Boundless, p.28
Boundless, page 28
So, yeah. That’s strange.
When the commercials end and the news comes back on, Nico stays where he is, still lost in his phone. I finish my second cheese mini-tower, down the rest of my soy milk, then get up and put the glass in the sink. I start to leave, but Nico says, “Wait, Jerry.”
I stop. “Yeah?”
He looks up from his phone. “Will you stay up with me? Until the snow starts?”
I hesitate, my stomach full of cheese and soy milk, my warm bed calling. “Yeah, I don’t know, Nico. I’m tired, man.”
“Please? Sarah promised she would, but Mom made her go to bed.”
It’s also still strange for him to call my mom “Mom.” But whatever.
I rub my chin, shaking my head, as if this is a difficult decision. “Sorry, I really need to get some rest. But you do you.”
“I understand.” His smile fades, making me feel like I kicked a puppy.
Effing Nico.
“Fine,” I cave. “I’ll stay up.”
Nico’s face lights back up. “Really?”
“But as soon it starts, that’s it. I’m off to bed. If you want to go out in the freezing-ass cold to make snow angels or something, that’s up to you. But I’m not doing any of that shit.”
“Cool, cool. Thank you, Jerry!” He rushes over and wraps his arms around me, rocking us back and forth as he shows his gratitude by trying to squeeze the life out of me.
* * *
I’m not sure why Nico wanted me to stay up with him. An hour later, we’re back on either side of Dad on the couch, not even talking. He’s glued to his phone—probably texting Erika—and I’ve just been watching this news about the winter storm hitting everywhere except for the little patch around our city. It’s hard not to take everything personally.
I’m just about to announce that I’m throwing in the towel when the TV blinks off, plunging us into a hushed semi-darkness.
“Nico,” I whisper, “you sit on the remote again?”
“It wasn’t me, Jerry. It’s not working.” Then he says quietly so as not to wake Dad, “Catch.”
The remote smacks me in the side of the head. I pick it up and press the power button, but he’s right. Nothing happens. I glance over my shoulder at the unlit clock above the stove. “Power’s out.”
“But it’s not even snowing here yet.”
“The storm must be close enough that it took out a nearby transformer or something,” I say, as if I know anything about power grids.
“Does the heat need electricity?”
I listen. The house is quiet, as if holding its breath. “It does.”
“Hay nako.”
“Oh, no, indeed. Hopefully it comes back before we freeze to death,” I say with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“Could that really happen?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“My phone may die first—battery’s low.”
“Maybe it’s a sign we should go to bed.”
Nico abandons his phone on the coffee table and rubs his eyes. “No way. It will snow soon. I know it.”
“How can you possibly know it?”
“The air. It smells different.”
I sniff the air, then say nothing, not willing to admit he’s right.
“Do you have any candles?” he asks.
“Only, like, for birthday cakes. But we have a lantern.” I get up and dig out our camping lantern out from the hallway closet, hoping it still works. We haven’t used it since Dad gave up on trying to pass his love of the outdoors down to my allergy-prone ass years ago. But when I switch it on, it casts a confident halo of white light. Returning to the living room, I set it on the coffee table and plop back down on the couch.
“See,” Nico says. “No power, no problem. This happens all the time in the Philippines.”
“Right. Dad always says that.” We both stare at the lantern as if it’s a campfire. “You ever miss your life back in Cavite?”
“Of course, Jerry,” he says, face half in light, half in shadow.
“Then why don’t you ever talk about it?”
He considers the question. “It’s easier not to.” There’s something in his voice that’s shifted. This isn’t the smiling, people-pleasing Nico I’m talking to. This is another side of him.
We’ve never spoken about his mom’s illness or anything before Colorado. He slipped so perfectly into his life here that it never seemed like he needed to. But now I wonder if that isn’t the case. My therapist always says that when we don’t speak our feelings, we end up carrying them—and that shit gets heavy. Of course, easier said than done.
“Is that what you’re always talking about with my dad?” I ask, realizing too late I said my dad, despite all of Mom’s cautions to avoid language that might make Nico feel like he’s not really part of our family.
If Nico picks up on it, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he shrugs. “Sometimes. Mostly it’s normal conversation.”
I glance over at Dad still snoring softly in the middle of the couch.
“What’s normal conversation?” I ask.
“I don’t know. He asks about my day. School. Nuggets’ games. People back in the Philippines.”
Hurt, I let out a sarcastic laugh. “When he talks to me, it’s usually a lecture about my grades, or my lack of interest in joining teams or clubs or anything that would look impressive on a college app.”
“At least it must have been nice having him around when you were growing up,” Nico adds.
“Yeah, sure.” Because what else am I supposed to say to the son Dad left behind? Dad sent money every month, shipped balikbayan boxes for Christmas and birthdays, and visited every summer. But still. I change the subject. “What was your mom like?” I ask, then quickly add, “If you don’t want to talk about her, that’s cool.”
