The reminders, p.25
The Reminders, page 25
I point to myself nervously.
“I know!” she says again. “From The Mindy Love Show. You’re the one with the memory.” She reaches her hand out. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand but I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway because she’s happy to do all the talking.
“Let me just say, you are an absolute delight. Just wonderful. It’s Joan, right?”
“Yes.” But I don’t like how it comes out. It’s way too quiet. I raise the volume on my voice so that my next words are very easy to hear. “My name is Joan Lennon.”
I’m sitting at the desk in our hotel room, using Dad’s laptop. I can smell his feet from here but I don’t say anything because he looks so comfortable on the bed with Mom curled under his arm. Sometimes Mom seems so big and powerful but Dad can take all that away just by being near her.
I was in a very bad mood after Dad said we weren’t keeping the studio but that was before I got recognized. Getting recognized reminded me of when my songwriting partner who I can’t name took me to New York City and the two ladies spotted him and they wanted to take a picture with him. And now I’m thinking about him and our song and how he sang about starting over and leaving the past behind. I never understood what he was talking about because I can’t leave the past behind no matter what I do, but hearing Dad talk about music during dinner made me hear the words to our song a little differently. Dad started a new job and he said his music days were over, but now he’s going back to music in a new way and he feels good about it. So now I’m thinking that when my songwriting partner who I can’t name sings Leave the past behind, he really means Leave the past behind until it starts to feel good again and then go back to it, but that’s too long to fit in a song so he had to make it shorter.
And that gets me thinking about what Mom told me when we were kicking our legs in the lake or harbor or whatever it was and that’s why I’ve decided to take her advice and do what I do best: remember.
I ask Dad for my songwriting partner’s e-mail address and I start typing. It seems like my partner needs someone to help him remember the right stuff because from what Mom tells me and from what I’ve seen, he’s not very good at doing that by himself.
So I write it all out and now I’m clicking the button that makes it go through the wires and across the universe and into his brain so that his brain can be full of all the things my brain is full of. This way he’ll know that it’s okay to go back to the past now because there are a few things back there that are worth seeing a second time.
38
I’m dancing on a floor of sand while the band plays what I can only describe as island music. The singer performs barefoot on the low outdoor stage, but no one besides the chesty woman by the speaker is paying him any attention. The rest of us have our backs to the musicians, soaking up the sounds, receiving the vibrations, but indifferent to the source.
Veronica shimmies next to me, reaching for my hand every few minutes as if to verify that it’s really happening, that I’m actually here with her in Florida. For now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. That’s not, however, an entirely organic determination. It’s partly a choice. This music, both in lyric and atmosphere, is insisting that everything is going to be all right, all right, and for once I’m choosing not to dismiss the sentiment out of hand. I don’t typically go for this don’t-worry-be-happy thing. I’ve always preferred songs that are raw-hearted and honest. Songs with integrity and truth. A song like Joan and I tried to make. But tonight I want to be like my sister and Syd. I want to believe that this music isn’t about willfully ignoring the tragedies of life but bravely choosing optimism despite them. Tonight, for once, I want to believe everything will be all right.
After retrieving two more beers from the tiki bar, I weave back through the crowd, hand Veronica her beverage, and semi-shout into her ear, “Paige says I should still do it.”
“Do what?” Veronica yells back.
I sip from my glass, give her time to think. When that doesn’t work, I stare into her eyes until they widen in acknowledgment.
She gets it now, she must, or else she wouldn’t be pulling me by the arm to a quieter spot. We relocate to where the ocean waves produce more noise than the band. She faces me and says, “Yes. My answer is yes. Let’s do it. I’m in.”
This is exactly why I didn’t ask Veronica back when I should’ve asked her. I knew she’d jump on board impulsively before she even knew where the boat was headed or how long the trip would be.
“Don’t just say that,” I tell her. “It’s a huge commitment for you. It goes beyond just handing over your eggs.”
“I know that,” Veronica says, undeterred. “Whatever it takes.”
But I’m still not sure she’s understanding the full magnitude of what I’m suggesting. I’m not sure I understand. “I’m not saying I’d actually do it,” I say. “I’m just putting it out there. I have no idea how it would work. I don’t know how to take care of a kid.”
“Come on. Yes, you do. You’re great with children.”
“Since when?”
She grabs my hand and forces me to sit down with her on a bench. “Since about as long as I can remember. When I was little you’d make these really detailed houses for my dolls out of cardboard boxes from Mom’s store. And you always brought home those frozen-fruit bars for me when you were working at the day camp. And you’d let me sleep in your bed when I was scared even though I’d kick you the whole night. And I’d ask you to take me to the park after school and you’d always say no, because you had better things to do, but then you’d take me anyway. And when I was older and you were in L.A., you called my first boyfriend on the phone, and do you remember what you told him? You said he’d better act like a gentleman because you had people following him. He never wanted to kiss me in public.”
She shakes her head, either because she can’t believe I said that to her boyfriend or because he actually bought it. “Really, I can go on, Gavin. You were just a kid yourself but you were always so thoughtful and nurturing and protective and just there, even when you weren’t.”
