The Cost of Knowing, page 26
“Alex?”
It startles me, and I turn to see Talia walking toward me in that new black dress, holding a matching black cardigan in her hands. Her shoulders are hunched up by her ears, and she shivers slightly as the breeze tosses her hair in front of her face. She brushes it away and tucks it behind her ear.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, turning back around to face Takaa. But there’s no one there.
I look down at my hand, and I swear I can still feel the warmth of his.
“Are you okay?” she asks, stepping in front of me again.
I look at her, at the timidity in her eyes, and the way her mouth hangs open slightly after her question, like she’s afraid of the answer. I reach down, hoping to everything I know and love that this still works. I take hold of the fabric of my black Gorillaz shirt that I’m wearing under my black blazer. I pinch the cotton between my fingers, feeling the fibers, vision-free again. I have to smile as I nod in reply.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, Talia. I really, really am.”
“Good,” she says, reaching into the front pocket of her dress and pulling out a small, round piece of paper. She holds it out to me. “I, uh… I brought this home from the concert for you. I thought you could start your collection over.”
I take it in my hands. It’s all silver, with raised silver across the whole thing, in the shape of the dragon glyph, those sharp eyes staring up at me, a slight but approving smile in the mouth. I grin down at it and know exactly where to put it.
“You sure you’re good?” she asks again.
I nod and smile.
One of her eyebrows rises half an inch.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Can… can I hold you?”
She nods, and I wrap my arms around her waist. Talia squeezes me back, tight, and I take in the scent of her hair, which is different, but somehow familiar to me. It’s not her usual strawberry lip gloss scent. It’s not her her scent.
What is it?
It’s sweet. Unmistakable.
I smelled it once getting off the bus downtown as a lady in her forties walked past me to get on. By the time I realized what the smell reminded me of and turned around to look at her, the doors had closed and the bus was taking off down the street. But now, it’s standing right in front of me. I pull back from Talia and look into her eyes when I ask, “What scent is that?”
“It’s my mom’s perfume. She lets me use it for special occasions. Do you like it?”
It’s exactly what I needed.
I’m going to buy a whole bottle of it myself and keep it in my closet next to Isaiah’s Shiv sweatshirt, Cobra bandanna, and Leviathan wrist cuffs, next to my dad’s black sweatshirt and my mom’s Chicago Bulls hat.
“Can I get the name?” I ask.
“Sure.” She smiles. “It’ll have to wait till we get to my place, though. I don’t remember what it’s called.”
I search her eyes for any trace of an ulterior motive. My place, she said. She notices me staring strangely.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
I nod.
“Where to now?” I ask her. She must catch the glint in my eye, because she smiles, and her gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth and back to my eyes. She kisses me softly, cups my face in her soft hands, and presses her forehead against mine. My heart is thundering against my ribs.
“We could go get something to eat. Or some ice cream,” she suggests. “Doesn’t have to be at your place.”
I know what she’s getting at, and my voice trembles as I say it, but I know I need to.
“Hey, Tal? I’m uh… not ready yet. For sex, I mean.”
She pauses for a long while, and I wonder if she’s changed her mind, if after all this waiting, she’s finally tired of me, if it’s too little too late. But then she smiles and says it.
“That’s okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says with a shrug. “I get it. And I’ll wait.”
“Thanks. I know it’s not like, you know, what a man’s ‘supposed to be,’ ” I say with air quotes. “But it’s… y’know… my truth, and I have to be honest about it. It’s not you. I promise.”
She grins a little, and her cheeks get a little pinker.
“I’m just happy you’re not keeping me in the dark anymore,” she says. “If something bothers you like that, you can tell me. And you can tell me why. Okay? No judgment. Just be honest with me.”
“Deal.”
I still don’t know if we’ll ever live in a house like the gray one with the yellow door. I still don’t know if we’ll last as long as I hope we do. I still don’t know who will buy Scoop’s Ice Cream Parlor in about two years.
