Casually Homicidal, page 29
Tacos. Mom loved tacos. She liked most Mexican food, really, but tacos were her favorite. You could stuff them with whatever you wanted, just as long as it was wrapped in a warm tortilla. She’d make them sometimes—my shrew-of-a-grandmother’s recipe—for us, and they’d always hit the spot for some reason. That day, no matter the day, tacos were the perfect comfort food we all needed. It brought the three of us together, like food always did. It’s one of those things that seems so ordinary, so unmemorable, until it’s gone, and there’s nothing left but the aching .
Smiling to myself, I say, “That reminds me: out of all of the places we’ve been, we haven’t had Mexican food yet.”
We gather up our stuff and make the place as clean as possible. The broken window is a bit hard to hide, though. With our bags on our backs, we walk down the hill away from the cabin. Arden gives a few hoots and hollers, and I turn around and give it one last look. Maybe I’ll tell my wife and kids about this cabin. I’ll tell them about my Grandpa Chuck and Josh and Arden. I’ll tell them about the rats and Maizy the cat and frozen yogurt. I’ll tell them about the lodge and losing the car and camping under the stars. I’ll tell them about the deer. I’ll tell them about Norman and Ernest and Lydia and about Arden who forced me to sing American Pie in front of a restaurant full of strangers. I’ll tell them about my mother and my father and the ocean. Especially the ocean, and the way it sparkles even in the night.
When we make it to the main road, Arden outstretches her hand. I take it. It doesn’t feel romantic, it feels resolute. That’s how we stay until another eccentric figure takes pity on us and gives us a ride.
The whole world is ahead of us and also behind us. It’s like that limbo Arden’s always talking about. We are caught in the middle, and we have finally made peace with that. What are we to do with all this future?
When we come upo n Elma, Washington, Arden spots a Mexican restaurant. Not an Americanized chain, but one that looks authentic. Or as authentic as you can get this far north.
“So your Mom liked Mexican food?” Arden asks after we order.
“Yeah,” I say. “She always liked to experiment with the styles and flavors, cooking-wise. It was always her first choice when going out to eat.”
Arden smiles as she dips her red tortilla chip into the queso. “That’s sweet.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking out the front window of the restaurant as it begins to drizzle rain. “I can’t tell you why she liked it so much, though. I guess it made her feel like she was somewhere else, which I can’t blame her for.”
Arden nods. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours, either.”
As always, Arden moves so fast I can barely keep up. Her words hit me where it hurts, like a blind gut-punch. Out of habit, I feel myself digging my fingernails into my palms.
“I think, even if you never see her again, you’ll be okay,” she continues, pointing a chip at me.
Her voice brings me back. “Sorry, I’m just . . . feeling things. But you think so?”
Arden raises her eyebrows at me. “I really do.”
I smile, but I can feel that it’s a sad one.
Our food comes—Arden ordered chicken fajitas and I, of course, got tacos. They aren’t like Mom’s, but I wasn’t expecting them to be. A couple of times, Dad tried to make Mexican food the way Mom did. I regret not recognizing his effort.
The memory sends a pang through me, running clear and white-hot. I eat the food and laugh with Arden anyway. Instead of pushing it down, I let it run its course through me. I let myself feel sad and nostalgic and angry and happy all at once.
The feelings still don’t go away, even after we leave the restaurant and start walking again. I’m starting to get frustrated with it, and I feel a bit helpless, at the mercy of my own body and emotions. I guess being obsessed with being in control and consumed with numb anger for seven years does some shit to your psyche.
I start up a conversation to distract myself. “I still can’t believe you’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean,” I say. The noon is softly overcast, the ground cool after the morning rain.
“Yeah,” Arden turns around, walking backwards, and shrugs. “It’s not like we don’t have money to go on vacations either. My parents just . . . don’t think that shit is important. Like, family time and stuff.”
“I’m sorry.” Some of my best memories are with my family. Granted, some of the worst ones are with them, too.
Arden points a finger at me. “That’s my line,” she laughs.
