the things we do in the dark (+18)

14

Something's wrong.

Fireworks pop and splatter in the sky. Their vibrancy paints the walls of Jonah's bedroom red and blue before darkness befalls the room again. A moment of silence, then another firework launches into the air. The deafening sound of this explosion startles Iverem awake. And immediately, she knows something is wrong.

Her head is pounding. Her neck is killing her, and god, her whole body aches. Shit, she's never going to drink again. And what's that smell? She sniffs herself but can't quite pinpoint the familiar scent.

In Jonah's bathroom, she attempts to fix her curls. The summer humidity has made her hair a frizzy mess. Since her afro won't smooth down, she foregoes the cowboy hat and puts her hair into pigtails. Even worse than her hair is her makeup. Her eyeliner is smudged around her eyes, giving her a rocking smoky eye. Evanescence-era Iverem would be proud. Feeling all nostalgic and whatnot, she decides to embrace the hangover look.

She finds a painkiller underneath Jonah's sink. Already feeling better, she convinces herself, even though her body feels not like her own. Now, how the fuck do I get out here without anybody noticing?

Iverem can hear everyone on the deck laughing, their voices wildly animated. Her presence will surely ruin the whole mood of the evening. Iverem knows she can't save face in front of Jonah's family and friends. She can't do anything right these days, so why even bother? She'll just send Jonah a message later telling him she left.

Downstairs, the main floor is empty. Good, almost out of here.

She decides to wait for her Uber out on the porch. Wrong idea! Devon and August are already occupying most of the foyer. At the sight of them, Iverem hastily retreats into the living room.

"You feeling better?" Devon says, ruining her escape plan.

August ducks his head down to inhale his cigarette. He avoids meeting Iverem's gaze. His abrupt disregard for her causes a stupid stabbing pain to radiate in her chest. Damn it, I can't deal with this shit right now.

"No, I don't feel so good," she says. "I'm gonna head home."

Devon smiles. Her teeth look like stars sparkling in the night. "I hope you feel better."

"Thank you," Iverem says, attempting a smile of her own.

The silence is so suffocating that it almost materializes.

"You and Jonah doing better now?" Devon says. Iverem's head swivels from the road to Devon, searching for where she found the audacity to ask such a question. August also seems to be suddenly interested in their conversation. "Sorry. I just meant that Jonah mentioned the engagement was off, and I was wondering if you guys... Nevermind! I have no idea what I'm talking about; I'm drunk."

Jonah is talking about me behind my back, Iverem thinks. What has he been telling everyone?

Thankfully, August puts them both out of their misery. He throws his cigarette onto Jonah's lawn and says: "I'm heading to the backyard."

As Devon follows after him, she says: "We should catch up soon."

Iverem spends the whole ride back to her apartment trying her hardest not to think about August, and her best to come up with an adequate apology for Jonah for suddenly leaving his party. Nowadays, it seems that all she does is apologize to Jonah. She's basically the world's shittiest girlfriend. With more resolve this time, she tells herself nothing will ever happen between her and August again. She already has enough to atone for in this lifetime.

After she takes off her shoes, in dire need of a snack, she journey's into the kitchen. Turning the kitchen light on, Iverem notices her mother sitting on the living room sofa in deep thought. Her hair is wrapped for the night, and she wears a satin lavender pyjama set. Iverem has always been amazed at how effortlessly beautiful her mother made everything she wore. She expected the Alzheimer's diagnosis to diminish that vibrancy within her, but it seemed only to intensify her mother's ingenuity – and her vainness.

"Sitting in the dark, staring into nothingness, is definitely not creepy," she says, layering her words with a sarcastic tone.

"Come sit with me," her mother says.

Great, she's feeling sentimental. These moments were becoming more frequent since her mother moved in with her. Iverem warms up some leftover curry before she joins her mother on the couch, taking her time because she knows this conversation will last at least an hour.

Her smile crinkles the corner of her eyes. "I've been thinking about that little box in the Bronx we used to live in."

"Who could hardly forget about the bed bugs, roaches, and neighbourhood fights at the crack of dawn? That shit stays with you forever."

Her mother kisses her teeth. "Iverem, you loved that neighbourhood. You were always down at the bodega with your friends."

Iverem shrugs. "I don't know. It just wasn't the same after Dad passed away."

Iverem's father was a librarian but a man of few words. A Nigerian immigrant who didn't know how to speak English well but still loved Tolstoy novels. He showed Iverem the beauty of literature and writing. He also gifted Iverem her first journal. It was one of the few gifts that her father ever gave her. It was the same journal she lost in Colorado and could never find when she returned to look for it underneath the gazebo.

"Remember when he took you to your first African Market and got you fitted for a Buba?"

Iverem smiles at the memory. "I think I still have it in my closet."

"Go put it on!" her mother says.

"Mom, it barely fits."

"Then you better make my grandbaby wear it," she says, pointing her finger at Iverem. "And don't forget to send me the photos."

Iverem laughs, but the feeling of this joy is hollow. "Do you ever think about how different life would be if he didn't pass away?"

When she was twelve, Iverem never realized how much borrowed time she had with her father. Iverem now wonders how much time she has with her mother before this disease gets the best of her. Maybe now is the time to reconcile with her mother, for them to make amends for their past transgressions against each other.

"I think about it all the time," her mother says. "I think about him all the time."