💾 Archived View for midnight.pub › posts › 1903 captured on 2024-06-16 at 12:28:45. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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In 2015, right after I got married, we all sat around the balcony we had rented for the occasion- it was one with a view of the downtown skyline, one of those extremely prestigious hotels with the room service and the music piping down from little artificial vines in the corners. It wasn’t necessary- Lamar had said we could tie the knot at the chapel down the street from his place if we wanted to for considerably less- but my mother insisted upon it, sent me a couple thousand dollars weeks in advance so I could order a cake and catering and everything would be ready by the time she got in.
There was a pianist near the edge, decked out in formal attire, a carnation or something affixed to his lapel, and he was playing Stella By Starlight, far enough away from the speakers that they wouldn’t interfere. It’s always been a favorite of mine, but for whatever reason I didn’t feel much like dancing. It had been a hectic day and I was easing into my new status, testing the depths as it were.
“You look nice,” my mother said from her position up the steps. She was even then beginning to show signs of frailty, although she was graceful and eloquent in her own right. She had firm resolve and I could tell she was legitimately happy.
“Thanks, Mom. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Mi lusingate,” she croons, looking over at the table where my brother is making small talk. “Anyone would be proud. I’m proud merely of the circumstances. Here my boy is a famous doctor, well-tempered, polite, excellent. What more could be?”
“Ah, don’t lay it on,” I joke. “I’m not famous. In some top percentile, I think. Not well-known. I’m not even first pick.”
“Now where will you go?”
“Probably going to stay here, Ma,” I reply. “I like Denver, a lot. It speaks to me in some way I didn’t even know I wanted. There’s something about it. Not to say there’s anything wrong with where we come from, it’ll always be a part of me. But I think I want to spend a while here, set my roots down, see where things go. There’s potential.”
“I see. And the grandchildren? What about them?”
“I don’t think-” I consider how to put this lightly. “I don’t think we can. We looked into surrogate options, donors, it’s not viable. And she doesn’t even want to entertain the idea. We talked about it, and we’re going to keep trying. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Why not?” she raises her tone a bit. “Can’t my son provide for a family, pass on his excellent morals and principles? What’s these limitations you place?”
“We don’t place them,” I reiterate. “We’re only subject to them. There are physical constraints. I’m not sure what. We’ve had tests done- it’s not my area of expertise, or hers, but we know a lot of people who specialize in this sort of thing. It’s either me or her, but there’s nothing to indicate it’s either of us. Maybe- this is what she told me a while back- is that we’re just not meant to. That something would go wrong if we made the attempt, and so nature is discouraging us. Which is perfectly fine for us both.”
“Not fine for me,” she mutters. “I want grandchildren, my old age. Your sister, she has yet to marry, still looking- and your brother, he has a long while to go- you’ll probably have the best luck. I want to see you pass on.”
“Can’t you be content with me?” I ask. “Your progeny? Your actual flesh and blood, here, now? In the moment?”
“You are wonderful,” she responds. “But at the same time, you have this- this strange affect. I do not know what to call it, your father would were he here today to see. You bring many people gifts, you bring light and a definite joy- yet you are so distant. You are on a long gondola in a river of fog. You see what I mean? You do not care.”
I mull this over, but as soon as it enters my head our reverie is broken by Lamar, who carries a glass of punch with an orange slice. He’s usually dry but it doesn’t matter because he can hold his liquor. He pulls up a seat near me on the opposite side, sighs contentedly.
“This is one hell of a blend,” he states. “What’s it have, daiquiri or something?”
“I really don’t know,” I reply. “I’m not sure who made it. Probably the kitchen.”
“Well, it’s good,” he points out. “I don’t usually drink, stuff doesn’t agree, but this is a treat, tonight. Got a new son-in-law. That doesn’t happen every day.”
“And this skyline,” my mother mentions. “Wonderful. The mountains, off there. Do you ever see the mountains, eh?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Skiing,” she explains. “Hiking, mountaineering- the great lodges, cabins, resorts. I hear of Vail quite often, Breckenridge, and that kind. How often do you take your family to see?”
“We don’t, usually,” he retaliates, visibly indignant. “That’s far away for us. We like it down here. City Park, a picnic out there is enough. Close as we ever get to nature. If you’re talking a full-on weekend getaway or something- no, we don’t generally do anything like that. That’s- well, beyond our means as it stands.”
“Oh, I see. Well, no offense. I am planning to see them one of these days.”
“Okay,” he levels. “Okay, no disrespect. Just- you gotta know who you’re talking to, is all. Your boy here is smart, I like his wit. I like his style. But I don’t see myself catching onto some of the terms he uses real soon. Like, what’s a ‘bodega’? He’s always talking about how he’s heading down to one for a nicotine patch.”
“A convenience store, Lam,” I interject. “You would call them convenience stores here, I guess. Like those ones on Colfax.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I hope that term sticks around, don’t want to see ‘bodega’ get plastered all over everything. No offense.”
“None taken,” I grin, ending the exchange on a high note as I’m wont to do.
“So what’s your aim now?” Lamar asks. “Now you’re gonna settle down, really buckle into your doctor shit?”
“Oh, believe me,” I reply. “I’m on my doctor shit. Few more years here, got to finish a couple objectives, get moved up the ranks a little. Few positions I’d like to replace, help reform the internal politics of the wing a little bit, which I’ll have the power and reputation to do. And then... well, I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from here on out. Get to know you, know the area, I’m sure she’ll be able to help me in that department, because she knows it. And then... I guess we’ll see about moving out of the apartment, buying a property.” Lamar contemplates this, nodding in casual agreement. Mom seems completely spellbound in abstract visions of the future I’ve painted.
He picks up one of the presents from the reception, twists it around in his hands. It’s not the usual sort of thing you get at a wedding, at least I don’t think so. I have no idea who brought it or what significance it plays to the ceremony, but it was in the pile amid the cheap wine and cards with sobriquets and now it’s found its way onto the low glass table before us. Lamar considers it, mulls it over. He’s aware of something I’m not currently privy to.
It’s like one of those Russian nesting dolls, but it’s not painted and it’s not in humanoid form. Rather, these are nesting boxes, which are presumably for storing small trinkets. Carved from some resilient wood, shaved to precision. There are five of them in total.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty good,” he remarks. “Pretty damn good for you.” He grasps the top, pries it off, and within is another, and then he opens that one, and there’s yet another even smaller one inside...