Sunsets
by Erin Jamieson
I’ve never doubted that Chester is the love of my life.
And yes, I hate phrases like that: love of your life, other half, soulmate. Especially the second two. What happens when your soulmate dies or cheats on you? Does having another half mean you’re half of a person without them?
I grew up on a steady diet of telenovelas and my abuela’s stories. You’d think that would make me a hopeless romantic. It did the opposite.
By the time I realized I needed Chester, my mother had more or less given me hope. I was 25, and, in her mind, getting old. She liked reminding me, every increasingly tense holiday, that it would be hard to have kids the older I got. Never mind that I was a miracle baby – that she had me when I was turning 40.
Then again. That may exactly be why she’s been so obsessed about my age.
To say she wasn’t happy about Chester is an understatement. That was our last meeting– when I had the two of them meet. She travelled from Tampa to Ohio, wrapped in a winter coat despite it being Spring. I fixed spaghetti and a Caesar salad because I figured at least I couldn’t mess those two things up. I had the paperwork on the table and photos from work. The garlic butter toast (one of those frozen ones) was just warming up when she came.
I didn’t even get a chance to show her my work with the animal shelter. Or the time Devon and I visited the children’s hospital with therapy dogs. Or how we managed to raise over $5,000 for a new wing of our shelter in a dinky rural town where people care more about gas prices and the best fast food combo deal of the week.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asked, shoving away a plate of steaming (and congealed) spaghetti.
“I want you to see I am doing something with my life. Even if it isn’t what you want.”
“I travelled all this way… to find out you’re not in love but obsessed with a cat?”
To his credit, Chester did his best. He groomed before she came and, the true scaredy cat he is, managed to stay in the same room without diving under my bed to hide. Granted, that may have had more to do with me buying a can of salmon than anything else.
We had a fight. I don’t remember much. Only that she ticked me off and somehow I ended up throwing spaghetti at the wall. I still have a small marinara stain on my ceiling.But she said something, right before she left and I knew it wasn’t like our past fights.
“Dad’s disappointed too, you know. He just won’t say that. You were so smart, Mariposa. You had a better life than your abuela ever had. We did everything and you ended up like this. Working for an animal shelter. Barely above minimum wage. Alone. With a cat.”
I told her to get the hell out.
I slammed my door twice. I don’t know if she booked a hotel or found a last-minute flight. I didn’t answer her calls.
A month later, my father tried to call me. I didn’t answer. Even erased his voicemail. Aside from a quick Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday, I never talked to him again.
***
At sunset, we spread his ashes.
The sky is streaked like a raw egg yolk, fading from crimson to golden yellow. Cicadas hiss in the humidity. I follow, barefoot, behind my mother, careful not to lose sight of her lantern as she hurries. For someone with arthritis in her toes, she can be quick when she needs to be.
And we do need to be quick. The sky is darkening, corners of midnight and indigo peeling away at the sunset. If we didn’t have the lantern, we’d be walking back home with only the distant lit homes to guide us.
The sky is starless and brilliant and bleak all at once. It seems to stretch forever, that inky darkness. I know when I return home, Chester will be waiting for me. I know he will not ask me questions I don’t have the strength to answer.
WENSUM 