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Dear Kenzo, you truly fucked up the most incredible years of my life. And I will make you suffer even more by remembering the bad moments.
I remember the sweet lines you used to say to me as your voice echoed through my ears while naked flesh upon flesh. The heat of your tone makes me quiver even before I hit the climax of our story.
You begged me to remember only the good echoes. Like any lousy baggage attached to you, it will take you down indefinitely.
I wonder if the goosebumps on my arm in the morning felt your absence by my bedside. Now I wonder what those were? Was it the time you were running late because you got distracted with your activities of self-righteous and hippie credibility?
Or maybe it was the moments you want to forget, the doubts we can’t cover up. I will tell you my side of the story if you pretend yours was the same.
Kenzo, through all our heartbreaks, again and again. My favorite memories weren’t making up with you and finally getting to be welcomed back in your rugged arms. I finally found myself in the gap between needing you and wanting you. I finally realized I loved myself more than I could love you for hurting me the way you did.
“Will that be all, miss?” I sign the check the waiter holds in his hand.
“Yes, I’m finished,” I tell the waiter.
I came back to my first home to find closure to a family I never knew and didn’t want me to belong to. I have to do this; I doubt you would support my decision, but I don’t ask you for your advice anymore. You live your life, and I live mine.
Goodbye, Enzo.
I don’t know her phone number, so I don’t dial it. But I know she might still live in my grandfather’s house. He had it paid off before I was born. You could say I came here for answers, a journey of self-discovery.
My hand rolls into a fist as I knock on the door, and my mother appears, and I swear it seems like twenty years instead of ten.
“Phoebe.” Nice to know she still recognizes her daughter.
My mother’s mouth is gaped open; she stands between the screen door and the big door that gets jammed when it rains.
“Mom.” Her eyes look gray instead of bright blue now.
A little person comes to see who is at the door, a little boy, maybe ten. Strange, though, because he looks like me and not her. Which means…
“Phoebe.” My father’s voice isn’t familiar. I drag my eyes up to his face, and he looks the same as when I was a kid. I stare at them, each of their faces. My mom has her hand on her son’s shoulder, with a ring on her finger.
“So it was just me then, huh?” I take a step back, down the few porch steps. I stop when I have enough space to breathe. “It makes sense; I guess I always was the problem.”
“Phoebe, that’s not true.” It’s my dad who tries to get to me first. But I never knew this man to believe a word he says.
“What are you doing here?” I laugh because there is no way. “How did this even happen? You hated each other all my life, except when you were fucking. Now you have a family together, kids, and fuck marriage. You two? This is a fucking joke, right?” I don’t know why I am shocked, why I feel like crying, and why my life is a lie. But all those emotions are racing through my head right now.
“We’ve been trying to contact you for years, Phoebe.” I swear, this version of my mother isn’t one I have ever thought I would see. I don’t like it one bit. “We are so glad you decided to come back home.”
“You have a son now.” I point to the kid; his almond eyes match mine like we are related, but I know that isn’t possible. I belong to no one, and no one belongs to me.
“Actually, two, we have two sons. You have two brothers, Phoebe.” My mom is happy to see me; I don’t know why she is. We weren’t close, period.
I was a daughter she wasforcedto take care of and couldn’t wait to get rid of. But now she has two more male versions of me. My mother loves them in ways I notice now she never loved me.
“Well, that’s fucking priceless, isn’t it?” I turn my back on them as I laugh and start to walk away.
“Why did you come back?” Mom shouts it, and I hurry back to the center of the lawn.
“To find him!” I point at my father, who flinches a little at his daughter’s attention. “I came back because I had questions about him. Where he was born, what his family was like? I fucking wanted to know a part of me that always seemed lost. I came here to ask where he was, how I could find him. But apparently, I have new questions. Like why the fuck does he love your sons more than he ever gave a damn about his daughter?” God, I promised myself I wouldn’t get emotional, but this is a twist I didn’t see coming. I usually predicate my mom’s behavior, and being mature and responsible was never her pattern.
My mom ushers the little boy back into the house.
“Why don’t you come inside, Phoebe? We can talk inside.” She has the decency not to look around and see if the neighbors are watching.
“I can’t go back into that house. We do it out here if you want to talk to me.” I fold my arms because I don’t think I need to hear anything else.
