As Told By Paramours

chapter nineteen

elijah

HAVING A FAMILY DINNER WITH AN ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM is especially awkward when the elephant is the dead mother.

I don't think dinners will ever go back to being the same, which I'm happy about, because 'the same' was dinners with her, and my Dad, Mauve, and I have both (non-verbally) agreed to never forget that.

It's fifteen minutes into this dinner when my father tries his signature questionnaire: "So? How's school?"

I'm not mad. I don't get mad often; I just don't have the energy for it. But the question makes my jaw twitch.

"Fine, thank you. Wrapping up nicely."

"Same as usual," Mauve shrugs, then eats and waits until she's swallowed before speaking again. "My Professor says I'm only getting better and better. He says maybe I can try learning the octobass this year."

"That's great, darling." He turns to me. "How's guitar?"

"It's alright," I say, not to be clippy, but it's all I can think of in response to what he's asking.

"Clarinet?" he asks Mauve.

She looks at me briefly, and says what the two of us are thinking: "It's flute and bass."

His hand pauses mid reach to his lips, pounded yam dropping in his plate. "Right," he says. "And Elijah, you play violin too, right?"

I shake my head and direct my attention to my ogbono soup, silently telling him to drop it.

"But at a time, you did," he says, pointing a finger.

He doesn't know when to stop, and there's that nagging feeling where I know I shouldn't get irritated when someone is innocently asking me a question. But to him, it's like he wants to prove something.

"I don't. I never have," I say.

It wasn't loud or rude, it was quiet, but he jolts as if I've shocked him and there's a silence as he looks between Mauve and I. She's rubbing at her glasses, the way she does when something is bothering her or she feels awkward. I wipe my hands with a paper towel and watch him.

"God," my father says finally. Looks down at the table, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Mauve says first, and I nod.

"I'm sorry that I'm not home much," my dad starts. "And that I don't keep track of your hobbies, or never have. But I want you both to know: I'm proud of you. An indescribable amount. And I'm so proud to have you as my children."

Mauve smiles shakily. "Thanks, Dad."

I smile, too, and it's genuine. "Thank you. We're proud of you, too."

● ● ●

I picked up guitar from a young age because of my Mother.

We'd been sitting in my living room on her day off, and I remember her handing me a small guitar

"Here," my mom said, and positioned my hands on the keys. The second she let go, my hands moved, and the noise that came from the guitar when I strummed was flat and ear-scratching. So she worked on it with me in her free time away from work. Both her and my dad were cops, and my dad always worked longer shifts.

"Play C#," she told me one day, crouching across from me. Her black coils were shaved close to her head; she always preferred it, and said she found long hair annoying. She wasn't very expressive, so getting smiles from her was a gift in itself.

I hummed as I strummed. Her dark eyes had widened for a second, then she asked me to close my eyes and hum the notes, realizing I had absolute pitch. "You're incredible," she told me, then, when I was about 6. "I could count all the phrases you've said on both hands and yet you're perfect at everything else."

The lessons were harder after. I remember once she got so angry with me, she'd threatened to break the guitar she got for my birthday. I can't even bring myself to be angry with the memory. Maybe because of guilt, as if resenting even a small part of her now would somehow make me at fault for her absence.

By 12, I realized I genuinely loved and enjoyed guitar, perhaps the way you'd love someone akin to a parental figure, the way you personify inanimate objects to cope or just to have a friend when you felt like you were alone.

I didn't dislike my father. But our relationship was no more than comfortability, with the level of love you'd have towards a relative like an Aunt or Uncle, one you vaguely remember and visit on rare occasions. And growing up, seeing him really was a rare occasion. I can't name more than one childhood memory with him in it.

Guitar for me was a piece of her, especially after her death. It was a piece of something I longed for, something I didn't think I could ever get.

● ● ●

I turn my phone off and close my blinds, thinking harder than I should.

I'd never admit that I've gotten used to Josie's lopsided smileys that tell me she wants to make sure I don't misinterpret her words, or that I know she's not angry with me regardless of the note's contents. It's endearing. A lot about her is. And a lot about her has become familiar to me. At this point, knowing small facts about her or her day, or how she likes her eggs, is normal.

I twist my phone in my hands, pulling my weight so my head is hanging off the end of my bed.

I'd gotten Josie's number as another way to contact her, and I've been sitting with her for the past fifteen minutes, calming my nerves.

I don't know why I'm nervous to text her back. I was never nervous to write her notes.

5:37pm JOSIE:

hiya :)

7:48pm ELIJAH:

Hey.

I send an additional: How are you?

Give me a sec, her text reads, and I wait for another.

Instead, a voice note pops up.