15 The Future
MOM USED TO TAKE me and Isaiah to consignment shops all the time, specifically a consignment shop a few miles from our house in East Garfield Park named Griswald’s. I’d always assumed Griswald was some guy from the days of King Arthur who opened the store hundreds of years ago, and it had kind of always been there. But now, two weeks after the funeral, I’m sitting in an armchair in Mabelena’s as Ena floats from counter to counter behind the registers, and it’s all sinking in how real it is, owning a place like this. Mabel is somewhere in the back office, probably drawing in the coloring book that Talia’s mom gave her. Oh yeah, Maria works here now, appraising new items that come in and ticketing everything. It’s under-the-table work, so her disability checks are still coming in strong. Warmth settles into my chest at the reassurance that Talia doesn’t have to rely on Aunt Mackie for her next meal anymore, and that Maria doesn’t have to keep the burning secret of leaning on my checks when Talia’s not looking.
I hear a shuffling sound, and I look up from my seat by the dressing rooms—the seat I always sink into when I show up to pick her up at the end of her shift—just in time to see Talia on a ladder, reaching high above her head to get a box down. I jump up and rush to catch it just in time. The box falls and tumbles into my arms, forcing the air out of my lungs as I go sprawling backward onto the floor.
“Oh God, Alex!” she screams.
“What was that?” cries Maria from somewhere in the back room. She and Ena both come rushing back to the counter as Talia leans down to get this box off me.
“Estamos bien,” I say to Maria. I look up at Talia with a grin. “Soy bien.”
Once she’s taken the box in her arms and set it gingerly on the edge of the glass counter, she leans against it and smirks down at me.
“Estoy bien,” she says, “ ‘Estoy’ is that temporary version of ‘is,’ remember? ‘Soy’ is a constant state of being.”
I push myself to my feet and take both of her hands in mine—I swear I’ll never get tired of holding her. I lean forward and brush my nose against hers and say, “In that case, soy bien.”
“That’s not how that works,” she giggles. I kiss her cheek.
“Don’t worry about it. Soy bien.” I pull her close against me and rest my chin on her head. “Cuando estoy contigo.”
When I’m with you.
And I mean it.
“Hey,” I begin, clearing my throat as the full weight of the suggestion I’m about to make sinks in. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but it’s something I have to do. Something I should’ve done years ago. “When I say ‘when I’m with you,’ I really mean it. I mean anywhere. Anywhere, even where you’ve needed me most. Where I haven’t been.”
She’s looking at me like I’m not making sense, and I’m not sure I am.
“What I mean is,” I continue, “I’m free today if you want to go visit Shaun. You know. Since it would’ve been his birthday today.”
Her eyes light right up, as if all the times I’ve been too scared to go have been forgiven, and this moment is all that matters.
“I, uh,” she begins, her warm hands squeezing mine. “I assumed you would’ve forgotten.”
I shake my head.
I never forgot. It just hurt too much to acknowledge it. Even now, my heart is racing with the idea of sitting in front of his headstone and talking to him. My fingers are going numb, and my chest is so tight it feels impossible to breathe. But I need to do this.
“I never forgot, Talia,” I say. “I was just afraid.”
Joy in the face of oppression is its own kind of bravery, but so is sitting in front of the thing that scares you, and not running.
So here I go. Before I change my mind.
“Wanna go when you’re done with your shift?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, blinking in surprise. “I just have to get this box of jewelry into the case first.”
“Oh, I can help,” I offer.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel my phone buzz with a text.
Scoop: Hey Alex, like I said, my offer still stands. I know I was very angry when you left after your last shift, but given everything that’s happened, I understand your situation. If you still want to work for me, do you think you could come in today? I really need a closer. And frankly, an opener for tomorrow.
I sigh. I just offered to help out around here. There’s no way. My heart pounds as I answer.
Me: Sorry, Scoop, but I have plans today. I’ve also said I can’t close one night and open the next day.