There’s the soft rustle of Nico grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around his shoulders. “When I was younger, she had two jobs. After her first job, she would walk me home from school, then go to her second job. Our way home involved walking along this very busy street. No stop signs or traffic lights. Just a rapid stream of cars, trucks, jeepneys, trikes, motorcycles, people. No matter what time of day. Not like here—” he gestures at the neighborhood out the window “—where everyone’s inside all the time and you can go hours without seeing another person.”
I nod, remembering many busy narrow streets like that from our last trip to the Philippines, full of near-miss accidents. Whenever we needed to cross, I just held Dad’s hand and he’d pull me through without flinching as if performing a magic trick while I was certain I was about to die.
“Anyways, thieves like these crowds. Sometimes, they drive by on a motorcycle, snatch someone’s bag, then zoom off before the person knows what happened. And one day that happened near us—a man on a motorcycle slowed, grabbed this woman’s phone right out of her hand, then started to drive off. But we were only a few feet away, and when he passed, Nanay snatched the phone from him. The thief tried to hold onto it but lost his balance and tipped over. Then he picked up his bike, scrambled back on, and sped away like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Nanay handed the woman her phone and then invited her back to our apartment for merienda.” Nico laughs to himself quietly so as not to wake Dad. “That’s what she was like.”
I laugh quietly, too. “Sounds like she was pretty cool.”
“Very cool,” he says.
He sniffs, then rubs his eyes. It’s too dark to see, but I think he’s crying. As happy as his memories of his mom are, I suppose they’ll always be laced with the pain of his loss. I should comfort him in some way, but I don’t know what to do.
“Thank you for telling me about her,” is all I can think to say. “I’m sorry she’s gone.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You ever wonder why Dad chose your mom over mine?” And there’s a serious, practiced tone to his question that makes me think he’s spent his entire life asking himself this question.
I glance at Dad still passed out between us on the couch.
“To be honest,” I say, “no. Nothing against your mom. I just never have, I guess. I didn’t know anything about her.”
“That makes sense,” he says.
And he sounds like he understands, like he doesn’t hold anything against me. But I burn with shame at my self-centeredness laid bare. And I’ve carried a similar question with me my entire life, only mine never considered anyone else. Even now I can’t help but bring it back to me.
“Why doesn’t he like me?”
“He loves you, Jerry.”
“I didn’t say love. I said like.”
“He likes you.”
“He really doesn’t.”
“It’s true that he’s very strict with you. Much stricter than he is with me.”
“At least I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
Nico goes on. “It’s because he cares. He wants you to succeed.”
I don’t respond. Genuine or not, I don’t need Nico suddenly playing the part of concerned older brother with reassuring lies. I have clearer memories of Dad saying, “I’m disappointed in you,” than I have of him saying, “I love you.”
“Maybe he’d be happier if he stayed in the Philippines,” I say. “With you.”
We’re quiet for a long time after that. It’s as if we’re both allowing space for the seed of this alternate reality to sprout, to grow, to bloom, to wither in the silence between us.
“Maybe,” Nico says. “Maybe not. I think there are people forever trying to find something or someone or somewhere that will make them happy.”
Dad’s breath catches, startling both Nico and me. He coughs a couple times, his eyes blink open, and he glances around to get his bearings. “Hoy, is it snowing yet?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But power’s out.”
He curses in Tagalog then says something to Nico who responds in Tagalog. Then Dad pushes off the couch, stretches, and lumbers away without saying good-night to either of us.
“You can go to sleep, too, Jerry,” Nico says. “I’ll be fine by myself.”
“Nah, I’ve made it this far. I’m gonna see it through.” I stand, stretch. “But I do need to piss.”
I grope my way through the darkness to the first-floor bathroom. Out of habit, I flick the light switch, but it doesn’t do anything. I go ahead and pee in the dark, using the sound of my urine splashing into the water to guide my aim as I think about Nico’s words. As I’m washing my hands, the light comes on, and I’m startled to see myself in the mirror above the sink.
Tired.
Sad.
Tired of being sad.
Tired of being sad about being an unwanted son.
Fuck it, though. For real. I’m probably no better than Dad at figuring out this happiness thing, but I won’t find it if I keep stressing about being a failed version of what he thinks I should be.
I splash cold water on my face and turn off the light.
When I return to the living room, the TV’s back on but playing to an empty room. Nico’s nowhere in sight. Outside, flakes of snow are falling fast and heavy like fat drops of slow-motion rain. I walk over to the sliding glass door and peer outside. Sure enough, there’s Nico, standing in the backyard in the glow of the Christmas lights, arms out, neck craned upward, smiling.
He’s out there barefoot in his T-shirt and pajama pants, so I grab his coat and boots and slide open the door. “Nico,” I say, his name emerging into the cold as a puff of white. “Here.” I toss him his coat and he catches it, then pulls it on, laughing. Then I throw his boots, but they smack onto the ground when he doesn’t even try to catch them.
I go back inside, grateful I can finally sleep. But when I pass the closet, I hesitate. Instead of heading upstairs, I slip on my own boots and coat and go outside.
