Sometimes I wonder if my parents like me. I know the laws of nature and genetic self-perpetuation demand that they love me, but it has never been clear that I am integral to their lives. They’ve had each other since Mom literally ran into Dad on the steps of the Harvard Law library however many years ago when Dad was adding a JD to his PhD and Mom was starting her first year of law school. Dad wants to be a Supreme Court Justice, that’s why they moved to D.C., so he could clerk and then work at the Justice Department, and eventually the White House, getting to know the people he needs to know to be the next big thing. It’s why Mom has always worked in corporate America, because someone must pay the bills—and then some. I don’t know that he’ll ever make the Court now, the politics have changed considerably and he’s not getting any younger, but also there’s me and my baggage. In his most frustrated moments my boyfriend says I think of myself too much. I don’t disagree. I tell him that’s what happens when you date a younger woman and he is quiet. He says he doesn’t get me, that I’m a mystery. Because I don’t completely get me, I say. This current me is a young wannabe photojournalist trying to start a career in a world inhospitable to photojournalists, the kind of woman who has made certain choices in support of my ambition without fully understanding the why behind my ambition, who is too proud to ask my parents for money, but not too proud to stay on their insurance or to cohabitate, temporarily, with a man ten years older because I contribute in my own way even if he pays the rent—and besides Dad is ten years older than Mom. I know Mom disapproves because she doesn’t ask about my personal life. Everything about me now doesn’t fit her image of the strong woman. She has never relied on anyone to support her existence.
My life was supposed to be very different. Niru and I were supposed to go to Harvard together. He was supposed to become a doctor, the cool kind—a trauma surgeon who saves lives in difficult places. I was supposed to become a lawyer, the cool kind like Amal Clooney, who prevents genocides while wearing Louboutins. We were supposed to live in an apartment in New York, then a row house in Dupont Circle, and settle in Foxhall or Kalorama with our beautiful biracial children, an older girl and younger boy. We would name them Nigerian names and use our one car to take them skiing in Vermont. But then I kissed him and that loosely woven fantasy unraveled. Most of life since has been a mystery to me.
Mom and Dad eat take-out salads in the kitchen. Dad stands at the island counter in dad jeans and a T-shirt while Mom sits on the floor, her back against the fridge, legs stretched out in front of her, balancing a plastic plate on her lap. The biodegradable take-out bowl and two tall plastic cups of lemonade with mint leaves bunched inside rest on the countertop. Mom pushes kale leaves around her plate and watches the brown tail of balsamic dressing slide around the blue plastic. She spears a cherry tomato on her fork and brings it to her lips. Can you believe we’re leaving, Dad says to no one in particular, but he looks at me. We’re really moving on. Eat something Meredith, Mom says from the floor. You’ve been here how many days and I don’t think I’ve seen you put food in your mouth once, I mean you can get something else if you’re not interested. I use two black plastic forks to dish kale and chicken onto my plate. Dad squints because he can’t see faces if he’s not wearing his glasses. This was such the perfect place, he says. I remember when we first saw it, your mom, Texan that she is, thought it was way too small. Would have been too if we’d had more kids, thank God we didn’t, says Mom. I guess I’m all you ever needed, I say. All we could handle, Mom says. Mom, I say. She sets her plate down and groans as she pushes herself into a standing position. Sweetie, she says, I’m just joking, do you want some lemonade? Now that we don’t live together, she’s much more affectionate than she used to be. Sweetie is a new thing. She pushes Dad’s lemonade and a red plastic cup across the counter toward me. I’m going to miss this kitchen, she says, so much life has happened in this kitchen. For a second I think she’s going to cry, but she doesn’t. We’ve really got to get packing, she says before she leaves the room.
The balsamic dressing stings my lips. I slice into the chicken and watch its flesh separate around the plastic knife, releasing warm oils and a sweet smell that should be enticing, but my stomach is tight.
Niru and I spent the morning after he came out to me in this kitchen. We wore winter coats and wrapped ourselves in blankets huddling together against the gas oven because the blizzard knocked out the power and this was the only way to get some heat. It felt like the beginning of the end and the zombies might throw themselves against the glass-paned kitchen door at any moment. I asked, does it feel real? He said, I feel numb, I feel scared. So many people are gay Niru, it’s not that big a deal, I said. That’s just a dumb thing to say, nobody is watching you Meredith, nobody. Everybody is watching me. Then he laughed. I had to laugh too even if I hated him a little bit. Laughing made us warmer.
Now that we’re leaving D.C. you’ll visit us more? Dad asks. He sighs as if there is more to say that he doesn’t know how to say. You know we’re still your parents, he says, some things just don’t change. Then he turns and follows Mom.
