jace that Noel’s secondary source of income was from making fursuits, but baking pastries was a whole new depth of gentleness for him. No wonder Matt liked him so much.
“Let me know if you want more,” Noel said, tucking into a pastry of his own.
Celeste eventually materialized twenty minutes later, toting an iced coffee in one hand and a Trader Joe’s tote bag hooked over their opposite elbow.
“Hi. Sorry. Traffic was shit and I had to park all the way over at the Golden 1 Center,” they said by way of explanation.
“Your hair looks nice.” They added offhandedly to Marin.
They crossed their arms over their chest, peering down at Noel, who immediately shrunk into himself beneath their scrutiny.
“Nice to meet you in person, Noel—are you okay there, buddy?”
“I-I’m fine,” he stuttered, peeling the top off of his Tupperware. “Did you want one?”
“No thanks, I’m set with this,” Celeste shook their head, taking a long pull off of their Dutch Bros. “Looks good, though. Did you guys wanna head in or finish eating first?”
The subsequent search proved to be fruitless.
The archives hadn’t been fully digitized, so Noel and Blake were forced to comb each PDF by hand after the search bar failed to provide anything relevant.
After visiting the news repository, Celeste and Marin produced two enormous boxes full of microfiche sheets containing hundreds of volumes of newspapers.
“So from 1997 to 2003,” Celeste grunted, hauling their box up onto the counter next to the microform reader. “There are almost eight thousand volumes for us to go through.”
“Eight thousand?!” Blake blanched, struggling to keep his voice at a respectable volume for the library.
“We narrowed our search down to the Sacramento Bee, the San Francisco Chronicle, and Mercury News,” Marin explained, frowning at the collection in front of them. “And they’re all daily publications.”
“How long do the obits run?” Blake asked, hoping to shave off at least a portion of their search.
“Not sure,” Celeste shrugged, reaching inside their box and withdrawing a miniscule file. “I asked a clerk and they said it’s usually one to three days, but it can start any day of the week, so we’ll have to look through every paper individually.”
“ Jesus ,” Blake balked. He had no idea how they were going to manage to get through eight thousand daily publications in a morning, let alone in the three days they had remaining—and that wasn’t even to mention the smaller publications that he and Noel were currently looking through.
“We can always omit The Bee if you’re confident about your Bay Area theory,” Celeste suggested. “But that’s only going to take us down to six thousand or so, if I’m doing the math correctly.”
They weren’t, but it was a moot point for Blake to correct them.
“Maybe it’s better for us to focus on jogging his memories,” Noel suggested in a helpful tone.
“You’re right,” Marin nodded. “I’ve already remembered so much in a day just from getting out and about.”
“So we divide and conquer,” Celeste suggested, slotting one of the microfiche slides into the machine. “You and Blake can go out while Christmas and I keep looking. How’s that sound?”
“‘Christmas’?” Noel repeated, looking stricken.
“Would you guys really be okay with that?” Marin asked, sounding dejected. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time if your efforts were going to go to pot—”
“We’re saving your life, dingus!” Celeste hissed, picking up their coffee and using the straw to make an accusatory gesture towards Marin. Satisfied at his chagrined expression, they took a victorious sip. “It’s not a waste of time.”
Noel shook his head, turning back to the aging computer terminal he was sitting at.
“Not a waste at all,” he said.
“See?” Celeste sniffed as they attempted to familiarize themselves with the microform controls. “You wanna know something that’ll make me feel better? You enjoying your day. Now shoo, I’ll text you if we find anything,” they ushered Blake and Marin away with a flap of their hand.
After thanking their friends once more, Blake and Marin headed back out onto I Street, Blake discreetly pulling up directions on his phone for their next destination. Marin glanced over as they idled on the curb.
“You mentioned there was somewhere you wanted to take me after the library,” he recalled, tilting his head in curiosity. “Were we going back to the bike, or…?”
Blake shook his head. “Nah, it’s only a few streets over, if you don’t mind walking in this heat.”
“It isn’t that hot out yet. Besides, a walk sounds nice.” Marin shrugged, tucking his arms behind his back. “Especially if it’s with you.”