And I laugh along with her, the entirety of the world howling along with us. Because laughter? It’s not a weapon; it’s a beautiful thing.
34 Arden
Thursday, May 31st
‘Anemoia’— nostalgia for a time you’ve never known.
When the mom van pulls up beside us, I mistakenly think it’s a woman, but the driver is a middle-aged man. Hendrix and I gauge him up as he rolls down the window.
“It’s 11am on a Thursday morning. What are you guys doing out here?” he asks, his voice booming, but it doesn’t feel intimidating. He sounds like he was a vintage radio announcer in a past life.
“We’re, uh, trying to get to the beach,” Hendrix says.
“Yeah, we’re on a road trip, but our car broke down.” I hold up Hendrix’s hand in mine, to show that we are anything but threatening, because something about this man strikes me, hits me in such a deep part that I don’t really know how to react. I never really know how to react.
“Well, you’re pretty far from the beach. Coastline is about forty miles from here,” he says, stroking his short, dark beard.
“Can we, uh, have a ride somewhere? It doesn’t have to be anywhere in particular. Just, closer to the coastline,” I say, laughing a bit. I try to see past this man’s demeanor, but I find nothing but openness. Nothing but authenticity. He just reminds me of a dad—someone that you could crack open a cold one and just talk a bout life with on the front porch.
“Sure, no problem,” he says, hitting a button to open the side doors. Hendrix and I hop in the middle seats. “You can just toss that in the back,” he says, gesturing to the booster seat to the left.
Beneath the seat reveals crumbs and a few lost Legos. Hendrix wrinkles his nose at the mess, but it makes me smile. It shows that this van is lived in, that there is a happy family that uses it. We throw our bags in the back as well.
“I’m Todd, by the way,” he says, leaning back.
“Hi, Todd,” Hendrix says, and I almost laugh again. He’s so different, but so incredibly the same. I love it.
“I’m Michelle, and he’s Hendrix.” He turns and gives me a look, and I just shrug. “It’s my name, isn’t it?”
“So does that mean I get to call you Michelle now?” he says.
“No, you still have to call me Arden.”
“Alright.”
“I don’t quite know what just happened there,” Todd says. “But it’s nice to meet you, Michelle and Hendrix.”
Michelle . Something finally clicks. My dad always calls me Michelle. Not Mitch, or some other pesky sibling insult like my brother Max would use. Not Chelle or Shelley or some other shit that Mom says. Just Michelle.
We tell Todd that we don’t have to go back to his house, that it would be totally fine to just drop us off at a restaurant, but he insists on taking us back to his place to try his wife’s phenomenal cooking. We’re never one to turn down free meals.
The two-story is set far back on the property, framed by lush trees. It’s picturesque in a unique way, with messy pops of character all throughout the yard and house.
“Would we be able to use your washing machine?” I ask as we hop out of the car.
“Sure, sure!” Todd says. “But you’ll have to get Jamie to teach you. That thing’s a real beast.”
Todd leads us inside, and it smells of people and savory spices. The foyer is small, and leads directly up the stairs or into the living room. “Hey, Jamie! We’re going to be having two extra kids for lunch.”
“We’re gonna what now?” she exclaims over the music humming from the radio. The woman I assume to be Jamie peeks her head out from behind the wall, leading into the kitchen. “Oh! Good thing the kids went over to the Stephens’ house today.”
Jamie walks toward us, swaying her hips and drying her hands on her apron. We shake her hand as she smiles. “Hope y’all like tomato soup, because that’s what I’m serving.” She turns the radio down as she heads back to the stove.
“Mmmm, you know that’s my favorite,” Todd says, coming up behind his wife and wrapping his arms around her.
I glance over at Hendrix, and we just watch while Todd and Jamie embrace. He kisses her forehead as she playfully leans away, trying to cook and rub her husband’s back at the same time. Snapshots of a life—not portraits—line the walls. Pictures drawn by children and certificates and awards hang on the refrigerator, and phrases about God’s love decorate the frames of doorways. Some of my friends had homes like these. I was always jealous of them.
