*Fiction — May 29, 2021
See-through
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My youngest asks me why we are leaving when daddy is still asleep. I tell him Because. My youngest has come to understand my answers, that this is how things are. Meanwhile the oldest has come to understand how mothers work. I ask him how he is doing back there and he says Good. What does he want for breakfast and he says Food. It is never enough. I ask for more syllables.
Meanwhile, I drive. It is four in the morning and my sons, six and seven, sit between bags of their clothes. The radio is on. They sing the song they like, the one that goes da-da-da-da, but the Spanish version. They look out the windows, saying Mommy, mommy, and asking about daddy. I tell them about Starting Over. They ask me Why. They ask me How Come. I tell them Because.
Boys, help mommy with the bags, I say, when the three of us get to the new house. They yawn, arms outstretched, as they step out unto the driveway. When we walk inside, the furniture is still covered in plastic. I walk around the rooms—running water, yes, working stove, yes, the lights. Three large bedrooms. Check. Everything as promised.
Boys, help mommy with the bags, I say, when the three of us get to the new house. They yawn, arms outstretched, as they step out unto the driveway. When we walk inside, the furniture is still covered in plastic. I walk around the rooms—running water, yes, working stove, yes, the lights. Three large bedrooms. Check. Everything as promised.
It is about three in the afternoon now. We empty out the car, then go to the market. Sandwiches for lunch. We drive by the school the older one will be starting at after the summer, passing by the playground, the kids. My phone buzzes and buzzes. I put it on silent.
A few weeks ago, Bryan couldn’t make it to dinner one night, said something came up at work. I asked him, Is it a woman? It was a joke. But he froze.
A few weeks ago, Bryan couldn’t make it to dinner one night, said something came up at work. I asked him, Is it a woman? It was a joke. But he froze.
No, he said. Then he looked at me and said Ana, really, no. Then he kissed me goodbye. I’m only teasing, I said, Have fun at work.
Max, dinner! I had called out. Jonathan was already at the table and we were both waiting.
Where’s your brother? I asked him.
Jonathan shrugged. Hiding, he said. We were playing hide-and-seek.
Max came running to me.
He held up something pink and small—it looked shredded—its lace coming undone around the sides, some drooping piece of fabric. I took it in my hands and held it out. It was crunched up. Musky. I immediately set it down, away from us.
Where did you find that? I asked him.
On the floor.
Where? Show me.
In the bathroom. Under the rug. I was hiding.
That night, when Bryan came home, I asked him how his meeting went. Very, very well, he said.
BRYAN IN NUMBERS
Children : 2
Degrees : 3
Living parents : 0
Toes : 10
Women : 4
I am a millimeter away from sleep. My eyes are getting heavy and my thoughts are heavier. I always thought it would be the other way around. That Bryan would leave me. I thought one day I would get the paperwork in the mail and just like that, no more Bryan. My husband would not be a husband anymore. I often wondered what I would do if he did. I decided, if it happened, I would spend twenty dollars on custom-made stamps and stick one on the return envelope: a stamp of a flag with Freedom written underneath it. Or maybe the single word Independence.
Regardless of the stamp, I think about mailing the underwear back. But I also want to keep it. For DNA testing. Identifying her. Getting this tested and receiving the results from the lab and sending her, I don’t know, an email saying Look, when you did this person, this is what you also did. I would attach photos of my children. There is a service I read about online where you mail a company a DNA sample and they use it to approximate a hologram of the person at the time the sample was left. Some of my friends have done this with their dogs—they have holographic puppies around their houses, running through them. I could have her at my doorstep. See-through, yes, but maybe that is better. What would I ask her? I would not ask her Why. In my experience that warrants one answer.
I look up the service online. It comes up. Pricey. I turn off my phone and fall asleep.
The next morning at the new house, I call my mom.
How are you holding up? she asks me.
I’m doing okay. Hey mom, remember that sweater I used to wear all the time in college? With the—what are they called, rhinestones? The purple one. You—
Hated it, yes, I remember.
Do you know where it is?
It might be in a box somewhere. Why?
Can you bring it? And don’t wash it.
When she comes over, the boys are all hugs and kisses for their grandma. We lug bags of towels and underwear and snacks and “if it’s on sale, just get it”s that she came with us to the store to get, each bag up the stairs, unpacking it all, ripping off the plastic like a second Christmas. My mom insisted on paying even though I could manage just fine. Max’s eyes had widened at the final total on the receipt, but she snatched it away and said that This is What Family Does before coming back with us here. The boys put the milk in the fridge and the cereal on the shelf and the fruit snacks there, too. They are happy that things have their places.
Can we stay over at grandma’s? they ask me.
I look at my mom, who smiles and shrugs. Don’t you want to stay here? We just got here.
