You Have Seven Messages (3 page)

A large tear goes
splat
on the keyboard.

The bedroom alcove is the size of a closet but has lots of light. I try to smell her in the crumpled sheets, but they’re old and musty. I peel them off quickly and pile them in the corner. I see a black cord peeking from her desk drawer. I pull it out and take in a shallow breath. It’s her cell phone, the charger still attached. I plug it in to see if it still works, amazed at the sound of it booting up. I guess my father didn’t even bother canceling her service. Maybe it was a family plan and he wanted to keep it that way. She wasn’t one of those people who always had her cell phone on her—it took her forever to even get one. I go down her list of contacts and stop at Marc Jacobs. When I was nine, I actually had tea in Paris with him. My mother was a fashion model, and one day when she went on a “go-see” for French
Vogue
she left me with Marc at a café in the Marais. His fingers were long and tanned, and he had kind eyes. At the time I thought he was just some guy. Now I think about that afternoon every time I wear my favorite low-cut blue dress, from his 2001 spring collection, made especially for my mother but passed on to me. I press Call. It goes straight to his voice mail and I don’t leave a message. I am too stunned that I am in my
mother’s studio, calling Marc Jacobs, a trail of big tears drying on my face.

I decide to take a shower in the tiny black-and-white-tiled bathroom. I watch the dust from the tub swirl down the drain and think,
That’s what she is now
. I dry off and get dressed again, collapsing on the naked mattress. I briefly think of what it would be like to bring Oliver here. Maybe he could play the cello while I made him baked salmon. A few days after my mother died I found a recipe in the newspaper for baked salmon, and I made it for my father, along with asparagus, his favorite vegetable. When he came home and saw me with the apron that went all the way to the floor, my face sweaty from the steam, he started to cry. Seeing a grown man cry is heartbreaking but also beautiful. We hardly put a dent in the salmon, but what we ate tasted good.

I turn my head and see something that makes my throat tighten: a cuff link on the nightstand, made to look like a sad theater mask.
What is it doing here?
I pick it up and blow the dust off it. As far as I know, the only cuff links my dad has are the ones that look like little rope knots. Besides, this is not the sort of thing he would wear. I look underneath the bed for the happy face, but there’s nothing there except more dust and a stray button.

Hmmmm
. I run the cuff link through my fingers, like it’s a key to some language I’m not sure I want to learn. My mother never mentioned entertaining guests at her studio—it was her own private space. But somebody was here. Somebody who was not my father.

I remember one day in eighth grade I skipped soccer practice and came home early and went up to my mother’s room. We had a ritual where we’d sit on the bed and I’d tell her everything that happened that day. Even when the details of the day were boring, she would find ways to make them exciting. Like when I told her I had a math test and ate chicken tenders for lunch she explained that math was a way to get your mind to think a certain way, and even though it seems tedious, it’s the basis for everything in the world. Then she’d tell me that chickens lose their feathers when they get stressed. Basically, my mother could weave a colorful conversation out of a pile of dirt. That day I actually had something kind of exciting to tell her—we had a bomb threat, and my science teacher brought his dog in for an experiment, and it got so excited that it peed on his desk, which was hilarious—but she was in the bath, not expecting me so early. She was talking to someone on the phone in a honeyed tone that made me feel like I shouldn’t be eavesdropping. Still, I listened. It was almost like she was singing.

As I turn the cuff link over in my hand, the memory lodges itself in the bottom of my stomach like an undercooked pancake. Could the person she was talking to that day be the owner? I had an inkling there was more to learn about her death, but this was not what I had in mind.

