THAT SONG

Rosa has come because she couldn’t find me at school. I’m on the couch in my living room, the weight of my dog on my feet.

“I feel sick, Rosa. I am sick.” But then I can’t remember what I’m saying.

Rosa puts her arm around my shoulder. “Come to school,” she says.

“How can I go to school?”

“You have to pull yourself together.”

Luke sent me a text. Can you come tonight?

“I’ll make you some breakfast. And then maybe you’ll hear what you’re saying.”

“Cambodian beer,” I whisper.

“Is it good?”

I shake my head and my mind spins and spins and spins.

But I can see the words on my phone. Can you come? I would like to see your eyes.

“Do I still live here? Where’s my father?”

“You must have been really drunk,” Rosa says.

“Must have,” I say.

“How did you get here? You said you were going to some party. At your mother’s.”

I’m forced to try and remember. “My mother,” I say. “I came with her. She’s here somewhere. Maybe she’s in my father’s bedroom.”

“It must have started off bad,” Rosa says. “Rooming with your mother.”

“She is just . . .” I pause. “. . . crazy.” I am beginning to come back to the house, to the light streaming into the back window, to my mother. And my grandmother.

Or I could meet you on the strip. By the statue. I’ll read Kerouac to you.

The morning sun lifts.

“Sing me that song, Rosa, about the Spanish dancer.”

But then a river of light blinds me. It is beautiful and dazzling.

Rosa hums while she tries to get us going. I remember pictures of beautiful Cambodia on the wall last night with my grandmother. Is beauty still beauty when you are starving? No, not if the morning sun brings the boy hauling his ax to guard an old woman to make sure she is starving, since then he’ll get food to keep himself alive.

“Do you think your mom and your dad are getting back together?” Rosa says.

Again, I try to come back to the river where I live. I focus on Rosa in the kitchen. She wears a gauzy white shirt and turquoise hoops in her ears. “You’re such a romantic, Rosa.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Do you have any condoms?” I say.

She is popping toast from the toaster, spreading it with butter. She knows this is a life-defining question. But we both know things we have not talked about. She nods.

“Did I call in last night? God, I hope so. I think I did, before I knew I couldn’t drive.”

Instead of my grandmother’s fierce bird eyes, I see her composed lips, how they gently meet. I think of how even her lips, her whole body, must hold the memory of the story her friend told.

I pick up my phone. After work. Your cottage.