“I need to be there by nine tomorrow, right?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Lakewood had patchy service. Lena waited, but the call was over. She still hadn’t finished packing. The clothes on the floor were pinching at her hands, the unmade bed and makeup scattered around were flicking at her eyelashes.
“Steaks,” Deziree yelled.
Dinner looked great—steaks, baked sweet potatoes, a big salad, a bottle of cheap champagne resting in a bowl filled with ice cubes.
“I’ll get the silverware,” Lena offered. In the kitchen, taped to the front of the refrigerator was a Don’t Forget list with Lena’s new address and a description of the job she’d be working. When her mother’s back was turned, Lena scribbled on the sides: I love you. Call me anytime. Make all bill collectors contact me. I can come home. I love you. Don’t paint the whole house without talking to me. She drew hearts around all the things that looked harsh, hoped it softened them. On the refrigerator Lena taped a note to Miss Shaunté with all the essentials and a small bonus check.
When Lena returned with the silverware, Deziree patted her hands and arms as if she were going away for years. She kept repeating the name Lakewood. At first, she said the word as if it was an unknown or an unexpected ingredient. Snails? Are you sure? Snails? Lakewood.
“It’s fine, Mom, everything’s on the fridge.”
“Lakewood, Lakewood, Lakewood, Lakewood, Lakewood, Lakewood,” Deziree said, clawing at her own face, her voice getting higher with each iteration.
Lena grabbed her hands, held them firmly but gently. “Let’s eat.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Halfway through the meal, Deziree spat out a piece of steak. It landed on the table, narrowly missing Lena’s arm. Deziree stood up.
“Mom?”
“The spirit loves raw potatoes.” Her eyes were focused on the wall behind Lena. Deziree waved her hands as if a cloud of mites was swarming around her head.
The refrigerator hummed. Lena wasn’t sure whether to keep eating, wait for it to pass, or to do what her grandmother would sometimes do: describe exactly what was happening and try to ground the moment’s details. We’re just having a nice dinner, Deziree. The steak is medium-rare. The sparkling wine is very dry. It’s 7:38 at night. Your sweet potatoes are incredible with the chili sauce you made. Our life is about to change, but we’ll both be great.
Deziree sat down in her seat quickly.
“Mom?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Mom.”
“Will you please just accept this lie, so we can have a nice dinner?” Deziree’s voice came out clear.
Lena nodded.
They ate quietly for a few moments. Deziree’s hand shook a little as she cut her meat. Lena wondered if it would ever be possible to be relaxed while her mother struggled, to live fully in the idea that her mother would ask her for help when she wanted or needed it. There was a difference between helping someone you loved for their sake versus helping them because it made you feel good. But it was hard to be measured and thoughtful in the moment.
Her mother put her knife and fork down. “I understand that you have to do this. But you have to promise me you’ll go back to school when everything is settled.”
Lena nodded. “I swear, if it means I’m one of those ninety-year-olds that they put on the news.”
Deziree smiled, but her eyes were sad.
“My great-great-grandson Demetrius only got a B minus on the final. This old bag of bones”—Lena pointed at her chest—“A plus.”
If she were in a better mood, Deziree would have joined in. Asked about the grandkid’s name. Did her own old-woman voice. Or maybe pretended to be the teacher on the news talking about how it was great to see that learning could happen at any age. Instead, she pushed around the sweet potatoes on her plate for a few moments. Then she excused herself and said she probably was going to sleep until morning.
Lena scrubbed the stove, washed the dishes. Going to her bedroom, she went through her phone. There was a photo message from Kelly: a calico cat with its tongue sticking out as if it was trying to catch a snowflake. She sent back a picture of the desk wedged into her bedroom. The room was the size of a generous walk-in closet. Enough room for a twin bed, a very small desk, and a skinny wardrobe one of the men at her grandma’s church had custom-made for her. Any hint of mess was overwhelming in the space.
Then she called Tanya. Talked her ear off about how it might only take a year or two to make everything back in order and get them safe again. The word “safe” surprised Lena as it left her mouth. She had meant to say “steady.” Tanya was obviously thinking about something else, since she kept saying variations of “That sounds cool.” And though Tanya was home, Lena pictured her sitting at the desk in their dorm room, online shopping for boots or practicing her kanji while her mother talked at her on the phone.
When things were bad, Thinking Lena tied Feeling Lena up, led her into a deep labyrinth, and then ran out and got to work. It was necessary. Feeling Lena would distort and confuse and slow things down and want to talk and cry. Thinking Lena needed to get things done, not completely see the full situation, but focus on the easiest route to the other side. “Safe,” Lena said again. And it made her think of how bad she would feel if Lakewood hadn’t come around.
Tanya told her she was also doing a research study this summer. Lena’s fingers tightened around her phone. Relaxed as Tanya explained, lowering her voice, that it was a female orgasm study. She would get a hundred dollars per session and an expensive vibrator for doing it.
“I’m telling my parents it’s a massage study.”
“I mean, it kind of is.”
Tanya cackled. She told Lena that after agreeing to do it, she had gone into a weird spiral. She thought about backing out, then it was like there would be no other time in her life where she was going to get paid to just—you know. But then she read about research studies on the internet.
“Have you ever read about government-run research studies? Did you know there was one in the sixties for people who swore they had alien encounters?”
“I haven’t.” Lena touched her desk, glad Tanya couldn’t see her face. She suddenly understood the thought experiments better based on this feeling: the uncanniness of someone you love being able to abruptly articulate a secret feeling. Friendship, family, and romance breed a telepathy that comes from kinship. She tried to think of something to say, felt the danger in the moment. As a child she had drawn a large cartoon hand on her desk. Her grandma had tried to get rid of it with salt and soap, but it remained. The fingers were so long they seemed sinister.
“I need to clean my desk,” Lena said.
“What?”
“Yeah?”
Tanya sighed. “I can’t believe you’re dropping out.”
Lena coughed. “Not forever.”
“Can’t you just do like an online fundraiser?”
Lena pretended the suggestion was a joke and laughed.
“Well. Fine. Sorry. But what about being patient? Or finding something closer to your mom?”
“Please don’t bring my mom into this. You know this is about you.”