Thomas and Niko in the City of Trees

Chapter 19 - Part 2

I watch him stand up, then back away. He has the saddest look on his face. It's a look that tells me he knows exactly what he's giving up. Suddenly, he reaches over me and grabs his laptop from the desk. I'm just kind of hunkered there in the chair, wondering what the hell he could possibly be up to. He sits cross-legged in the middle of his bed with the computer in his lap. He's just typing away, keeping to himself like I've dropped off the earth or something.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm writing a contract."

"What for?"

"For us."

"What does it say?"

He doesn't answer. He spends another minute or two just hammering away, and by the end of it, I'm getting a little annoyed. Then he hands me his laptop.

The contract says: "I, Thomas Qingyu Chu, hereby promise to share a place of residence with Nikola Ivan Savic for the entire duration of the Summer of 2020." He's even left two empty lines below where we can sign it.

I look up at him. "I like this."

"Thought you would."

"You're serious?"

"Fuck, dude, how could I make it any more serious? Check it for errors. I can't have you backing out on some bullshit technicality."

I laugh, give it a once-over, then send it out to the printer in the hall. As I step back into his room with the paper, I say, "How's it going to work?"

"We'll get an apartment."

"In Boise, or up there?"

He shrugs. "We'll figure it out. I promise."

You'd better believe we both sign that shit. Then we print out a second copy and sign that one too, so we each have our own. I fold mine and put it into my wallet for safekeeping.

I start losing him not long after. He manages to drag himself off the bed one more time to give me a hug. He hangs on for a little while. It's clear he's not quite ready to let me go. But he does anyway, and I take a slow, steady walk home, feeling pretty much on top of the world.

What can I say about the next few days? They come and go. I work, and I work out. I try to expand my mind by reading books. The sun blazes outside my window and everything's fine. My mom's being touchy as hell, but what else is new? She's just trying her best in this crazy world.

I've told you before that Thomas's mom died in the month of August. It happened on the 8th. Each year on that date, his family drops everything to mourn her death. I've heard all of kinds of opinions about what a tradition like that is supposed to look like. A lot of people seem to have the idea that celebrating someone's life is better than continuing to be sad. Well, the Chu family doesn't see it that way. It's a pretty somber affair. Anyway, I've known all summer that I would be in Canada by the time the date rolled around. I had already made peace with the idea of not being included this year. So you can imagine my surprise when, on Saturday at noon, Thomas invites me over the next day to do the whole thing one more time around.

"It's not the 8th," I reply. "It's not even August yet."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know."

"She would have wanted you there."

"Okay."

He tells me I can show up whenever I want. He says they're going to start things around ten in the morning. I figure it's best to give them some time to themselves, so I don't leave for their house until around ten-thirty.

I walk in on one of those scenes where you can immediately feel the weight of it all. The air is thick with grief. Alfred's stuffed himself into the corner of the couch. His eyes are red. Thomas is sitting upright on the middle cushion with his hands folded, looking solemnly at the floor. Their dad stands with his back to me, a hand against the wall for support. Everyone seems lost in thought. But slowly, they all turn to look at me. Thomas's dad motions for me to go over to the little area they have set up. It's just a card table with a large photo of her in the middle, propped in a wooden frame, surrounded by flowers picked from the yard. She planted the bulbs of some of them herself, not all that long ago. Four large red candles are lined up among the flowers. Three of them are lit. I grab up the matchbox, take one out, strike it, then light the last candle. I pause for a minute or two and look at the photograph. She's alone in it. It's an impromptu one they had done in a studio during a family shoot. Her eyes and her smile are so bright and healthy and full of life that for a second, it feels impossible that she's gone. "Thank you," I whisper to the photo.

This next part might seem a little weird, but you have to remember that I've done this for a few years now. I bow for a few seconds to show my respect. Then I say out loud, "When I first met you, I was a very small, very scared little kid. I don't think I even knew how scared of the world I was. But you knew." I clear my throat. "You held me in your arms once, like I was one of your own sons. It only happened one time, but I still remember. We were watching an old movie at night. I was really nervous as I approached you and looked up into your caring eyes. When I reached for you, you didn't even hesitate. You helped me onto your lap just like I had seen you do with Thomas and Alfred many times. You wrapped your arms around me and held me. I was seven years old. Maybe I was getting too big for that kind of thing, but I just wanted to know what it felt like." Slowly, I run my fingers along the edge of the frame. "Anyway, I'll never forget." I bow again. And then I completely lose it. I have to brace myself against the table to stay on my feet, I'm crying so hard. Then I feel someone's big arms surround me.

"It's all right," Thomas whispers in my ear. "It's okay."

I feel like I could sink so deep into his embrace, I might just disappear forever. I look at her face one more time. She looks so young in the photo—younger than I ever remember her being—and so much like him. I thank her one more time, just in my head this time. It's because of her that his arms surround me now.

After lunch, Thomas and Alfred and I are lying in the shade under the oak tree on the front lawn.

"It feels different every year," Thomas is saying. "Not any less sad. Just different."

"That's true," I say.

We're mostly just going on about nothing. Alfred stays quiet the whole time. Finally, Thomas punches him in the arm. "What's up, Freddie?"

"Not much," says Alfred.

Thomas sighs into the hot, dry breeze. "I can't wait to fucking get out of here."

I don't say anything back, but I swear to god I was just thinking the same thing.

"Don't rub it in," Alfred says.

"You're not ready to leave," says Thomas. "You're too young to feel the way we feel about it."

"Fuck you. I want to get out of here, too. When can I come visit?"

"Never," says Thomas.

Alfred scoffs. "You think I don't know anything about the world."

"Yeah? Tell me what the fuck you know about the world."

I kid you not: Alfred sits up, looks back and forth between us and says, "Probably more than you want me to know."

I look at Thomas. He glances at his little brother and pauses for a second, casting a strange, blank look out at the street. Then he says slowly, "You don't know the half of it, Freddie."

"Thought so." And then, without another word, Alfred gets up off the grass and walks into the house.

I'm still looking at Thomas. "What the fuck just happened?"

"I'm not too sure." He's just drumming his fingers on his chest. "But if he knows about us, he'll never tell. That's just not his way."

Anyway, it's not like there's anything we can do about it now, so we just keep lying out there on our backs, staring up into the green glow of that tree. Suddenly—and don't ask me how—I'm not worried about a thing. Not one thing. And today could be any other summer day, from any other year of our lives.