I hear voices through the window. I had already forgotten they were out there, the paparazzi or whoever they are. Some are dressed in plain clothes, some appear camera-ready. All of them confirm the fact that the fire was real and not a figment of my imagination.
“Will you think about it?” Paige says.
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
I’m not sure I believe in promises anymore, but I promise anyway and we say our good-byes.
I almost didn’t answer Paige’s call, but I’m glad I did. It’s so easy to forget that not everyone I see and hear is a phantom. Though at times it feels like I’m experiencing an extended hallucination, this is indeed real life and there are still real people out there with whom I have actual ties.
Paige and Ollie are the ones who set me up with Syd. Paige was Sydney’s childhood friend. I was Ollie’s college roommate. That rarely works, the wife’s friend dating the husband’s friend. But this time it made sense. Syd and I met out here in California as New Jersey transplants. We saw each other as new but also familiar.
But enough about that.
It’s time to see the backyard and assess the damage. I’m about to walk outside barefoot but I realize it’s too treacherous. After putting on my boots, I step over the downed porch roof and onto the patio. A ring of black-gray char surrounds the perimeter of the pit. Overall, though, it’s good news: three-quarters of what I hauled outside never reached the fire. Most of it remains intact, laid out on the grass and patio like for-sale items at a flea market.
It’s a surreal thing, greeting my interior life outdoors. Even more strange to see it all under a bright sun. The night had obscured the intimacy of what I was trying to burn. Now, in open daylight, it’s impossible to ignore my ties to these objects.
On the grass I find Syd’s duffel bag. I retrieved it last night from the back of our bedroom closet. When Syd passed, I stuffed a bunch of his belongings into the bag, just to get everything out of sight, and I haven’t opened it since. Until now. I kneel down and open it.
Most of the things, besides the framed photograph of his mother, which he kept on his nightstand, are toiletries and small personal items. There’s an electric toothbrush, a tube of Kiehl’s moisturizer, hair paste, his black horn-rimmed reading glasses, his wallet (still full of cash), and a few bottles of medications. There’s also his navy hoodie, the white strings bitten up and hardened. But it’s the item that’s sunk to the bottom of the bag that has my full attention. His electric shaver.
I open the soft black travel case and hold the razor in my hands, gripping the cold metal. The razor clicks on, its vibrations shooting up my arm. I turn it off and a rain of debris falls on my fingers. Tiny dark hairs.
I run my thumb over the serrated edge. A blackish residue clings to my skin. Like ash, something formerly human, formerly alive. I close my eyes and try to picture his chin, cheeks, face, that exact portion of him. I shouldn’t be doing it. It’s stupid and masochistic and indulgent. But what makes the act truly regrettable is that I can’t actually see his face, not entirely, not as clearly as I’m expecting. My imagination, not my memory, is doing most of the work.
But I wanted to forget, didn’t I? Last night, yes, I wanted to forget. Today, I’m not so sure. My memories of Sydney are finite. He and I will never build a new one. To burn what little remains in a burst of self-pity or despair or frustration feels now like a terrible mistake.
I’m not sure what to do next. There’s so much to clean up. It seems insurmountable.
I start with a simple task: Put the razor back in its case, the case back in the bag, zip the bag up. I wipe my hand on the grass and then on my shorts. The faint blackness remains. Some spit and a vigorous rub won’t remove it either. The stain keeps. Already, I’m exhausted.
Instead of rising to my feet, I stay in the overgrown grass, staring at the rear of the house. I picture myself walking back inside, having to exist within those walls, trapped there with my phantom love. Even worse, with all those eyes peering in, all the unwanted attention I’ve created.
Paige is right. I can’t stay here any longer.
5
I use a fork to break apart an English muffin and throw one half of the muffin into the toaster. Mom is on her cell phone and she’s walking around the kitchen, holding a little pad.
The house phone rings and I lift it out of the holder, but Mom pulls it out of my hand. She looks at the number and makes the ringer go quiet.
I sit at the table and wait for the toaster to ding or for Mom to tell me why she’s so excited. Mom makes the first sound.
“Okay,” she says, ending her call. She plops her pad on the table and her butt on the seat. “That was my friend Melissa. She’s been everywhere. She thinks we should look into Costa Rica. It’s a short flight and they’ve got rain forests and beaches and zip-lining and a volcano. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I can’t go to Costa Rica. I have to write my song.”
“No, cuckoo. This is for next spring. It’s perfect. You and I have the same week off in March and the wet season doesn’t start until April. I’ll start looking at flights right away. Maybe we can get a deal since we’re still far out.”
The toaster dings and Mom grabs my muffin for me. She takes out the butter and a knife and she spreads the butter on the muffin and brings it to me on a plate. Mom always tells me that she’s not my waitress but this morning it seems like she’s changed her mind.
“So this is really happening? Dad is closing the studio?”
“I know you’re upset. It’s upsetting for all of us.”
I’ve never seen Mom look so happy.
Actually, that’s not true. She looked this happy when she was trying to plan our vacation last year, and when our vacation didn’t happen she looked extremely unhappy. But it’s very true that this whole thing is upsetting me and Dad.
“He loves his studio,” I say. “Why would he close it?”
She opens her mouth to answer but the words don’t come out for a few seconds. “Because we can’t afford it anymore.”
Mom likes to make graphs on the computer and she likes to keep every receipt. She’ll get rid of the TV channels we don’t watch and she’ll tell the person on the phone that she’s going to cancel our service unless she gets a lower price. She always knows which toilet paper is the better deal, the package of eighteen regular rolls for $11.69 or the package of twelve double rolls at $9.39. So if Mom says we can’t afford the studio, I guess I have to believe her. But I don’t understand how we can’t afford the studio but we can afford a trip to Costa Rica, wherever that is.
“You make all that extra money tutoring,” I say. “Why can’t you just pay for the studio?”
“Because I don’t want to anymore.”
“What?”
“Forget it.”
“I can’t.”