“I’m in luck.” Blake chuckled, ducking his head in a poor attempt to hide his flush. “I just so happen to have good company, too.”
They cut through 8 th Street and onto J, strolling past the massive, glittery campus of the Golden 1 Center and the curved jade roofs of the Chinatown buildings.
Traffic roared by them as they traveled, raising their voices to speak over the growl of motors and the bleat of horns.
By the time they reached Crocker Park, the noontime sun was beating down on them and Blake guided Marin through the cool, green shade of the elm trees, eager to escape the heat.
The Crocker Art Museum rose over the canopy, a complex in two contrasting parts.
First, The Crocker Family Mansion and estate: a luxurious, sprawling affair, the main building a cream-colored Italianate trimmed in powder blue.
Second: the attached Teel Family Pavilion at the side of the building.
It was a sharp glass-and-steel modern marvel composed of curves and acute angles.
“This is where I wanted to take you,” Blake said, gesturing towards the museum.
“Oh Blake,” Marin replied, sounding a little breathless. Combined with his flush from their summertime walk, he looked almost dazed at the sight, his smile enchanted. He reached over to squeeze Blake’s hand. “Even the outside is beautiful.”
“Come on.” Blake smiled, lacing their fingers together and guiding Marin across the street. “This is where my foster dad used to take me when I was younger—there’s a painting here that I really wanted to show you.”
After purchasing their tickets, Blake bid Marin to close his eyes, leading him by the hand up a flight of stairs and into the mansion proper, promising to show him every piece that the museum had to offer once they were through with their initial quest.
Blake guided Marin straight to the floor above the mansion’s ballroom—the space known as The Oculus—where the center bannister paneled in dark, rich wood peered down upon the interlocking mosaic of the ballroom’s flooring.
Honeyed light poured from the upper floors, illuminating the gilded frames of the paintings displayed upon the walls and setting the room aglow.
Hands gentle upon his shoulders, Blake situated Marin before one of the paintings, dropping his chin to his shoulder.
“You ready?” he asked, already grinning with anticipation.
“You’re really building the suspense.” Marin was smiling as well, blindly reaching up to lightly pat Blake’s cheek. “I’m ready.”
“Okay. Open your eyes.”
Marin followed Blake’s instruction and the tiny intake of his breath was all the confirmation Blake needed about his feelings.
Framed in gold and ebony before them was the same oil painting that Blake had recalled while watching Marin swim the night before.
Blake’s eye was immediately drawn to the yellow sun obscured by the peach clouds before his gaze fell to the translucent, gemlike cut of the waves.
He thought that if he reached out, he could feel their cold slice against his fingertips, touch the fizzing seafoam upon their crests.
The men clinging to the disembodied mast in the foreground were soaked in darkness and backlit in the glow of the distant sun, reaching heavenward for salvation.
“A recreation of The Ninth Wave by Ivan Aivazovsky,” Marin read from the accompanying placard in an entranced voice.
“This is my favorite painting. This was always the first thing I wanted to visit in the museum whenever I came,” Blake explained.
“Watching you swim last night… I was immediately reminded of it. I… I bet you already know about it, but there’s some sort of subgenre or theory or something called the sublime. It’s like the…”
“The beauty and terror of nature,” Marin smiled, his eyes aglow. “Yes, I’m familiar.”
“Not to say you’re terrifying or anything!” Blake cut in anxiously, but Marin was still marveling at the painting in contented silence, unperturbed. He reached out to grip the wooden railing in front of him with his spare hand, fanning the fingers of his other hand over Blake’s cheek.
“Blake. To be compared to something so beautiful,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, he flicked them over to meet Blake’s gaze.
In the luminosity of his stare, the golden glow of his skin, and curl of his smile, he looked every bit like the sublime being he was.
The coy gravitas he exuded cast a chill down Blake’s spine. “How could I not be touched?”
They stood like that for several more minutes in a comfortable silence, admiring the terrible inevitabilityy of nature struck through by the golden promise of hope.