I don’t know how she emerged from her precarious beginnings with such positivity and perspective and gratitude. Maybe I did have something to do with that after all.
“And you even fill up my bike tires,” she adds playfully. “Gavin, honestly, I can’t think of anyone who’d make a better father than you. And the fact that you’ve hesitated this long just proves how seriously you’d take it when it finally does happen.”
I look for my beer and find it resting on the ground next to me. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but I can’t do it all by myself.”
“Why not?” Veronica says. “Mom raised us alone and she did a pretty good job.”
I swallow it down, the beer and my sister’s words. “Yeah, she did. But she didn’t choose to do it that way.”
“True,” Veronica says, stretching her sandaled feet out in front of her.
We watch the band from a distance. Strings of white lights dangle above the dance floor. I think of the man who made both of us, how after a long silence, he’d finally speak. Patience isn’t just sitting back and waiting. It’s enduring. Finishing the thing.
“This kid would really have it rough,” I say. “His parents would be brother and sister.”
“Yeah, one gay, one straight, and both unmarried. It would be a total shitshow. It would be great.”
Above us, the black sky is crowded with stars. I could sail into outer space. But even stars, they leave a trace. The meaning of those lines has changed in the few weeks since I wrote them. At the time I was lamenting the fact that I’d never be free of Syd, the same way I had never really overcome the loss of my father. But there’s no escaping the memories. And that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Actually, I’m thinking of Sydney right now, imagining what he would say about this crazy plan, the one he himself set in motion, and I have to say I feel just a tiny bit braver.
“Whatever you decide,” Veronica says, “I’m here.”
I can’t wait forever. It’s a mistake I’ve made before, thinking that the way things are at any given moment will be the way they are when I wake up in the morning. That’s why I tell her. “I love you.”
She turns to me, surprised.
“I just want you to know.”
She leans her head on my shoulder and I gaze up at the stars. Millions of them, long gone but still here. Reminders, reminders, reminders.
The black sky flexes out until it becomes one with the ocean. A wave emerges from the vanishing horizon and crashes onto the sand. “Let’s go swimming.”
“Now?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Now.”
Out of my sneakers and shirt, and into the water. I dive under a wave and feel the quick shock through my body. At once the world is black and empty and weightless.
I come back up and turn to shore. Veronica, dimly lit in bra and underwear, hesitates at the edge.
“Come on,” I shout. “Just jump in.”
She wades in until she’s just a face and blond hair. I go under and swim blindly toward her. When I surface, she shrieks and splashes water in my face.
“Go under,” I say.
“No. I’m freezing.”
“Freezing? It’s like a bathtub in here.”
I come for her.
“Stop! Gavin, I swear!” She swims away. “I’m going back.”
But I’m not ready yet. Not ready to walk on my own two feet. It feels good to be carried by the current.
“Be careful, Gavin.” Her voice is already distant. “Do you hear me? Don’t go too far out.”
She swims to shore, nearly disappearing in the night. Meanwhile, I’m increasing the distance between me and land. Deeper. Deeper. It’s peaceful out here, enveloped by nature’s quiet. I wonder if it wouldn’t be a fine way to go, while there’s a brief sense of calm, all my cards on the table, all the words spoken. Fall off into the endless sea, reunite with him, my best friend ever since that first blind date, still today, always will be. The one who kept me afloat. I’m trying to do it alone. I’m really trying. But I get so tired. This bracelet is too heavy.
A graze against my leg just now, something bristly rushing by. It jolts me to attention. I look down. Can’t see anything. The ocean is black. I hover in place, alert. Seconds pass. No sound but the rolling waves. No strange movements. My heart begins to settle. It was nothing, only my imagination. I’m all alone.
But not really. I look up. My sister waits on land, small as a dot. Hard to tell from here, but it looks like she’s waving. Just saying hello? Or is she calling me in?
Again, brushing my foot. This time it’s unmistakable: there’s something in the water.
I take off for shore, arms and legs knifing the surface. I lift my head, my sister so far away. I tempted fate just a moment ago, when everything was finally all right. How could I? I swim to her. I swim.
Again, clipping my foot, my toes. I turn, for some reason, I turn and there, breaching, a fin, a snout, a bump, and then gone, nothing. Back on shore, my sister waiting, but I can’t move. Another nudge from underneath. I kick everywhere, claiming my space.
The water breaks, again, the thing surfacing, holy massive. Perforated nose, whiskers, brown, craggy. Beaming in the darkness, two long fangs, white sabers. Not fangs—tusks. Of course, tusks. A walrus. The walrus. It can’t be.
It swoops down and under. I wait for it to resurface, scanning in every direction. All clear. Stillness. Then panic returns; I race to the shore.
I reach Veronica. She’s hugging herself, shivering. “I told you not to go out so far. You scared me.”
I struggle for breath. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“Out there.”
“No,” Veronica says, searching my face rather than the water. “Are you okay?”
