“I don’t think he did, but he did know that his grandma would be excited to see him and want a hug.”
“I’m still working out how Mrs. Eisenberg did not end up a pile of broken bones. And how our retired Snow White has a Black grandson. Is he African black like me, or is he more all mixed-up like you?”
“I drive hundreds of people around San Francisco airport week after week—everybody’s mixed-up to me.” It’s not uncommon in one shift for me to see blond people with dreads, Pacific Islanders in fur coats, South Asians with gold grills, and White men covered in head-to-toe tattoos making the argument that they, too, could be called people of color. “But Ash, I’d say he reminds me ofehrm... polished wood.”
“When’s the last time you saw wood, polished or otherwise?” Zwena challenges me, holding on to my gaze, daring me to deny her question.
I don’t acknowledge her double entendre, nor the truth she already knows. Instead, I get back to the details of the mystery at hand. “Mrs. Eisenberg’s grandson is Ash Eisenberg. Ash Eisenberg was once my young, insanely good-looking professor of economics at UCLA. I remember like it was yesterday that his pecs popped in every shirt he wore, especially when he reached up to write equations on the whiteboard.” I expect Zwena to give me credit for knowing an exceptionally well-built man when I see one. “Not counting Bill Nye the Science Guy, Professor Eisenberg was the only man I ever lusted after before I met Simon.”
“Ispecsthe medical term Americans use forpecker?” Zwena’s been considering becoming a medical assistant. She should reconsider.
“It means his chest, Z. And trust me, I spent hours in class daydreaming running my hands all over it.”
“I liked it better when I thought it meantpecker,” Zwena concedes, smacking her thighs in amusement. “So does Professor Sparks still light your fire?”
“Seriously? I just relived the drama of my father being killed, and then me almost killing a rich White lady in front of her grandson, andyou want to know if my old economics prof still has it?” I know Zwena questions my definition ofhandsomegiven my description of Simon’s penchant for Birkenstocks.
“Listen to you, eh? You said you only almost dropped her, not killed her. And yes, I do want to know if he’s still mrembo.”
“English, Z, you know I can’t speak Swahili.” Amid my humiliation, I did manage to notice Professor Eisenberg had held up well into his midforties. Over the years I’ve seen my share of men striding through the airport in suits, but none has worn them quite as well as Ash.
“Mrembomeansbeautiful. If you’re making me learn Spanish to get in on the conversations between you, your mom, Lou, and Coco, then you can make an effort to learn some basic Swahili. It’s only fair.”
“Fine, that’s fair. Yes, he’s membo.”
“That’s close enough for now,” Zwena acquiesces, knowing my ear for language lags far behind my skill with numbers. “Did he recognize you? You’re looking mighty good, too, these days, even in your uniform.”
“Nah. When Mrs. Eisenberg introduced me, he barely acknowledged my presence. It’s obvious that outside the walls of SFO, Mrs. Eisenberg and I do not travel in the same circles. Before I could say ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘nice to meet you, again’ and tell Mrs. E. I look forward to seeing her in a few weeks, he had checked his watch twice and steered his grandmother away.”
“Really?” Zwena asks, yet again baffled by Americans’ lack of interest in one another and obsession with time. In Kenya, an introduction is the gateway into an hour-long conversation filled with laughter, back slaps, and discovering mutual friends and family connections.
I pause before sharing the stinging truth of it all. “Z, I don’t think a person can have a memory of someone they never noticed in the first place.”
TUESDAY, JANUARY 22
“Mom! We got two boxes!” Coco calls as she carries an armload into the living room, where my feet are kicked up on the coffee table. My big toe, painted with Fire Station Flame Red polish, is sticking through a pair of socks worn thin. We are not a family for whom Amazon boxes show up on the daily delivering retail wishes. I’m surprised to be receiving any packages, though I could use some new socks.
“This beat-up box is from Florida. The envelope”—Coco turns it over and around before dropping them both at my feet—“I don’t know where it’s from, but it looks kinda important.”
With my heel, I drag the legal-size manila envelope toward me, so I don’t have to lean over to pick it up. I just finished working straight through a busy Martin Luther King Jr. weekend. I’m beat, and my lower back is aching from hours sitting in my cart and pushing wheelchairs with few chances to stretch. If Simon were still here, he’d have contorted me in all sorts of twists and inversions to release what he would claim is bad energy manifested by the stress of other people’s holiday travel.
“You know they’re both for Mom,” Lou huffs, still sore I made her pack food boxes at the Hunger Coalition instead of getting auburn highlights to celebrate MLK Day. While I have no clue what’s in the battered package held together by a janky duct tape job, I recognize my lawyer’s handwriting on the envelope. Simon’s two-year departureversaryis coming up next month, and since he left us, I have clung to the sporadic postcards he’s sent, even if they have been less than forthcoming about his future plans. For the first year Simon was gone, whenever I drove my cart through the international terminal my neck was craned so my eyes could scan every gate where passengers were disembarking. An average of ten times a day I would hope one of the faces, in a consistent stream of unfamiliar ones, would be my husband’s, but it never was.
With the start of this new year, I finally decided to take the first step to considering a life without Simon in it. Eavesdropping on a passenger who was talking loudly into her cell phone about a miracle divorce lawyer who drew up her papers in under two weeks, I wrote down said lawyer’s name. The minute my shift ended, I drove to Krish’s gate to ask him to ring the lawyer before I chickened out and resettled into my frequent fantasy where Simon returns home, apologizing profusely for his temporary insanity. Krish happily diverted his line of customers over to the gate agent next door and held up his phone between the two of us to make sure I followed through with the conversation. In that moment, I had no idea if I even wanted a divorce, and now that the papers have been delivered two weeks later, I have no idea where I would send Simon his copy. But the singular act of the envelope showing up at my house feels like forward momentum into the new year.
I tuck the papers under my right hip. Coco doesn’t need a reminder that at forty-three her father decided the meaning of life was not to be found where his family lived, but instead enlightenment was waiting for him in an ashram in India or a monastery in Myanmar. Without a hint of wavering conviction, Simon packed up the narcissism that he had confused with spiritual awakening and left us “for something bigger.”
7:40 p.m. (Toni)
Happy New Year to me, my divorce papers arrived.
7:42 p.m. (Krish)
I’d call them an early Valentine’s Day present. And don’t even think about using them as fire starter.
I consider Krish’s idea. Even though we live in California, Krish knows I love a good fire in winter. January is plenty cold for a woman who has Puerto Rican blood running through her veins.
7:45 p.m. (Toni)