Back in the living room, the air is starting to freshen up since I opened the small window in the bathroom for
cross-ventilation. I go back to the computer and look at the folders on her desktop. One says “Stuff” and one says “Modeling.” In the bottom corner, another says “Luna,” her version of my nickname, and basically what everyone calls me. In fact, the only person who calls me Malia, my real name, is the school nurse. I look at the folder again, and I cannot bring myself to double-click on it. It’s probably just pictures and stuff, but there are so many emotions coursing through me that I can almost feel my brain uncurling like a flower blooming on fast-forward video. I look outside and notice it’s almost dark. I shut down the laptop, close the window, grab the trash along with the duster and the Windex, and head down the stairs. The woman is still there. I place the stuff neatly on the floor and say
“Gracias,”
and she smiles. One of the things I learned from my father is if you use words from other people’s languages it makes them smile. Whenever we go to my favorite Thai place near Times Square, I always say
“kop khun kha”
to the waitress when she serves our food, and she gives me an extra Coke on the house.

On the way home I stop and buy peanuts. Chewing them helps distract me from the questions that flutter around my mind like frantic insects.
Who is the owner of the cuff link? What’s in my folder?

As I reach Central Park West, I am startled by a buzz in my pocket. Mom’s phone! I open it up and the screen reads,
7 new messages
. As if it’s a bomb that might go off, I quickly turn it off and head into our building.

I go upstairs and lock the door to my room. I look at the phone again and think,
This is a dead person’s phone
.

My mother was very open with me, but her personal life was just that: personal. Would she want me to have this? Who are the messages from? I squeeze the stress ball Dad gave me and think about this past year, how much I have been through, how much I have lost. In order to preserve my sanity, I cannot listen to the messages right away, and if I do, maybe only one at a time. Maybe I’m just being dramatic, but something about finding the cuff link has made me question what was really going on in my mother’s life.

I try to focus on my homework but before long I hear Oliver practicing. I go over to the window and stare across the street. The angle only allows me to see a corner of his cello, and the tip of the bow if he holds a long note. I put my mother’s phone under the mattress and lie down.

When adults use the word
overwhelmed
, I always think it’s just an excuse to get attention, but now I understand what it means. I decide to close my eyes and just listen to Oliver. I take deep breaths and try to let the music seep through my skin, into my bones. It’s a trick my drama teacher told us about, for relaxation. It works for a while, but then all I can picture is the little red phone, shoved under the mattress, and I imagine it pulsing like a heartbeat.

I don’t tell anyone I’ve been to the studio. It’s my secret. Today is crystal clear and everyone in New York seems to carry the promise of spring in their waving hands, their scooping arms, and their buoyant steps. I walk deep into the park and find a bench in the shade. I get out Mom’s phone and dial her voice mail. It asks for a password.
Damn
.

I’m clutching the phone so hard my knuckles are white. I try her birth date. No luck. Then I try our address. Nope. I sit back and look up at the expanse of blue sky with one small lonely cloud. I think of my dad, who would say, “Look, a storm’s coming in.” And then it appears in my vision. A little obscured by a giant tree, looking like a withered white balloon.

I type in
luna
and the voice says,
“You have seven messages. To listen to your messages, press one.”

My fingers are shaking. I tell myself,
One at a time
. That way it won’t all come crashing down on me. I do what the voice tells me.

Beep
.

I can hardly understand the thick Asian accent, but at the end she says the word
pickup
, so I figure it’s Mom’s dry-cleaning place. I hit 7 for Delete and head to Seventy-Sixth Street. Or is it Seventy-Seventh? I remember they had terrible candies in a bowl. One day my mother got mad at me for spitting one out on someone’s stoop. She said it wasn’t ladylike.

I recognize the small blue awning and go inside. Sure enough, the candies are still there. There’s a Chinese girl, maybe sixteen, who gives me a challenging look. I’m not exactly sure why I’ve come here. Surely they don’t still have her clothes?

I stutter a few times until the mother comes in and recognizes me, gives me that look of pity I’m so tired of. She must have heard about my mother’s death from the neighborhood women gossiping. Or maybe she reads Page Six, which is doubtful. She has a bob haircut and wears a brown cardigan. Her fingers are dry and twisted. She holds them up as if telling me to wait. The daughter keeps looking at me, except now with a blank expression. The bell that’s tied to the door rattles and a woman comes in, dressed in a tight black skirt and silver heels. It takes me a second to realize it’s Oliver’s mom. My heartbeat quickens as I see a shadow behind the door, a boy following her in.