But grandma has uncle Jay’s old legos.
I can take them for the weekend. Give you some time, she says.
I look at the two of them, pleading, then agree. My mom and I help the boys pack their bags. As they are about to leave, the boys say goodbye and promise to be good. I kiss their foreheads.
Oh, Mom, the sweater, I say, Did you bring it?
Oh! Yes. It’s in my purse.
She unzips her bag and hands it to me.
Why did you want it again? she asks me.
Just—because. I need it for something. Call me if the boys get to be too much.
When she leaves, I take the sweater to the garage and find a box and some packing tape. I print out a shipping label. After I drop the box off at the post office, I get the house ready. Soon, I will meet myself.
A knock at my door.
Come in, I say.
She does.
She is wearing red lipstick. It is all over her—her twenties. My twenties. She shrugs her purple sweater down to her collarbones, flickering. She looks at me from across the room. I tell her what happened.
Bryan? No. Not my Bryan. He wouldn’t, she says.
Our Bryan. And yes. He did.
Wait, so you left because…
I show her the underwear in the drawer.
You brought it with you?
I nod.
Why? she asks.
You know how we are.
What do you remember? I ask her.
I can show you, she says, It’s part of my features. She takes my hand. She presses a button.
A knock at my door.
Come in, I say.
She does.
She is wearing red lipstick. It is all over her—her twenties. My twenties. She shrugs her purple sweater down to her collarbones, flickering. She looks at me from across the room. I tell her what happened.
Bryan? No. Not my Bryan. He wouldn’t, she says.
Our Bryan. And yes. He did.
Wait, so you left because…
I show her the underwear in the drawer.
You brought it with you?
I nod.
Why? she asks.
You know how we are.
What do you remember? I ask her.
I can show you, she says, It’s part of my features. She takes my hand. She presses a button.
And she and Bryan are outside.
They are in an alley near the high school the city is tearing down and all she is wearing is a push-up bra and him.
Here he is: sprawled, a starfish, on the chair her dad made her and she is sitting on his thigh and he tastes like water. He asks her if she is okay.
And it is midnight and they are on wet grass and I can feel how she wanted him to love her deeper into the grass, into the dirt.
Here she is, wearing white.
Do you want to know what your eyes are? he asks her.
What?
I’ve never told you this. It’s like—okay, imagine that there’s a pond, a round one, and it has green water inside it. And then imagine that brown fireworks stop mid-explosion, and are just sort of stuck in time there, reflected in the pond. That’s what your eyes are.
And
She pulls away.
It works both ways, she tells me.
What do you mean?
I mean, do you want to show me something, too? I put my hand on hers.
She pulls away.
It works both ways, she tells me.
What do you mean?
I mean, do you want to show me something, too? I put my hand on hers.
We are at my first wedding anniversary, when Bryan drew letters on my pregnant belly with his finger and had me guess what they were. I guessed correctly the L, E, N, and A.
Lena? I had asked him, but his focus was on my belly.
He put his ear to my stomach, hearing, I would imagine, some sloshing. I hope you’re a girl, he said.
When Jonathan was not a girl, Bryan said he was happy the baby was healthy, hearing his heartbeat in the doctor’s office.
Now you can teach the baby how to do boy stuff, like climbing, the ultrasound technician said to him. Bryan and I had looked at each other—shrugged off the wording.
I would have taught that to the baby regardless, he said.
And he did. He taught the boys how to ride dirt bikes, took them ice fishing. One time the three of them made their own kites and flew them from high up a small hill, then rolled down together. I recorded it on my phone. Bryan also taught them how to cook. They sometimes did experiments, boiling carrots for more time or less time, testing for softness. He taught them how to repair their own jeans—I once came home to Max with a sewing needle and I asked him what he was doing and he said it so simply that I knew it had to be Bryan who had taught him.
This is what I remember: the three of them. My three boys.
Wow, she says.
I know.
I wonder if…
If what?
Well, this happened when we held hands, right? I wonder if…
She starts to get close to me. Starts inching closer. Red lips. Hunger. I kiss her. The memories burst and burst and—he wore a tuxedo on the third date, and that’s what I looked like and—We go further. Inside. Again. Out and—This is how we have remembered him. She spends the night. She sleeps in my room with me, her light bouncing off the wall. It is so bright I can hardly sleep. I reach to cover her. The duvet falls through.
She starts to get close to me. Starts inching closer. Red lips. Hunger. I kiss her. The memories burst and burst and—he wore a tuxedo on the third date, and that’s what I looked like and—We go further. Inside. Again. Out and—This is how we have remembered him. She spends the night. She sleeps in my room with me, her light bouncing off the wall. It is so bright I can hardly sleep. I reach to cover her. The duvet falls through.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 9. View full issue & more.