After lunch, Jamie tells us that the washer and dryer is upstairs in the back room. However, as Hendrix and I walk up the stairs and down the hall, we realize there are two back rooms.
“Which one is it?” he asks. I shrug and knock on the leftmost door. No answer. Thinking it can’t hurt, I open the door, and fall headfirst into someone else’s life.
It’s like a museum exhibit, frozen in time. It’s a young girl’s room, one of the faces dotted along the walls in picture frames. The walls are a soft pink, but the room is decorated in color—from the scribbles and stick-figure drawings taped on the walls to the dolls and stuffed animals left strewn about after her mother told her that her friends had arrived. Golden light floods in through the curtains, onto an unmade bed with tangled sheets that could have been caused only by excessive jumping. I’m left breathless by it. I don’t even know this girl, but somehow I do.
“Hendrix?” I ask. I hear him walk in behind me, but I can’t make myself turn around.. Tears stream down my face. It’s just so damn happy and sad all at once. Nostalgia colors my vision, weighs heavy in my chest.
“Yeah?” He comes up behind me and puts an arm around my shoulder.
“Do you ever think about how your childhood is just . . . over now?”
“I never really had a childhood,” he says.
“I’m sorry.” I can almost see the little girl twirling around, making a beautiful mess. Like a bubble, trapped in time, before someone comes along and pops it. I hope, when someone comes along and pops her bubble, that she’ll still be able to pick up the pieces again and keep making more beautiful messes over and over again.
Hendrix hugs me from behind. “I’m sorry that yours is over. From what you’ve told me, it sounded pretty alright.”
“Parts of it were. But thanks anyway,” I say.
“For what?” he asks.
“Understanding.” My voice cracks, because the atmosphere of this room is just too much. It pulls at memories that I thought I had long forgotten. It pulls at something I didn’t know I had. “I want this,” I say. “I want this for my life. I want any children I have to make beautiful messes and have a safe place. Because it’s what I never had.”
I’ve never been married, never had children, but already I taste the bittersweetness of it all. Of both my future and my past, and how strangely beautiful it will be.
Hendrix pulls me just a bit closer, and I lean into him. He doesn’t have to say anything—I know he understands. We are just here, basking in the weight of the moment that falls on us like dust in the warm light.
I feel like crying, and Hendrix’s arms feel like the weight of the world around my shoulders, but I’d gladly carry it for him.
Later in the afternoon, Todd runs errands and says he’ll be back to drop us off somewhere closer to the beach. Hendrix and I hang out on the porch, with it’s worn wicker chairs and peeling, white paint. Basking in the thick summer heat, we just sit there, watching the cars drive down the country roads and listening to the soft radio that floats out through the screen door.
Hendrix takes out a cigarette from his pocket and lights one. He offers one to me.
Taking it, I twirl it between my fingers. “I didn’t think you still had those,” I say.
“Yeah, me neither. Found ‘em in these jeans I haven’t worn in a while.”
Our gazes meet for a moment. A strange sadness colors his eyes, like it’s always been there, but just buried. “What are we gonna do after we see the Pacific, Hendrix?” I ask.
Raising his eyebrows, he holds out the lighter to me one more time. I let him light the end, but don’t inhale. I stare at the glowing tip, and the smoke that ribbons out.
“I dunno,” he says. “Call our parents, I guess.” He pauses to take a drag. “Go home.”
Home. The way he says it feels like deafening snow. “You really wanna go home?”
He taps his foot and I see his eyes scanning the fields and mountains, the atmosphere hazy. Even the birds sound nostalgic, like they too are young in voice but old in soul. “Yeah.” Tears well up in his eyes, and his voice breaks. “I gotta get help, Arden.”
Nodding, I take a drag of the cigarette, coughing on the exhale. I try to picture what our lives will look like once we get back. But it’s like a dream—fuzzy and fragmented, with nothing I can quite put my finger on. “You think Lisa will let us keep our jobs?”
Hendrix laughs at this, but his eyes still speak of that profound sadness. “I hope so.” He pauses. “I think I’m gonna go to community college or trade school, just to figure out what I want to do with my life.”
