It might have been a lightly tossed-off comment. Raymond wasn’t sure. But he decided to approach it as a genuine question.
“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever known . . . I might not say it right. We’ll see . . . who really sees me. And I mean the whole thing of me, not just the part that fits with how they want to see me. And it seems weird to me, because the first person I met who really sees me for all of who I am . . . you know . . . can’t see.”
“When it comes to seeing what is important about a person,” she said, “I think it’s possible that what our eyes tell us is only a distraction. Not that I wouldn’t take them back if I could. Oh, I would. I miss seeing. But I also like the things I’ve learned to see without them.”
“What if I made you two scrambled eggs?” he asked, sensing a slight lift in the mood. Both of their moods. “Would you try to eat two?”
“Yes. For Raymond, at least I will try.”
When he arrived back at his own apartment, he closed himself into his room and opened his laptop. He found what he had hoped to find: an email from Isabel.
Dear Raymond, it said.
I think it’s hitting us all hard, those of us who knew him well. But this is new information for her, so be patient. It’s nice that you’re worried about her, but people take time to process bad news. I’m not even going to try to tell you that worry is not appropriate. Maybe it is. I’m only going to remind you of something you likely already know: that there’s not a whole lot you can do to help her with this. You’re making sure she has her basic needs met, and that’s a lot.
I’ll come by with the kids on Saturday, while you’re away at your father’s.
Should I think about running to the store for her, or will you be making sure she has enough in the house to eat before you go?
Thanks for everything. You’re a very sweet boy.
Sincerely,
Isabel Velez
Raymond sat a minute, feeling the way his face burned whenever someone said a thing like that to him. Even in writing. Even when they were nowhere around.
Then he hit “Reply.”
Isabel, he typed.
I’ll go through her cupboards this week and make sure she’s stocked up on everything. It’s hard to get her to eat much, but there have to be enough groceries in the house that I can push her to eat a little, which is what I’ve been doing. You might try getting her to eat something while you’re there. If it works, I’ll appreciate it. Or even if it doesn’t, thank you for trying.
—Raymond
No sooner had he hit “Send” than the door to his room flew open, and his mother’s voice bellowed in.
“Get off the line with your girlfriend and come eat dinner,” she said. “I can’t believe I had to call you twice.”
His father’s wife opened the apartment door. His stepmother, he should probably have called her. But she was less than ten years older than Raymond, so it felt too weird.
He tended to call her by her first name, despite having no idea if she objected to that or not.
“Hi, Neesha,” he said.
It was Friday afternoon, and he had no choice but to show up at this door. It was the way his life had been planned out for him. He had no way of influencing the situation. Not that he minded seeing his father; that was generally good. But it was uncomfortable to have to show up on Friday before the man was even home.
“Raymond,” she said in reply.
That’s all. Just “Raymond.” Not “Hello.” Not “How are you?” or even “Come in.” Just a statement of his name, a random fact. A bit of trivia she probably felt she was doing well enough by remembering.
He stood in silence in the hallway, looking down at her through the open apartment door. His canvas duffel bag rested on one shoulder. It was beginning to feel heavy.
“He’s still at the office?”
“Yeah. So what’s new?”
She stepped backward out of the doorway. Raymond knew it was the closest she would come to inviting him in. Then again, this was a custody arrangement. He lived here every other weekend by order of a judge. It did not require her permission.
He moved into the living room and stood, still carrying the heavy duffel bag on his shoulder. There were two twenty-dollar bills on the coffee table. He stared down at them, not sure if he wanted to bring them up in conversation. They might have been his allowance. His father often gave him a fairly generous allowance, at least compared to Ed. But he didn’t dare pick them up until he knew for sure.
It might have been a test. Sometimes with Neesha there were tests.
“I have my book group tonight,” she said when she noticed him staring at the bills. “And I didn’t get a chance to cook anything.”
It seemed like an odd statement to Raymond, because she never cooked on the Fridays when he arrived.
“So order some pizza for you and Malcolm,” she added.
She never called him “your dad” or “your father.” Never. She seemed to be in some disagreement about that reality. Or at least a degree of denial.
“You know what he likes on it. Right?”
“Yeah. Same things I do.”
Like father, like son. Whether you like it or not.
“I have to go,” she said.
She grabbed up her purse and let herself out. Raymond walked into his secondary bedroom and dropped the duffel bag onto the bed. Then he came out and turned on the TV.
He had forgotten to bring the book he’d been in the middle of reading. There wasn’t much else to do.
His father didn’t come home until almost seven o’clock in the evening.
Raymond looked up from his pizza as he heard the door being unlocked.
His father came in with his jacket over one shoulder, despite the fact that it was fairly cold outside. He held a never-lit cigar in his teeth, and Raymond knew he was not allowed to smoke it in the house. He smiled when he saw Raymond sitting on the couch, watching TV. Which was nice, as far as a thing like that goes.