It would be gauche for me to say that CeeCee begrudged me for being the younger sibling. But I did often get the impression that I was a rat in the kitchen of her life. And not a helpful rat like the one inRatatouille. Instead, a rat where Mom and Dad—head chef and sous-chef, respectively—had to set traps for me so I didn’t cause too much havoc while she—junior chef in training—stewed beside the overflowing pot of our family.
“She’s adorable,” I say, swiping to the next photo. It’s Imogen in a blow-up pool playing with a mermaid doll beside James, who’s wearing a captain’s hat and blowing bubbles out of a pipe as his daughter giggles. A backyard. A picket fence in the distance. Domestic bliss. Is that what CeeCee wanted?
It dawns on me that we never talked about it back in my timeline. She got a job. She got a man. She got serious. I got shitty tips and shittier hours but better gigs. The line of communication became a string with two cans attached to the ends, and the center of the thread just tore and tore and tore until…
“She’ll be four soon, can you believe that?” Mom asks as I hand the phone back, unable to look anymore. I’m uncomfortable peeking through this window into CeeCee’s life when, judging by the social media blockings, she’s shut the blinds to keep me out. “Her party is going to be fabulous. Just like your special!”
I’m smiling to cover up a grimace, knowing I didn’t get an invitation to Imogen’s birthday party. CeeCee has cut me off, which is what prompts me to say: “There are no jokes about you in the special. Any of you.” It’s important I make that clear to her.
Part of me wondered why I’d pivoted from the confessional family material while learning the jokes for this taping. Mom’s admission of my absence makes everything clearer. There aren’t jokes about them because the jokes are about my life, and my life no longer includes them in any meaningful way. I must’ve made a choice: fame over family.
“Nolan, I learned that jokes are not truths a long time ago,” she says, devoid of resentment. She sounds at peace, which makes me happy but also jealous. I haven’t known peace since I woke up in this timeline. “Look, I know CeeCee took the whole thing harshly, but your dad and I… Well, it’s your life too. Do we wish you didn’t share every one of our mistakes with the world? Sure. Did it take a few years of counseling to make peace with it? Also, sure.” Hearing Mom and Dad sought out counseling is both surprising and reassuring. They came from a generation that didn’t take mental health into consideration. “But…”
I rip apart the last of my sandwich, stomach blocked. “But what?”
She stares deep into my eyes. I know she’s drawing back the curtains of my persona and seeing me still as the boy she raised. “My only want as a mother was to see my children succeed to the point that they surpass us. To shine and be stable, and you’ve done that. I don’t spend my nights worrying about if you’re making rent anymore. I don’t feel the urge to send you care packages every month just in case you’ve run out of ramen or mouse traps.” For a moment, I wonder if she sees the twenty-three-year-old stuck inside here. The lights of her eyes sparkle knowingly, and I’m about to question it andconfide in her when she continues. “You’ve carved out your independence. I may not approve of the crasser content, but I support you and I love you always.”
Those words find a home inside my sternum, undo some of the barbed wire that’s been fenced around my heart since the jump. Learning of my exploits has been shocking and confusing. How can everything I ever wanted come with such a price? But knowing that Mom and Dad still support and love me after taking our family’s past and turning it into punch lines means I haven’t lit a match and burned down every bridge.
It took two sandwiches and one conversation to help me realize that seven years of good luck mixed with bad decisions doesn’t have to define the seven ahead of me, or the seven I hopefully get to redo. I decide what happens next.
Which means I’m going to make positive change in this timeline before I go. I don’t know what I’ll leave behind once the crystal hunt is complete. Will a different version of me pick up where I left off? Will this reality cease to exist entirely once I’m back? No matter the case, I’m here right now, so I should treat this timeline like practice for the healthier choices I’ll make once I return.
“Will you come?” I ask Mom, unprompted. The first positive change I can think of, even if I plan on returning before then. “To the special taping. It would mean a lot to me if you and Dad came. You might have to plug your ears for some of it, but I can warn you. Send you a copy of the set in advance. Anything.”
“That sounds nice. I can certainly try to make it,” Mom says, not committing fully. I know New York City makes her anxious. Traveling in general, actually.
“What about Dad? Is he here, by the way?” I figured Mom would’ve gotten him from the shed out back by now; that’s where he went to work on his model trains on weekends when he wasn’t atthe hardware store. The shed was a whimsical place where I would sit some Sunday mornings and stay as still as possible while Dad labored. I wasn’t often allowed to touch or participate, but I could wait until the product was finished. Hearing that first whistle as the model revved up always gave me goose bumps.
Sometimes, I’d have dreams where I shrank down to action-figure size and rode around on those trains that Dad built.
Though I guess at this point, he could’ve given up on those. Depression can make even your passions seem like burdens.
“No, he’s not here,” Mom says, clearing the plates and crossing the kitchen. “But I’ll make sure he knows you stopped by.”
“Do you think he’ll be back soon?” I ask, checking the time on my phone. There’s still a bit of a buffer before I need to be back for rehearsal, which is the last place I want to be anyway.
“You know him. He’s out. Could be an all-day ordeal. Don’t wait around.”
“Okay,” I say. “Would you mind maybe giving me CeeCee’s new number? I’d like to call her and invite her to the special too.” It’s a lie, but a small one in the scheme of things.
Mom seems hesitant, but hopeful. “Sure, hon.” I save a new contact for CeeCee in my phone as Mom reads off the digits to me.
While I wish I could stay longer, offer my help out in the garden, ask Mom to go on a walk, watch a movie, do any number of things we did before the move and the jump, it seems I might be on the verge of overstaying my welcome. Mom’s mood has shifted.
Before I make a graceful exit, I ask if I can go to my old room. I proffer a lie, a half-assed statement about needing some old mementos and photos for the opening credits of my special.
She doesn’t follow me down the hall, and when I nudge open the door, I’m bowled over by nostalgia. Everything is exactly as I remember it, from the secondhand paperbacks gifted by Drew onthe bookshelf to theCurb Your Enthusiasmposter on the corkboard beside the desk. Participation trophies for all the talent shows I performed in line a shelf affixed to the wall, coated in layers upon layers of dust. Even the bed—the space-patterned duvet and star sheets—hasn’t been updated.
Which makes me think other areas haven’t been shuffled or rearranged since I moved out either. The bottom drawer of my desk had a keylock on it. Some leftover piece from my grandfather’s childhood. When my dad moved it into my room, he gifted me the key with a knowing nod. “For whatever. Keep this in a safe place.”
I stashed notebooks in there with crude jokes, pictures of shirtless, sweaty celebrities I used up all the ink cartridges for on the family printer, and maybe most importantly…
“Aha!” I cry as I pluck a baggie of weed out from underneath a photo of Zac Efron in swim trunks. Stashing rolling papers, some old photos, and a pen in my bag of crystals, I shut the door behind me.
“Get everything you need?” Mom asks when I’m back at the front door.
“Yeah,” I tell her, heart feeling full from our conversation. “In more ways than one.”