I nod. “Yeah, same. My mom wants to send me to some big university to get ‘the college experience’. And because she thinks our family is ‘too good’ for community college. Fuck that, though.”
Hendrix smiles. “Yeah, fuck that.”
We laugh about it for a moment, but really, under all of that, Hendrix is right. We have to go home. No matter how much it sucks, no matter how much it feels like an ill-fitting shoe, we still left pieces of ourselves there, in our tiny town in Montana. In order to move on, we have to go back and find those pieces, and take them with us wherever we go. For me, it’s Max. It’s the people, the roads, the houses, the places in that town that hold memories like red balloons tied on strings. I can’t abandon that part of myself. And for Hendrix, it’s his family. He has to let go before he can move on.
Whenever Hendrix or I come back, we’ll still see those balloons, tied to places and people and things, still bright and red and floating in the wind like the memory was only yesterday. We will remember, and it will be good. We will make new homes, until our lives are full of balloons, floating forever toward the open sky.
These places, they’re haunted. Maybe these places we were trying to escape this whole time do have meaning. They’re haunted by memories, by the people we once were. But the people we are and the people we’re going to be? That’s what matters. There are no places left behind because all we have is right now and whatever comes next. Hendrix and I are at the edge of the world. We are young. We are so burdened, yet so free. We’ve found companionship and connection and healing. What’s better than that? Nothing.
It’s not about being ‘good enough’. It’s not about what we do or where we come from. It’s about who we are, and who’s going to stick around through the mess. Our whole lives are ahead of us, and they are so much brighter than whatever’s in the rearview mirror.
Before we leave, Hendrix and I glance back at Todd and Jamie’s house with its chipped white siding and green roof, and all the love and life it contains. We tie red balloons onto the front porch, around the stout chimney, onto the doorknob of the little girl’s bedroom—where these balloons hold both memories and dreams.
35 Hendrix
Thursday, May 31st
We catch a ride into town, and then walk the rest of the way to the beach. Arden insists that we stop at this ice cream vendor first. We get crushed Butterfinger sprinkled on top.
Just before we cross the last rocky patch to reveal the ocean behind it, Arden grabs my elbow. “Stop.”
I turn around. “What?”
“I want to savor this,” she says.
“Okay.” We stand there and finish our cones. I outstretch my hand, and she takes it. We walk over the uneven ground as it turns to small, moss covered stones, criss-crossed with piles of pale driftwood. Like the world has been cut in half, the beach stretches out before us. It’s sprinkled with people, but the sand is soft and malleable. The ocean begins to glitter as the sun sets.
I look over at Arden, eyes resting on the horizon, soaking it all in. “You want me to get out of the way so you can take a picture?”
She shakes her head. “No. Wouldn’t do it justice.”
She kicks off her shoes and wades in the sea foam as it drags against the shore. Arden leans down, digs for a moment, and picks up a broken seashell. She stuffs one piece in her pocket, gives another to me, and throws another piece far in the ocean. The wind picks up, and so do the waves. Clouds streak across the sky, turning into purple cotton candy.
“There,” she says. “Now, we’ll have something to remember this moment.”
Removing my shoes and wading in, I stare out at the ocean. “Is it everything you ever imagined it would be? The ocean?”
“Yeah, it is.” I hear the smile in her voice. “I wish Max was here.”
“Yeah,” I say to fill the space. Picking up a handful of sand, I remember how I used to use sand to sop up blood in the shed if things ever got out of hand. The memory sends something sour running through me. I reach down, and feel the saltwater wash the sand off my fingers, thinking of how it felt all those years ago. As the water drains away, I run my fingers over the damp sand, but it’s not dark enough for them to show. “When I was like, seven or something, my family and I all went to the ocean. That first night, I was absolutely begging my parents to go see the ocean, but they said it was too late. My grandpa went out with me, though. He told me that there are these little plankton called noctiluca scintillans that glow when you rub the sand. I’d show you, but it’s too light out.” Recalling the memory feels strange, like it’s someone else who lived that life.
