J.T. Warren - Remains

“Really?” I could tell he wanted me to tell him more. After a minute or two when I didn’t say anything, he asked “What takes you out of town?”

“I guess I’ll book a plane, really. It’d be really far for a bus,” I said and on the other end he breathed out a few times quickly. I guess it was a laugh.

“Clever,” he said, and I didn’t know what he meant, “but what I was asking about, Mike, is what are you going out of town to do? Where are you going?”

“Umm—I guess I’m going out of town to visit my parents.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I said, “Umm—my—my mom really wants me to come home for Thanksgiving.”

“Hmmm.”

I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “Yeah. So, umm—I guess I’m going to have to cancel our-our appointment for then,”

“I hate to hear that you won’t make it, but that’s fine. When can I reschedule you for?” I heard him rummaging around on his desk. I closed my eyes and thought about what that desk looked like. The books stacked on the corners at odd angles, sheets of paper hanging out of them with his chicken-scratch handwriting all over them. I saw his nameplate dirty and scratched and felt the urge to ask him to clean it. I thought about his old computer, and the strange ways the keys sounded.

“I—see, that’s the thing, I don’t really know,” I said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah. Umm—I just—I don’t know when I’ll be back. It’s sort of—sort of sudden, really.”

“Mike, I’ll be honest,” he said, which almost always meant he was about to lecture me, “I’m not crazy about you leaving and not rescheduling. Do you understand that I might have some concerns about that?”

“Well, I guess-I guess yeah. I can see where you might not like that.”

“But if you legitimately don’t know when you’re coming back, then you don’t know. We just have to work with that. Do you have an idea of when you’re leaving?”

“I don’t know. Today, maybe. I think I need to leave today.”

“Okay,” he said, “could I maybe see you today before you leave?”

I knew he was going to do that. I heard him exhale on the other end of the line. “I need to try to leave within an hour or so.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. I could hear him rummaging around on his desk again. “All right. Can I ask you how you feel about going on this trip?”

“I dunno, I just have to go.”

“Well,” he said, exhaling real deep into the receiver, “I hope you have a good trip, Mike. Try to give me a call when you get back in so that we can talk some.”

“Okay,” I said, and hung up. My hands were shaking. I felt hot and horrible to tell him that I didn’t want to see him today. I was letting him down. I wondered if he’d ever like me again. I couldn’t have told my mother that. I couldn’t ever tell my mother that.

The phone rang. It was my sister, Sarah. I knew it was before I even picked up the phone. When I did, I could tell she was smoking.

“Michael, why aren’t you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“Hi, Sarah,” I said.

“Why aren’t you? You know it’ll kill mom if you’re away again. She wanted you there last year really bad, and—.”

“I didn’t mean to be gone, it just—.”

“Kinda happened, I know. Things always kinda happen with you and everyone else has to pick up the slack. It’d be nice if just once, just once you considered what I go through with them—.”

“I already told Dad that I can make it this year. I’m starting to pack—.”

“Good, because I won’t sit there and stare at them for twelve hours again. They hate me and they hate Diane worse. You know what dad thinks of her.”

I did. I don’t recall the words Dirty and Jew being put together that often before ever. My father had gone into a cursing fit the likes of which we’d only seen once before. To my father, the only thing worse than finding out his youngest daughter was a lesbian, was finding out that she had been involved with a Jewish girl for five years. I’d been there for that argument, and seen him do the math in his head.

What he was figuring out was that Diane and Sarah had met while Sarah was at college. To my father, that meant that they’d been living in what he would call sin while he was giving Sarah money for rent and groceries. To him, that meant Diane was taking advantage of him. I guess to someone raised with the idea that all Jewish people are money grubbing and doomed to hell, this was unfathomable: His money going to provide a love nest for two lesbians, one of which was his baby girl, the other, Jewish. He went out into the garage after speaking his peace and stayed out there until all of us had gone to bed that night. That had been the Thanksgiving four years previous.

He’d stayed in that garage until Sarah and I came in to say goodbye to him. He didn’t turn around, merely waved his hand with his back to us. She and I had looked at each other, and I don’t ever remember seeing her in so much pain.

“So, when will you be there?” Sarah asked.

“I guess today. I’m starting to pack, now. Is Diane coming?”

“Don’t be stupid, Michael.” She was the only person who ever called me Michael. Not even Diane did.

“When will you be in?”

“Tomorrow, early. You’d better be there.”

I promised her I would.

My nose started to bleed. In the bathroom I ran a cotton ball under some water in the sink, and jammed it in my nose. What had always amazed me is that the next year, she went back. Her devotion to mom and dad was so strong that even they openly disliked her being a lesbian, and hated Diane so much they never talked about her, Sarah went home every year for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I asked her every year what things were like at the McPherson’s. She said that they were always nice, and that their lawn looked good. She said “immaculate” though. I guess that’s a college word. I turned around to go back to packing.

Instead of packing, though, I decided to call Susan, since I was already there near the phone. I just wanted to get it over with, really. I pulled the cotton ball out of my nose, looking at the dark red blood smeared on it. Something very far up in my nose felt hard and jagged. I threw the cotton ball into the toilet, and walked to the living room. I picked up the phone and dialed her number, but it was busy. I sat down on my couch and dialed again. It was still busy. I turned on the television and watched part of a game show, then I dialed again. It was still busy. I set the phone down next to me and began to wonder why she hated me all of a sudden.

Then the phone rang and I answered it. Susan asked, “Mike?”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Hi. Listen, I’m sorry I was on the other line. I see where you called a few times. How are you today?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, wondering why she hated me.

“Okay. You don’t sound fine, though. You sound hurt.”

“No,” I say.

“Okay. I know you’re not telling me what’s going on right now, but I can’t make you, so I’ll just let it go until you want to talk. Did you take your medication today?” she asked, and I closed my eyes. I knew I had forgotten something.

“I can tell from you not saying anything that you didn’t. How about you go take that now?”

“It’ll screw up the schedule because it’s late,” I said.

“Mike, remember what Dr. Bledsoe said. Better it be late, and in you, then not in you at all.”

I stood up and walked to the cabinet. I took down the bottle of pills. In my head, for some reason, the third movement of Carmina kept playing. It felt like something important was about to happen, although I couldn’t tell you what. I still couldn’t, if you asked me to. I shook the bottle, listening to the warning rattle of the pills inside. I set the bottle down on the counter.