But some things do change. Niru’s father has changed and that is at least partly my fault. I have also changed. I’m older and more sensitive now. I know more of the world. Maybe that makes me a better person, or maybe I just know more.
The next day I run back to Niru’s house. Perhaps it’s foolishness that brings me back here to watch the sprinklers spray a fine mist on either side of the black asphalt drive. It’s why the grass remains a lush green even if no one tends to it. Sunlight bounces off the wet patches and the years of car oil trapped inside shine in intermittent distorted rainbows. I move towards the grit-streaked white columns at the front entrance and the old-style black lantern hanging beneath. Cobwebs stream from its rusted chain-link fasteners and it has no bulbs inside. Niru said his father liked the design because it reminded him of the White House. Now the luster is gone.
There are three packages on the steps, alongside a stack of old newspapers melting into a pulpy mass from rain and age. The potted plants on either side of the door have died and there is a forgotten coffee mug beside them filled with water and dead potato bugs. This place looks abandoned but I know his father still lives here. When I woke up this morning, my course of action was abundantly clear, a small voice said, you must go to him, and then nothing else. I bundled up Niru’s windbreaker and left the house before Mom and Dad woke up. Now I am here, my finger suspended above the yellowed doorbell button. Stay or leave? That is the question. I look back at my tracks across the wet grass. The sprinklers chirp and whir relentlessly.
Six years ago, I come to apologize because that is the only thing I know how to do. There are numerous cars on the street and crowding the drive as their passengers linger in the dimly lit windows alone and in pairs, heads bowed forward, movements slow. I can do this, I tell myself as the sprinklers spit and the night fills with a chorus of cicadas and frogs. They have told me to stay home, stay quiet, stay out of sight, but this feels like the right thing to do, that something good will come from public supplication to the mourners inside. A slow sad song muffles through the front door, off-key and yet still harmonized. I am still for a moment as sadness washes over me, then I press the doorbell. The light inside the plastic goes dark, then the noise, ding but no dong. I feel for the written note in my pocket. I have practiced its words multiple times in the mirror. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. My sneakers are wet. I have crossed the Rubicon. OJ answers the door. I have never met him in person, but Niru’s stories and his pictures make him intensely familiar. There is no mistaking them for anything but brothers. Their eyes, their nostrils, their jaws follow similar curves and they both favor the simple sharp definitions of low-cut and freshly edged hair. He wears a simple white T-shirt distinctly stained in the two spots where it has been used to wipe now red eyes. The space between his nose and upper lip glistens. His face is blank as he searches my face, and then he realizes who I am. He opens his mouth as if to speak and his lips move but no words come out. I step backwards immediately forgetting the steps behind me, and unsure of my footing, I tumble down onto the wet pavement. Junior, I hear Niru’s father say, who is at the door, before his body appears in the doorway. What the fuck are you coming here for, OJ shouts at me. Junior, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, his father says. I push myself up to my knees. I have skinned my palms and both of my wrists are sore from the unexpected impact. I massage my tailbone with a free hand. Rods of pain shoot down my spine and into my legs. Let go of me, OJ shouts as he pushes toward me. Let me go.
I watch the two men struggle with each other, dark shadows silhouetted by the light behind. Niru’s father holds OJ in a bear hug and whispers something into his ear while he bucks. There is little besides interlocked fingers and soothing words that prevent OJ from moving towards me with his full force and I swallow the blood trickling inside my cheek with a sense of relief. Still part of me wants him to break free, to hit me.
OJ sounds like Niru when he cries, a word here, a gasp there between soft moaning. Bodies fill the space behind them, dark figures crowding the doorway, jostling each other as they reach forward with quivering arms to pull them inside. Niru’s father shouts, Ify as he steps toward them with OJ slumped against him crying into his chest, holding his hand away from his body like he is afraid of what else it might do. It’s okay, take him, take him, please, Niru’s father says, pushing OJ towards the arms which quickly pull him in. Please everybody, let’s go back inside, it’s okay, let’s just go back inside. Close the door please. His shirt is wet where OJ sobbed against him. He pulls me up. His hands are firm and his palms rough. This close, I can see he has new wrinkles in his face and brow. Why did you come here, he asks. I came to say I’m sorry, I say. You’re sorry? Young lady, do you hear what they are saying about my son? You think your sorry will fix that? It wasn’t like that, I say, he never would have done that. He didn’t like girls like that. Let me tell them he wasn’t like that. He doesn’t say anything. The door opens and a young boy peeks his head out. Uncle Obi, he says. Go back inside Chidozie, Niru’s father says waving him away with his hands. He presses his palms together, puts his fingertips to his lips, and steps back. Do your parents know you’re here, he says after a long while. No? I’ll call you a taxi, he says, you can wait out here.