No idea what he’s going to say. I’ve never spoken to him like this before, even over text. My hands are shaking, and I don’t know why. He already said I was fired last time. Then he told me I could come back. Now he needs me back?
He’s typing.
Scoop: Sorry, Alex, I know you’re going through a lot, but Ashley just called in sick. If you’re not busy, I really need you to come in.
“Everything okay?” asks Talia, eyebrows raised in suspicion.
“Yeah,” I answer absentmindedly, and then I catch myself. “Um… actually… Scoop is asking me to come in today.”
She sighs, and I remember to continue. “No, no, it’s not like that. I’m not going in. I just told you I can help sort through the jewelry box.”
She grins proudly and turns to put a small box on a shelf.
Me: I can’t. I’m sorry.
Talia thanks me and cuts open the box, and we get to work. I enjoy the feeling of every piece, being able to hold all the gold chains in my fingers, and all the earrings, the cheap plastic, and the sterling silver and the jewels. It’s hard to tell the real ones from the unreal, for the most part, but when I pick up a ring that looks strangely familiar to me, the metal heavy and cold in my fingers, and the diamonds glinting like stars even under these fluorescent lights, I realize this one is definitely real.
“Hey, uh, this one doesn’t have a price tag,” I say, holding it up to Talia. She looks at it for a long moment before shrugging.
“Like it?” she asks.
“It’s… it’s beautiful,” I say. It’s clearly worth a lot of money. I slip it onto my left ring finger, and then it all hits me. The vision comes back, not as a vision, thank God, but as a déjà vu kind of lightbulb-clicking-on moment.
This is the ring!
The ring!
The ring that belongs to that guy who’s going to buy Scoop’s in a couple of years!
It’s on my finger.
I turn my hand over as I hear Talia holler something to the back of the shop, to which Maria replies in Spanish.
“It’s yours,” she says, catching me off guard.
“What?” I ask, now back in the moment.
“My mom says Ena says you can have it. All yours. It’s one less thing we have to bother with pricing. Besides, you’ve been through enough lately and you’ve more than paid us for it already. Have one beautiful thing, Alex.”
I grin as Scoop’s words come back to me.
When you own the shop, you can make the rules.
And Aunt Mackie’s words right on their heels.
Whoever makes the rules controls the narrative.
And why not me? I think.
In a few years, I thought I’d be off at college, with Scoop’s a distant memory, but why not me? Why can’t I be the guy who’s going to buy the shop in a couple of years? I’d be out of high school, and I’d have two years of savings behind me if I found a job somewhere else. Who’s to say I can’t be the guy who shakes Scoop’s hand?
I don’t know. And in the absence of a vision confirming or denying the question, a small spark erupts into a flame deep within me. Hope.
Scoop: Alex, please don’t make me beg here.
With hands a bit shaky, and after a deep breath, I text Scoop back.
Me: Sorry, Mr. de la Cruz. I don’t think this is working out. You already told me you didn’t want me to come back, and after thinking about it, the feeling is mutual. You’ll have to find someone else to come in today. Please consider this my resignation.
I nod to Talia.
“Thanks, Tal,” I say.
“Sure,” she says with a grin.
* * *
My Vans are soaking wet and covered in grass, and my heart is fluttering, but I’m here. I’m finally here, next to Talia, staring down at another grave that should be familiar to me, but ashamedly isn’t.
Shaun Gomez, it reads.
It’s already getting dark out here. The sky is a brilliant orange-purple swirl, and the breeze is picking up and getting colder. Talia wraps her sweater more tightly around her, leans her head on my shoulder, and loops her arm through mine. I lean over and kiss her hair.
“You’re shaking,” she whispers. “Are you cold?”
“Nah,” I say. “Just, uh… this is just really weird.”
“What? Seeing his gravestone? I’m used to it.”
A lump forms in my throat at that, and I shake my head and sigh.
“I’m sorry, Talia,” I say.