I start to take inventory of what I have on. Jeans and a red shirt that’s faded to orange. Oh no, the wrong shoes—they make my feet look too big. I peek over at Oliver, who is swinging his book bag and definitely not noticing my shoes. I see him reach out for a candy and I blurt out a sound to make him stop.

“You really don’t want to eat those,” I whisper.

He looks at me, really, for the first time, and smiles. I feel like my skin is on fire and any moment I will self-combust. His eyelashes are overgrown and his lips are violet. The fluorescent light makes a thin halo around his curls.

In what seems like an hour, the lady comes back with my mother’s dress. She hands it to me along with a bill. Is she going to charge me? I look over at Oliver, who looks at the floor. The lady nods and waves her gnarled fingers again and I turn to leave, but not before giving Oliver my best smile.

I don’t think my mother even owned a pair of shorts—she always wore dresses. When I was little, I would constantly hide under them. The skirt part would become my own personal tent with her smooth, tanned legs as the poles.

When I get home I immediately rip open the plastic, which is lined with paper advertising the cleaners. It’s a black dress, with tiny gold beading along the collar and on the hem. I can’t remember my mother ever wearing it. I try it on and look in the mirror. It’s the most beautiful
thing I’ve ever worn. I turn around and go to the window. I can sense someone has been watching me. There’s no one there but the light is on. After a few seconds the light goes off and a figure approaches the window. All I can see is the silhouette of curly hair. I smile and turn around, showing off the dress, and then pull the curtain.

I want to show my father but I don’t want to jog his memory in a bad way. I tiptoe past Tile’s room and see him sleeping on the floor next to his bed. It’s hard to maneuver in the dress but I manage to get him back up and under the covers. Half asleep, he says, “Mom?”

I take a step back and watch him. His nostrils flare a little as if he smells something in a dream. He purses his lips and turns over. I creep down the stairs and stop on the last step, stunned by a female voice I don’t recognize laughing nervously. The E-word!

Before I can turn around and run back up the stairs, they enter the foyer on their way out. The E-word is pretty in a raw, bohemian way. My father stops short at the sight of the dress. I cannot see myself, but I know my face is the color of tomato soup. I realize he’s never seen my mother wearing it.

“Moon,” my father says, “where … what …?”

“I went by the dry cleaner, you know, the one …”

Luckily, the E-word breaks the awkward silence and holds out her hand. She has on leather jewelry. “I’m Elise, so nice to meet you.”

“You as well.”

“Going somewhere?” she asks, almost taunting me.

“Yes,” I say, “I’m just gonna go crawl under a rock. You have a nice night, both of you.” I try to give my father a go-for-it look as they smile and walk past. I notice a tag hanging down the back of his jacket and it takes me two tugs to rip it off. When I get back to my room I peer out the window down to the street. They are standing very close, waiting for a cab. I go to my bed and sit down.

She smelled nice, what was it … apricot?

I take off the dress and put on my nightshirt. It’s really hard to concentrate on homework, but I try. All I keep thinking about is Oliver, the way he finally
saw
me at the dry cleaner. Does he know I’ve been watching him or that I listen to him practice? Then I think about my mother’s phone, six more messages. I decide to wait until tomorrow. The scene on the stairs was traumatic enough.

As I get into bed, I wonder what Dad and Elise are doing on their date. Elise reminds me of my camp counselor, Willow, who always looked glassy-eyed and wore a half smile. She was the total opposite of my mom, whose eyes were always alert, almost startled, and whose mouth was always slightly pursed. I have that mouth too. It’s kind of a pain because people sometimes think I’m frowning when I’m just thinking. I look up at the picture of my mother, still stuck to my wall with an inch of Scotch tape. It came from one of those huge glossy magazines they put in hotels. She’s wearing a shiny dress with a furry collar and her look says
I dare you
.

It’s spring break, and my father has finally finished his documentary, so while Tile watches cartoons, we eat the one thing Dad likes to make—french toast.

“Why did you go to the dry cleaner?” he says, lips shiny with syrup.