Say You'll Remember Me(26)

I looked back and forth between them. “Zanzibar?”

Grandma turned off the burner. “You don’t want to know.”

I looked at my brother. “Is it your consequences consequencing?” I asked, sucking air through my teeth.

“Shut up,” Tristan said. “So which room am I supposed to be in, then?”

Grandma plated eggs. “Well, there’s one left upstairs. You’ll have to share a bathroom with the boys. Oh, the game room is open in the basement—”

He gasped. “Yaaaaas. I want the game room.”

I gave him a look. “That’s a community space.”

“So? She just said I could have it.”

“Grandma!”

“It’s empty, Sam. It’s not doing anything for anyone,” Grandma said.

The space was a large windowless room in the bowels of the basement where Grandma used to play Dungeons & Dragons back in the day. She’d painted the walls in the eighties with an epic orange dragon fresco that we all loved. To be fair we hadn’t used the game room in forever, but the wine cellar was in there.

“How are we supposed to get wine bottles if he’s living there?” I asked.

“You can ask me and if I want to, I just might let you have one,” he said, smirking.

I looked at Grandma and she shrugged.

I rolled my eyes.

Grandma served the boys eggs.

Jeneva came around the corner in her robe. She stopped when she saw our brother. “You’re here.”

“You’re so observant,” he quipped.

“I’m surprised you have the balls to show your face in this house again after Easter,” she said.

“Whatever.” He shoveled eggs in his mouth.

I raised an eyebrow. “What happened at Easter?”

“He programmed Alexa to play ‘Zanzibar’ by Billy Joel every time someone said his name,” she said, grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet. “It took a week to figure out why it was doing it. We’re all traumatized.”

“That’ll teach you to talk shit about me when I’m not in the room,” he said, smiling sweetly. Then he looked at me. “You can have my old apartment I guess, but I want my bed back.”

“Fine. Good. Keeps me from having to call a hazmat team to come get it.”

Mom’s voice came sharply from down the hall. “I have work!”

“No, the office is closed today,” Dad said, calmly.

“It’s not! It’s Monday! Let go of me!”

I knew Dad was hugging her, trying to settle her, and she was struggling to break free. I knew because this back-and-forth happened every single morning since I got here.

Mom couldn’t remember that she didn’t work anymore. She just knew that it was the morning and she went to work in the morning. The truth confused her, so Dad always told her the same thing.

“It’s Presidents’ Day,” Dad said, from the other room.

It wasn’t. It was Groundhog Day. Not really, but basically.

There was some undistinguishable muttering, the rise of Mom’s voice asking a question, Dad reassuring her that there was no job to go to, Mom relaxing, him letting her go—then my parents came into the kitchen for breakfast. “Good morning,” Dad sang.

Then Mom saw Tristan. Her whole expression changed. “Tristan!”

“Hi, Mommy!” He jumped off his stool and hugged her and I watched her face over his shoulder, lit and happy.

Color in a gray world.

The lump bolted to my throat and I had to look at the collection of green blown glass on the windowsill over the sink to keep from sobbing.

I didn’t care that she remembered him. I was glad she did. I cared that she didn’t remember me.

What about me made me less permanent? Why did I fade to gray when everyone else was bright?

Dad came up behind me and gave my shoulders a squeeze like he knew what I was feeling. Maybe he did.

“So I was thinking we could all have a discussion about house rules,” Dad said, helping Mom onto the stool next to me.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jeneva said, pouring herself a coffee. “We need to figure out a cleaning situation. Especially now,” she said, eyeing our brother. “We need to delegate meals too,” Jeneva said. “Groceries, all that stuff. Grandma can’t be doing all the cooking.”

“I don’t cook,” Tristan said.

“Yeah, we know, you’re useless,” Jeneva said. “You can buy dinner then. And not crap either. I’m not eating pizza twice a week because you suck.”

He feigned being offended and Jeneva batted her eyes at him.

“So no fast food?” Tristan asked.

“No.”

“What about El Pollo Loco?” he said, pursing his lips like he knew he had her.

“I could be agreeable to El Pollo Loco,” she said.

“Same,” Dad said.

“Me too,” I said reluctantly. “I like their beans.”

Grandma bobbed her head. “I’m fine with their food. Braden, Holden, do you like El Pollo Loco?”

My nephews nodded.

Mom did not voice an opinion and nobody asked her for one. Now she was gray.

“Mom? What do you think of El Pollo Loco?” I asked.