The Centipede is breathing fire. “Stop it, Mom. Stop it.”
“He was supposed to protect you.”
“I said stop it.”
“Nomi, do you know why your Auntie Melanda really moved? Do you?”
No, Mary Kay. Don’t go there. She thinks Melanda loves her deep down and kids need that and do I barge in? Am I allowed? You cluck. “Well, I’m done protecting your rock ’n’ roll father who never did anything wrong and your perfect little miss feminist aunt.”
No, Mary Kay. They’re gone. You know you should let them rest in peace but you feel so guilty about missing what happened with Seamus and you want her to feel sorry for you. I know this game, I do.
“Well,” you say. “At some point, we all learn that our parents are flawed. Your auntie Melanda was having an affair with your father, okay? Your father was sleeping with my best friend. So before you go putting them both on pedestals… well, that’s what your beloved father and your beloved aunt did to me.”
She says nothing. You say nothing. You know you made a mistake and you are better than this, smarter than this, and I know that being a mother is the hardest job in the world—RIP Love quit too—but the Meerkat didn’t need that right now and you’re about to apologize—I see it your eyes—but she throws a book at you. A Murakami and you swerve and the book hits the wall and she screams. “I am the child, Mom. Me.”
You make earmuffs again and my mother did that too when she was in the weeds, when she got home from work and I was on the floor watching TV and I would look up and say hi and she would wave, no eye contact, I’m beat, Joe. I’m beat.
I know where you are. I see you in your mind, kicking yourself. You never ripped up Columbine and dragged her to a therapist and you made nice to Seamus and this is why you cry. The guilt. You want the Meerkat to take care of you and she wants you to take care of her and you’re crying, she’s crying, and you both cry like sharks inside of sharks, deprived of fresh air, freedom. You put your hands on Nomi’s shoulders and she leans her head into yours and your foreheads are touching. “Nomi, honey, don’t worry. I’m not mad at you.”
That was the wrong thing to say and I know it and Nomi knows it and she grabs your shoulders and my floors are hardwood. Shiny. You twist like spaghetti and she hurls you at the wall and your foot slips—socks—and I’m too slow. I’m too late. You tumble down the stairs and the Meerkat screams and I freeze up inside, outside.
I picture the police report that’s coming.
Murder Weapon: Socks.
No. There is no murder and you are. Not. Dead. Time is slow and fast and fast and slow and Nomi is still screaming and of course she is screaming. She came home to find her father dead on the floor and now her mother is out cold—Are you dead? You can’t be dead—and Nomi shrieks—Mommy!—and it’s unnatural for a child to see one parent out cold on the floor, let alone two. Your body is in our basement—no, you’re not a body, you’re a woman, my woman, and I failed to protect you and my heart is in flames and you’re the love of my life and you’re the love of our life and Nomi clamps her hands on the banisters. She’s on her way down the stairs but every step is ten miles long and why are there so many fucking steps?
She stops on the second-to-last step. “She’s not moving.”
I want to rip Nomi’s heart out of her chest—this is too much for her, it is—and I want to rip mine out too—this is too much for me, it is.
She takes one step closer and stands over you. She’s afraid to touch you. Afraid to feel your hand for a pulse. “Omigod,” she says, and she is wailing and I know that kind of warbling sound. She thinks she killed you. She thinks the pain is going to kill her and she thinks there is less love for her in this world than there was forty seconds ago.
I lean over your body and hold your wrist in my hand. Your heart is beating.
“Nomi,” I say. “She’s alive.”
I take a deep breath, an end-of-the-book kind of breath, the last-book-the-author-wrote-before-she-died kind of breath. “I’m calling 911.”
Nomi nods. But she can’t speak. Not right now. She’s a Meerkat again, trembling and scared. The operator picks up and asks me about my emergency and Nomi screams—I don’t think she’s breathing anymore!—and the operator is sending an ambulance and they will save you, Mary Kay. They have to save you. Not just for me, not just for you, but for Nomi.
She thinks this is her fault and you have to survive so that you can wake up and tell her what she needs to hear, that this is not her fault. You try to love. You try to be good. But ultimately, you wear socks on hardwood floors and Ivan was right. We deserve better, all three of us. Your lips move and Nomi’s desperation transforms into hope and she feels the pulse on your wrist and looks up at me. “She’s alive.”
I stay on the phone—I am the adult—and I give my address—our address—and I follow their orders—don’t move her—and I say all the right things to your daughter—It’s okay, Nomi, she’s gonna be okay—and I hold your hand and whisper all the right things to you as well. You are lost at sea—See the boats go sailing—and my voice is your lighthouse. But I can’t say everything I want to say and I can’t give you my full, undivided attention. Your Meerkat is too close.
It’s not what Nomi said—She’s alive—it’s what she didn’t say—Thank God she’s alive—and was she… did she want you to be gone? Once I saw her push Luscious off an end table. He landed on his feet but you…
I know, Mary Kay. This is no time for doubts. When you wake up—and you will wake up—it’s gonna be you and me against the world. I promise. Your eyelids flutter, I think, I hope—I wish we were alone—and I stroke your hair and say it all out loud. “I love you, Mary Kay. You fell, I know, but now you’re gonna get better. I’m gonna take care of you every day, I promise. You got me, you’re my love. I’m here.”
The Meerkat is a Centipede. Quiet.
Epilogue
I left America. I had to. How much tragedy can a person bear? Okay, so I didn’t cross the border, but my new home feels like another country. I live in Florida now, smack dab in the center, close to the Kingdom, yeah, but I’m not close as in Closer. I can pretend it doesn’t exist. I am alone. Safe. And I get it now. I’m better off on the wrong side of the tracks. You were special, Mary Kay. You saw something in me. But in the end, you turned out to be like my past coastal elite loves, too tangled up in your blue roots to pave a new road with me. No more hackneyed American dreams of a love that conquers all for this Florida man.
The shop is closed, as they say, and I turn on the lights in the Empathy Bordello. It’s too dark and it’s too bright and I’m trying to move on. Last night I watched a documentary about RIP Sam Cooke—he gets me—and I wanted to know more about his music but it was mostly just speculation about his murder, as if that’s all that matters. I am so sick of this obsession with death, Mary Kay. What about what we do with our lives? Licious meows—his brothers are back on Bainbridge—and you were right. He is the best cat, a baffled king on a perpetual victory march, as if he always just composed “Hallelujah” and if you were here, you would say that every suffix needs a prefix and I miss you, Mary Kay.