I turn to the sea. I look. I look. I look some more.
And then I tell her, and whoever else can hear me, “Yes. I’m okay.”
To: Gavin Winters
Subject: Top Ten Reasons
Dear Blackbird,
My mom told me you were scared to be a dad and I’m thinking that maybe it’s because you aren’t focusing on the right memories. Since you asked me to help you remember once before, I figured I could help you remember again. Also, I like to make lists.
Here are the Top Ten Reasons why you’d be a good father:
1. Because you remembered my name (Tuesday, July 9).
2. Because you said you liked my outfit (Wednesday, July 10).
3. Because you held my hand when we crossed the street and you helped me call my first taxi and you taught me how to do a change of scenery and you showed me that John Lennon didn’t just write songs, he also drank coffee and went to the pharmacy (Tuesday, July 16).
4. Because you bought me a plain bagel (Wednesday, July 10) and a soft pretzel (Tuesday, July 16) and French fries (Monday, July 22) and you made me try pizza (Tuesday, July 16).
5. Because you liked my drawing (Wednesday, July 10).
6. Because you always did your hand signal even when you had a headache and you couldn’t get out of bed (Tuesday, July 16).
7. Because you always told me the truth, like the time you said my song didn’t make you cry (Wednesday, July 10) and my lyrics were dissing generous (Thursday, July 11), and I probably wouldn’t win the contest (Thursday, July 25). You could be a little mean sometimes, but it felt okay because you treated me like a grown-up and you made my song better. And it’s because you were always honest with me that I could believe you when you told me that I was impressive and that you had never met anyone like me before (Tuesday, July 30).
8. Because you came to get me at The Mindy Love Show (Tuesday, July 30).
9. Because you taught me about the good kind of nervous (Tuesday, July 16) and I finally felt it (Tuesday, July 30).
10. Because you showed me that it’s not just about waiting around for an idea to come but also about knowing when the idea has finally arrived (Thursday, July 18).
11. Because whenever I had good ideas for lyrics, you used them.
12. Because you listened so closely to my memories and you asked questions and you’re pretty much the only person who’s ever done that besides doctors and talk-show hosts.
13. Because you can speak with a British accent.
14. Because you know a lot about John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
15. Because you do the best rock-star look I’ve ever seen.
16. Because you have a great voice and not just for singing. I bet you’d be great at reading bedtime stories.
17. Because I love my dad more than anyone in the world. No matter what he does or says or where he goes, I love him. You have nothing to worry about.
18. Because you’re my partner and I know that deep down you haven’t forgotten me.
Sorry, I had more than ten.
Love,
The Walrus
Don’t Let Me Down
I fit the cassette into Dad’s old Walkman. I rewind the tape and it squeals all the way to the beginning. I press down on the chunky Play button and through the hiss I hear Grandma Joan’s piano and her voice. I shut my eyes and pretend she’s here in my bedroom giving me a concert.
When Grandma lifts her hands off the keys and her foot off the pedal, you can hear her sigh and it’s the kind of sigh you do after a tasty drink or a deep laugh or when you’ve just remembered a great memory.
The recording ends but the tape still plays. I let it hiss and it feels like she’s still here.
“I wish you could hear my song.”
The wheels spin through the plastic window.
“I wish it could go deep into your system.”
Dad says I carry her memory and he’s talking about my name when he says this, not my HSAM.
“I want to win because of you. I’m going to win.”
I listen.
“Hello? Grandma?”
The wheels get slower and the cassette clicks and the hissing stops and the tape runs out.
My door opens. “Ready to go?”
Dad is wearing his lace-up boots and tight jeans and button-down shirt and a black jacket on top to fancy it up. It’s the kind of outfit he used to wear for his meetings in New York before he shut down the studio and before the new lady moved in downstairs. Pam is her name and she’s hardly ever home because she works part of the week in Toronto, which is in a separate country, and she says we can use the courtyard as much as we like. Also, she didn’t make Dad tear down the Quiet Room because she says it’s a good place to keep all her clothes. She swears my initials are still there above the socket.
Dad comes up behind me and sees the tape player. He lifts the ends of my hair and pretends to pull. “Are you going to be okay if you don’t win, kiddo?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I say.
“Just remember, art is subjective. People like different things.”
“Like how some people like Paul McCartney and some like John Lennon?”
“And some like both.”
“I like Paul McCartney too,” I admit.
“So do I,” Dad says. “I love all the Beatles.”
He kisses the top of my head and walks to the door.
“No matter what happens,” Dad says, “I just want you to know that I’m really proud of you. I hope you’re proud too. You just have to keep making art that feels good to you. You can’t control what happens after that. It seems like no one’s paying attention, but then, when you least expect it, someone hears it. Just keep putting yourself out there. It’s the hardest thing. But you never know. That’s it. You just never know.”
It resonates, which is something guitars do but also words. It resonates because one day this summer I was eating dinner with my family and I was worrying about my own stuff and out of nowhere a stranger asked to shake my hand because she saw me on TV (Saturday, August 17, 2013).