A long moment passes between us, and she says nothing, which I’m thankful for, because it gives me time to work up the nerve to say what I say next. It all comes pouring out of me.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. I’m sorry I haven’t been here when you’re here. I’m sorry I’ve been so confused about what I want and need, and I haven’t really talked to you about it. I should’ve trusted you. And…”
I swallow and turn back to Shaun’s stone.
Shaun Gomez
Son. Brother. Angel.
September 14, 2003—July 2, 2017
Suddenly my knees feel weak, and I take a deep breath and steady myself against Talia.
“I’m sorry, Shaun,” I muster. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
Silence.
Silence that stretches on forever.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but it’s long enough for Talia to pull me back from my dissociating.
“¿Sabes lo que diría?” she asks. Do you know what he would say?
I laugh, because yes, I know.
“Mantenlo positivo, bro,” I say.
Keep it positive.
That was Shaun. Always smiling, always keeping things balanced. I hope that wherever he is, and wherever Isaiah is, they’re laughing. My cheeks start to burn as I hold back my tears.
“Ahora sé un poco de español,” I say. “But I’m still not fluent.”
“Él todavía no habla fluido,” she tells him with a smile. “Pero es un buen estudiante.”
“I am?” I ask.
She nods at me and grins.
“Lo intentas, y eso es todo lo que importa.”
You’re trying, she said, and that’s all that matters.
I brush my nose against hers and kiss her gently, and just smile at her.
“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I let out a laugh and shake my head, soaking in the same feeling I got when I looked down at her that day at the pool when we both almost drowned. I’m just glad we made it. Through death. Through grief. Through a mass shooting. Through a curse.
“Nothing,” I say. But that’s not true. I realize that I’ve fallen into my old habit of saying “nothing” as opposed to trying to parse out exactly what I’m feeling, and I correct myself. Somehow the three words feel so natural, like they’ve gone unspoken for way too long, and it’s about damn time.
“I just…,” I begin. “I love you.”
She smiles, and her cheeks go slightly pinker, and she tucks her hair behind her ear with one hand and squeezes mine with the other.
“I love you, too.”
I look down at the gravestone again, and I hope he’s proud of me. Even though we were only months apart, Shaun was always taller, and always more mature. So I guess that’s why I feel like I owe him a decent existence. Wherever he is, I want him to be happy he spent the few years he had on this planet being my friend. And the same for Isaiah, that he spent his time on this earth as my brother.
That’s really all I want.
I pull away from Talia and bring both my hands up to my chest, forming them into the four letters I couldn’t make by myself when he was alive.
S-H-I-V.
“I finally figured it out,” I say. “I’ve finally figured it out.”
Not everything, obviously. I’m still a kid. And now I have even less figured out because I can’t see the future anymore. But I look down at the new tattoo on my palm. That word, kə̂ŋ. That word has just one meaning: king.
King, for Shiv.
King, for Takaa.
King, for Grandpa Harold.
King, for Daniel Alby.
King, for Buddy Lyons.
King, for John.
King, for Patience Truman.
King, for Dad.
King, for me.
King, for Isaiah.
King, to remind me of the strength and beauty that I come from. King, to remind me what it means to be brave in spite of everything it means to be me. To give me resolve where there could be regret, and courage where there could be fear. I’m still figuring out what it means to live in the present. But at least now, I can live knowing I gave Isaiah joy he’d never had. I can live knowing I’ve broken a five-hundred-year-old family curse—the curse of seeing, every day, that which others can’t. The curse of facing the illusion of certainty. The thing so many people fail to realize is that to most people like me, Black kids trying to make it to adulthood in peace, it looks like the future is spelled out for us. All I have to do is turn on the news. But that word—kə̂ŋ—says all I need to know about my past, and my future. I can’t change the former, but at least now the latter is whatever the hell I want it to be. No visions. No hints. No looming cloud telling me what I’m destined for. No fear. I decide what I become.