Six years ago I didn’t know what I was doing, why I showed up, or how I even got here. Now I can answer at least one of those questions. I wait and press the doorbell again. No response. I knock on the door and it swings back from the seal. An alarm chimes sharply, startling me, then the house falls silent. Hello, I shout inside, Mr. Ikemadu, hello. I should turn back. I should leave this place immediately but my feet sink into a soft entry rug as I step into what looks like the movie set of an abandoned home. My steps creak across the wood floors as I pass a sitting room and dining room where the little light streaming through the drawn curtains captures floating dust that settles atop a large wood dining table. In the kitchen, a lopsided stack of dirty plates near the sink is a breeding ground for a swarm of flies. Stagnant water rests in the basin, covered by an oily yellow film. The trash stinks from its bin beneath the sink. I try to breathe through my mouth, but the smell is overwhelming. It owns the room. The paint on the ceiling bubbles where a leak has gone unattended and there are folded yellowed newspapers scattered across all surfaces, the place where mail once stood in stacks, the kitchen table where I once ate with Niru’s family. I bring my hand to my mouth. This is what I have done.
I stand at the sink and look out to a backyard of full, green trees. Then I plunge my hands into the dirty water to search for the drain. It feels good to soak my hands in the filth, to root around for submerged cutlery and finally scoop away the leavings that clog the sink. The drain greedily sucks down water, leaving a yellow film clinging to silverware and burnt-bottomed pots. I begin to wash the plates in hot water. When I am finished, I empty a spray can of air freshener, cough and continue spraying until the scent of decay cowers under a nostril-widening lemon zest. We cleaned up the same way just before he drove me home that summer night. He was as efficient as a busboy in a restaurant, wiping the table with a damp cloth as he removed the place mats, as he handed me plates and saucers to scrape into the bin before ruthlessly rinsing them with the spray nozzle dangling from the faucet. If school doesn’t work out, you could always be a waiter, I smirked.
I should leave before someone comes but I keep going. I have no idea what I am doing or when Niru’s father might return. I should really leave now, but I keep going. Niru never invited me upstairs and despite having crossed the threshold of breaking and entering, it still feels sacrilegious to set foot on the carpeted steps that lead up and away from the kitchen. I remove my shoes and place them neatly to one side. I climb the steps between framed faded pictures of people from another time, in another country. There is a large black-and-white photo of a man and woman who can only be Niru’s grandparents. They look uncomfortable in their fine Sunday clothes. Niru should be at rest now, hopefully at peace—permanently—beside their bones.
The top floor is a madness of boxes and bags spilling from a hallway closet left half open to display a disorganized collection of bedsheets and towels. I hear the high whine and low voices of a television so I move in that direction. The master bedroom pulses as images from a cable news program flash across a flat-screen. The remote control sits on a nightstand near a cascade of crumpled tissues spilling onto half-finished plates of food on the floor near the bed. A framed picture of Niru as a toddler lies on the floor next to an empty prescription pill bottle. I have already crossed so many lines, but this violation feels absolute. In every faith, there is a part of the temple too sacred for all but the most faithful. I back out of the room and close the door.
I have never been to Niru’s room but I have seen pictures on video chat, the trophies garnished with ribbons, a poster of Kendrick Lamar hung next to a bookshelf overfilled with science fiction novels and comics, a large goatskin drum tucked away in a corner next to his clarinet case. I stand at the threshold of his room and look at life suspended. I hesitate to move my feet from the white hallway carpet to the green carpet that covers the floor of his room. I can go no further. There is a line between decency and the real world. There was a line between me and him before I kissed him, before he pushed me against the wall, before the pop, pop, pop, pop.
But you did not pull the trigger, Dr. Blake says. Repeat after me, I did not pull the trigger. She says, Meredith, I need you here with me now. I did not pull the trigger, I say, if only because I like her buzzed white hair and large black glasses. She makes me feel safe even if Mom and Dad forced me to see her. And breathe in, one, two, three, four, five she says, and release, she says. It’s driving me out of my mind, I tell her. All the time, everywhere he’s there watching me, waiting for me when I go to the bathroom in the night, when I turn a corner, when I’m sitting in the living room, when I run and I stretch and he should be there in real life, I can feel him, I can feel his eyes on me, I can feel him angry. What does it feel like to be watched, Dr. Blake asks. Oh my God, what the fuck, I want to scream at this doctor and her unending questions, what do you mean what does it feel like? I’m scared, I say, I’m really really scared. You think he’s coming for you? Well yes, I do, I’d come for me.