As soon as I do, a snowball hits me right between the eyes. As Nico cackles, I dive behind the grill, brush the ice from my face, and begin rapidly compiling my arsenal, ready to show no mercy.
We pelt each other with snowballs until our arms ache, until we’re laughing so hard we’re crying, until Dad slides open a second-story window and shouts at us to go to sleep.
“Truce! Truce!” Nico calls after that, hands up.
I launch one final snowball that hits him in the stomach, then meet him in the middle. We shake, our bare hands wet and stinging from the cold. Then he throws his arm around my shoulder and tries to pull me down so I do the same and we fall back together into the snow. So out of breath we can barely laugh anymore, we look up and watch the snow falling from darkness.
“This is amazing,” Nico says.
“Yeah,” I say, “but the best part of a snow day is actually watching the traffic report the next morning when all those suckers who still have to go to work are stuck on I-25.”
He laughs. I laugh.
“Thank you for staying with me,” he says.
“Sure, Kuya,” I say.
I pull him closer.
Effing Nico.
* * *
SEARCHING
By Jasmine Warga
After her father died, one of the very first things Hiba Ahmed did was visit the Middle Eastern Grocery Mart. It wasn’t that she was hungry. She actually had no appetite at all.
It was that she wanted to see if she was still recognized. Known. Not as a culinary tourist, but as someone whose people had made these recipes for years, their hands rinsing rice, quartering lamb, massaging mulukhiyah. Hiba had never really done any of these things. But she knew people in her bloodline had, and she figured that had to mean something.
She held a paltry bag of rice and approached the counter. She recognized the man sitting on the stool, chewing absently on a toothpick. When she’d come here with her father before, this man had spoken to her father. The exchange had been in Arabic, so Hiba hadn’t been able to understand, but her ears recognized warmth and humor, and she knew the men had been friendly with one another. Once her father had put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her up to the counter, and announced in his lilting English, “This is my daughter.”
“No Arabic?” the man had said.
Hiba had shook her head, and felt the judgment come down. The man smiled warmly at her anyway, but they both knew what the answer of no meant.
Now she held the bag of rice and held her breath. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to prove, but she wanted to be recognized. She wanted him to see her and know she was her father’s daughter. Know that she belonged here among the faint smells of cumin and sumac, the sizzle of olive oil on the pan in the back getting ready to prepare to-go sandwiches for the day.
She held her breath. She waited for the man to look up and recognize her. Perhaps accidentally speak to her in Arabic. She would correct him, apologize for her English-only mouth. But then it would be an entryway to talk about her father. To see if he remembered him. He would remember him, she was sure of it.
“Rice? Only rice?”
Hiba’s heart squeezed. She gave the man a long stare. She put the bag of rice on the counter. She pleaded with her eyes for him to say something.
“Rice, yeah?” the man repeated.
“Yes,” Hiba said, her broad southern Ohio accent apparent even in the one-word response.
“Very good.” The man typed quickly at the cash register and held out his hand for payment.
“My father used to bring me here,” Hiba mumbled out.
The man raised his eyebrow. “Here?”
Hiba looked over her shoulder. There was no one behind her waiting. She could stay and talk, if he let her.
“Yes. Here. He was...my father. He died.”
The man hung his head. He said something quick in Arabic, a mumbled prayer. Hiba was familiar with it. She’d heard it in the months that had followed her father’s death, but she still couldn’t quite make her own mouth say it right.
“He was Jordanian.”
“Yes,” the man said. She could tell he was growing impatient.
“I’m Jordanian,” she offered.
“But you don’t speak Arabic?” It was a question that was also a declaration.
Hiba shook her head.
“Your baba didn’t teach you?”
Hiba shook her head again.
“Your mama—?”
“She’s not Arab,” Hiba explained. “She doesn’t speak any Arabic.”
“Ah, yes,” the man said. He pointed at the bag of rice on the counter. “You make the rice for her?”
“Maybe,” Hiba said, grabbed the rice, and left the store.
The Middle Eastern Grocery Mart was about twenty minutes from her home. She crawled into the driver’s seat of her old Honda Civic. Her father had helped her pick out the car. He’d been so excited to teach her to drive. He’d cupped her cheeks in his hands and called her his American Dream. She wasn’t sure what it meant to be someone else’s dream. Especially if that someone was dead.
She leaned back the driver’s seat, hugged the rice to her chest, and cried.
Months passed, and Hiba didn’t return to the Middle Eastern Grocery Mart. Her mother slowly came out of her own grief fog. They were both able to pretend that things were mostly normal. Every once in a while, Hiba would catch her mom crying by the kitchen sink, but those moments became further and further apart. Hiba learned how to leave her mother alone. She went to school. She did her homework. She tried to be an American Dream.
“I want to go visit,” Hiba said in the middle of dinner one night.
“Visit where?”
“Jordan.”
Her mom put down her fork. “We went when you were little. Don’t you remember? To see Jidu and Setti?”
