Chapter 17
Memorial Day weekend is a deluge of fur and fun, just the way I like it.
Of course, Arnie is thrilled to see me, slobbering all over me and egging me on to mess up the overly tidy apartment with
him. I gladly join in, though I have to check in with Tara and Hal now and then to make sure Mango and Squid are getting along
alright without me. It’s the first time I’ve left them home alone overnight, and there’s an unfamiliar sensation pressing
in on me. I’d call it anxiety if I didn’t know better.
After cooking up veggie burgers I’ve found in the freezer, I flip again through Chris’s family photo album, the one I’d found
tucked away in the closet before. It just appeals for some reason. As I’m going through the photos, I narrow in on Chris’s
older brother more and think about how Chris never mentions him. Maybe there’s some kind of intense sibling rivalry going
on, though that doesn’t fit with Chris’s peacemaker personality.
I decide to ask Chris about it when he gets back that weekend. Olivia’s not with him when he returns, which is nice, mostly
for Arnie’s sake. I don’t want him getting too attached to Olivia if she’s just going to disappear from his life, which seems
probable. Not that there’s much risk of Arnie getting attached to her. Arnie’s too smart for that.
“How was the beach?” I ask with a smirk, not the cruel kind.
“Pretty good,” he says. “Olivia’s family hosted their annual lobster roll cook-off for charity.”
“Ah yes, because there’s nothing more charitable than slaughtering our marine life for the enjoyment of the elite,” I say.
A beat passes and then he says, “Maybe I’ll suggest a vegetarian substitute for next year.”
The words next year make me scowl. It means he’s thinking long-term with Olivia.
“I have a question for you,” I say. “Who’s that?” Photo album open, I point to a slightly faded photo of Chris and his brother.
They’re wearing these argyle sweaters, different colors, same pattern, and have matching bowl cuts. Chris is probably six
or so and has a couple teeth missing, his smile all gap-toothed and gummy. It’s pretty cute. His brother is taller and resting
one elbow on Chris’s shoulder, like it’s his favorite armrest.
Chris’s face blanches, losing any color he’s absorbed from the beach. Silence slashes the air, but not in a way that makes
me think of a machete cutting its way through the jungle to build a home among the trees. It’s more like a cold ruler scraping
against my cheek.
“That’s my brother, Luke,” he says, and then he goes into his bedroom to drop off his bag. As if I’m just going to let it
slide, as if I’m not the expert on avoidance tactics.
I’ve clearly hit a nerve. Luke must be estranged for some reason. Maybe he’s in jail, or there’s another juicy family secret.
I’m bursting to find out, but I don’t want Chris to feel like I’m cornering him, so I just hang back on the couch with Arnie,
who’s back to snoozing.
My subtlety pays off. Chris emerges from his room and goes about organizing everything in the fridge, even though I hardly
changed around anything, just the milk and eggs and meats that I moved to the bottom because I don’t eat those.
Chris’s voice is muffled from talking into the refrigerator, but I pick up on every syllable like he’s right next to me. “Luke died in a car crash,” he says.
The news grinds into me. I sink farther into the couch cushions, only now realizing how fluffy, too fluffy, they are. “Oh,”
I say. It’s horribly insufficient, but I can’t beckon anything better. I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself about how Chris
has withheld this massive piece of information about himself, how he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me sooner.
“It was a few years ago now,” Chris says, closing the fridge and coming over to the living room. He slides onto the couch
on the end opposite from me, with Arnie sprawled out in the middle, ready to play. “It’s still kind of hard to talk about.”
He scratches Arnie’s ears, avoids my eyes. “But yeah, that’s what happened.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I’m aware I shouldn’t be accusing him, but it’s still probably better than the hollow sympathies
he usually gets. Bluntness has a nice way of distracting the heart from its hurt.
“Sorry,” Chris says, and it makes me detest myself, how I always try to steal the attention at the worst times.
“No, no, there’s nothing to be sorry about,” I say. “It’s not like we’re that close or anything.”
He looks a little sad at that and I want to wrap him in a hug. But since I can’t do that, I just prod Arnie to leap up into
Chris’s arms. Arnie takes my hint, pounces on Chris in that hey-Dad-I-love-you way until Chris takes him in his arms and holds
him like a baby.
“Do you still hang out with him?” I ask Chris. “Luke, I mean.”
Chris looks at me like I’m not understanding the whole premise about Luke being dead.
So I explain my theory of the afterlife, which I invent as I’m speaking.
Working under pressure suits me, accelerates my efficiency.
“Humans are just individual globs of energy,” I say.
“And when we die, we lose our bodies but our energy survives. It transfers form or just does some solo victory laps around the universe now that it’s free of the confines of a human container. ”
I don’t believe what I’m saying, but it’s a nice image to paint and I think it might help comfort Chris. Besides, who really
knows what happens when we die anyway? No one can disprove my theory. It’s incontrovertible by definition.
The poetic explanation doesn’t seem to suit him much. No surprise given he’s all prose.
Chris says he grew up believing in heaven but now he’s not sure he believes in anything. “I haven’t seen any signs or anything
that might be from Luke,” he says, and I get the feeling he hasn’t talked about this with many people at all. “And I just
think if there were a heaven, he would’ve found a way to say he was okay or play some kind of practical joke on me or something.
He had the best sense of humor. Kind of like yours,” he adds.
The comparison surprises me, flatters me. “Well, maybe Luke is trying to communicate in other ways,” I suggest.
“What kind of ways?” He seems skeptical but a little hopeful too, which makes me feel bad. I don’t want to lead him on, take
advantage of his grief, when I’ve got no clue where I’m going with this.
“Maybe you need some mushrooms,” I say, because it’s the most helpful thing I can think of. It would loosen him up and let
him get close enough to his pain to touch it without jerking back in fear. He’d be able to crawl curiously into the caves
with a psychedelic flashlight.
Chris says he doesn’t think mushrooms are the answer.
“Well, you at least need a good cry,” I say. “If you keep it all in, it’s really going to come back and bite you in the balls.”
Chris deflects the comment. “When was the last time you cried?” he asks.
I’m not prepared for that laser beam. The truth is that I haven’t really cried in years, but it’s not because I repress things. It’s because I process them so well that I don’t bottle them up, so there’s no need to unleash them through my eyes.
“I cried yesterday,” I say, though we both know I’m lying. I wish I didn’t have to lie to Chris, but that’s just who I am.
I keep the Redstockings close and that’s it. No need to lower my shield around anyone else.
“Okay,” Chris says. It’s clear the conversation is over. If I’m not going to open up with him, he’s not going to with me.
It’s fair but feels unjust. “Your money’s in the envelope on the counter,” he says.
It doesn’t feel right taking anything from him, not when he’s already lost so much. I know that he has a lot of money and
that’s not his limiting resource, but it still feels like I’d be exploiting him somehow. Or maybe indebting myself to him,
which would be even worse.
“Keep it and take Arnie on an adventure,” I say, leaving the envelope untouched. After kissing Arnie goodbye, I pat Chris
on the shoulder. There’s a moment where I think about going in for the hug but it’s too much, so I dash out the door and down
the hall.
The elevator ride down is excruciating. My ears pop and my chest pops too, swelling with scruples that make me want to go
back up and find a way to make Chris feel better. But I know myself well enough to admit that I’m not good at fixing situations.
I just make them worse.
I’m beginning to think that if I’m remembered for anything, it’ll be that.