But I’m not a monster, the police officer on television says to the heavyset black woman with voluminous curls. In the days after the shooting, it’s all television can talk about, all the Internet can tweet. Niru and I are the subject of online laments and cable insult wars. The officer’s eyes are afraid and he shifts from side to side in his seat. I saw what I saw. I saw a man attacking a young woman and I took appropriate action. She says, actually, this is a boy we are talking about, a teenager, a Harvard-bound black boy. She says, witnesses saw her run after him, that he left the venue before her. He says, I saw a young woman being assaulted and I intervened to stop it using what the department has deemed appropriate force. And you feel no remorse? A child is dead! But I’m not a monster, I’m not a monster, I’m just a police officer and a former veteran trying to do my best to keep our streets safe. There is the police chief on television, her blond hair in a bun stretching her shiny forehead, flanked by the mayor and some other officials of clear importance but little significance together in a small conference room arrayed against the cameras, the microphones and the invisible public beyond. They brandish words like tolerance and calm as if they are truncheons. There is no joy in this for anyone, she says and the officials nod their somber nods of affirmation.
I am also not a monster. But he won’t leave me alone, he’s in my nightmares and in my daydreams. You need to let him go, Meredith, Dr. Blake says to me as I hide my face behind my hands and sink into the armchair in her office. He needs to let me go, I say back as I hold myself and rock against the air. He needs to leave me alone, I say when I can suddenly feel his presence. He comes to me in the shower in the rising steam when I am naked, between the white tiles and sliding glass. Kiss me I say, but he doesn’t kiss me and the hot water at our feet turns to blood so I scream, get it off me get it off me, and my parents come running with the things you say to people when you want them to be okay.
The morning of graduation I cannot get out of bed. The school has told me not to come, has told all the students not to say anything to anyone about what has happened. No one has called me. They all think I’m toxic or damaged, or both. I cannot stop crying so Dad holds me while Mom stands in the doorway with her half-open mouth and palms against her chest. Dad rocks me and whispers to me. He sings a little song in my ear as he dries my naked body with a towel while Mom stands in the doorway. He carries me to my bed, rests my head on his knees and lets my tears and snot soak dark spots into his white trousers. He says I love you, while Mom stands in the doorway. She blames me, I tell Dr. Blake, for fucking it all up for them, from day one. She blames me.
Breathe Meredith, with me, two, three, four, five, Dr. Blake says. I tell her, sometimes I can still feel him touching me, I can still feel his breath on my face and his face against my face, sometimes I can feel hands and sometimes. . . . Sometimes? Meredith, Dr. Blake asks as she always asks when I stop speaking. Sometimes I wish . . . What do you wish, Meredith? Sometimes I think . . . What do you think, Meredith? I think this would be easier if . . . Dr. Blake nods knowingly. It would be easier if he had raped you, she says. I look up like a cat caught knocking something valuable from a table. It’s perfectly normal to have these thoughts, Dr. Blake says. But I should have said something, I say, I should say something . . . I guess . . . You guess, Meredith? I guess . . .
Sometimes it’s easier to be the victim, this woman says so matter-of-fact with her skinny jeans and her white blouse, and Mom and Dad nod like they agree. She is a PR crisis specialist sent by Mom and Dad’s law school friend. I don’t like her. There will be no social media, she says. You will not post, you will not message, you will not log in to your accounts—Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Google Plus—then she smiles like her cheeks are connected to hooks set to a precisely calibrated timer. We will say nothing, if you feel like saying something, you will call me or you will text me. And Mom and Dad nod like they agree. Dad, Mom, I ask but they don’t say anything. Right now at least fifty percent of America thinks you were assaulted. That’s good, I mean important, we can exhale a little, their sympathies lie with you. From here, the best way forward is just not to say anything. And Mom and Dad don’t say anything. I’m not the victim, I shout, he is. Meredith, Mom says, this isn’t so simple. No one will—It seems pretty simple to me—Meredith, this stuff is too complicated for most people to—What’s so complicated about the fact that he didn’t assault me. I pushed him—You want to try to explain that to all those angry people out there? You think they—Mom, I plead, the police shot him. He wasn’t trying to rape me. Mom, I pushed him. It was just a fight. Nobody here is saying he’s a rapist, the woman cuts in, we’re just not saying anything, we are trying to draw as little attention to you and your parents as possible, there is nothing wrong with saying nothing. But they shot him, I say. They shot him, yes, the woman says, let them deal with that. Mom massages her temples with her fingertips. I shouldn’t have pushed him, I sniffle. Dad rubs my back.
A phone rings and I jump. It is my phone. My phone is ringing. My mother. Niru’s dad could come home soon from wherever he has gone. I should leave.