We sit in my car outside Jesmyn’s house.
“Do you have something in mind?” Jesmyn sits cross-legged in the passenger seat. Girls are light-years ahead of guys in sitting-on-car-seat innovation.
“Kinda, yeah. You down with Bobbie’s Dairy Dip?”
“Never been.”
“Your dad said y’all just moved here. I remember Eli mentioning that.”
“Yep, from Jackson, Tennessee. Few months ago.”
“Do you like Nashville?”
“You kidding? There’s music everywhere. I belong here.”
“So Bobbie’s Dairy Dip is an ice cream place. We used to get peanut butter and banana milkshakes there.”
“ ‘We’ meaning you and Eli, Mars, and Blake?”
“Yeah. It was kind of a tradition.”
“Both the Southerner and the Filipino in me dig the sound of peanut butter and banana milkshakes.”
I start the car and pull away. My mouth outruns my brain. “So I didn’t realize—”
“What?”
Shit. “You’re adopted.”
She cocks her head quizzically. “Wait…what?”
“Uh.”
She turns in her seat. “What—what are you saying?” she asks softly.
I’m slack-jawed.
“My whole life is a lie,” she whispers, her face solemn. “My obviously white dad and mom are not my real parents?”
I’m still speechless.
She laughs. A clean, bright, and silver sound, like wind chimes. “Come on, dude,” she says. “Does ‘Jesmyn Holder’ sound like a Filipino name to you?”
I can’t help but join her laughing. “I’m not an expert in what’s a Filipino name and what isn’t.”
“Holder. As in the English word for one who holds something.”
“All right. Well.”
“Well.”
“Were your ancestors way into holding stuff or what?”
“I guess? Like…swords or geese or horseshoes or whatever old-timey people were into holding.”
“Whatever it was, they were into holding it enough that that’s what everyone thought they should be named.”
We pull up to Bobbie’s. “So what’s your deal, ancestry-wise?” she asks, not moving to unbuckle her seat belt.
“My dad is Irish—like literally from Ireland—my mom is some mix of German and Welsh or something.”
“Really? Your hair and eyes look too dark to be Irish.”
“My dad says we’re called ‘Black Irish.’ ”
“Does your dad have a cool accent?”
“He’s lived in America for a long time, so it’s pretty faded, but yeah.”
A stab of guilt steals my breath. Eli isn’t here because of me, while I joke around with his girlfriend and talk about who we are and where we came from; while we partake of a tradition that should have been Eli’s. I beat down a wave of queasiness and dread. Please, God, not here. Not now. Not a panic attack in the Bobbie’s Dairy Dip parking lot with Jesmyn Holder sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat of my Honda Civic. I stare forward and inhale deeply. And again. And again. Jesmyn’s voice snaps me back.
“Hey. Carver. Are you okay?”
I look over at her but can’t form words. I’m trying to decide how honest to be, but my mind isn’t working right.
“You look pale,” she says. “Everything cool?”
I nod unsteadily and take another deep breath. “Yeah. Just…a thing. I’m cool.”
“You sure?” She unbuckles her seat belt.
I start to say yes but surging nausea cuts me off, so I give a thumbs-up.
By the time we get our milkshakes, I’m better.
“Did Eli ever tell you about squirrel rodeo?” I ask, pulling out of Bobbie’s parking lot and driving toward Centennial Park.
Jesmyn gives me the expression you would expect from someone just asked about her familiarity with something called “squirrel rodeo.”
“I’m guessing not,” I say. “We had this tradition where after we got milkshakes, we’d go to Centennial Park and play squirrel rodeo. It’s a game where you try to steer squirrels along a path.”
“I can’t imagine why Eli didn’t brag to his cool girlfriend about this,” she says.
“It’s more fun than it sounds.”
“Is that even possible?” A hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
I smile and we drive on.
“So,” I say after a while. “How are you?”
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” she says.
“Same. I wonder if I’m ever going to feel normal again.”
“I was talking about it with my mom. She lost a friend in college. She said it takes time. There’s not a pill you can swallow or anything.”
Even if there were such a pill, I’m not sure I’d let myself have it. I’m not sure I would feel deserving.
“So your parents are pretty good to talk to?” I ask.
“Definitely.”
“That’s cool.”
“Do you talk with your parents?”
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“I mean, they’re great parents and they’re always telling me I can talk to them. I just don’t. Too weird.”
She licks a drip from the side of her cup. “Do you have anyone to talk to? Obviously we’re talking, but…”
“Yeah, my sister Georgia. We’re tight. But she starts up at UT like a week after our school starts.”
“I wish I had siblings closer in age. I have two older brothers, Bo and Zeke, but they’re ten and twelve years older than me.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, they’re married and have kids and stuff. They don’t even live around here. I’m basically an only child.”
It’s dusk when we arrive at Centennial Park. We start walking.
“All right, squirrel rodeo time,” I say.
“What am I supposed to be doing?”
I explain.
“So I have to keep the squirrel on the path for eight seconds?” Jesmyn asks.
“That’s right.”
We pass people holding hands, having picnics, taking engagement photos, kissing, throwing babies in the air. Summertime parks are where the most vibrant displays of living go on. I wonder if watching people live is something that will ever again fade into the background for me.
I examine Jesmyn’s face for some clue of what she’s thinking. I’m unable to read her yet.
She busts me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Do I have something on my face?”
“No.”
“Okay,” she says softly, pointing at a squirrel by the side of the path, its tail twitching. “Start the clock.” She moves carefully and steers the squirrel onto the path. It jumps a few feet and stops. She pursues it with quick, fine steps, her cowboy boots making a clip-clopping on the pavement, like little hooves. The squirrel leaps along the path a few more feet and starts to veer off to the right. She cuts it off and it keeps moving along the path.
I watch her in the yellow haze of the declining day. She moves with a certain natural rhythm; maybe because she’s a musician. It’s a relief to find beauty in something.
She turns back to me, smiling. “How long?”
“What?”
“Dude, you were supposed to be timing me.”
“I had a panic attack,” I blurt out, unclear on why I chose this exact moment to confess this.
Her smile dims; a cloud covering the sun. “What? Like while you were timing me?”
“No, no. The night of Blake’s funeral. I had a full-on panic attack. My sister took me to the hospital and everything.”
“Holy shit, Carver.” She motions to a nearby bench and we sit.
“I’m okay now. The doctor didn’t even give me any medicine.”
“What was it like?”
I start to answer but pause to let a couple with a stroller pass by. “Being buried alive. Falling through ice.”
“What are you going to do to treat them?”
I lean forward and run my fingers through my hair. “Maybe I’ll—I don’t know, actually. Maybe see if they keep happening, and if they do I’ll talk to someone, I guess.”
“Like a psychiatrist or something?”
“I don’t really want to.”
“It’s what I’d do if I were you.”
“Are you talking to someone? Professional?”
“Not besides my parents. But I would if I were having panic attacks.”
We sit there for a while without saying anything.
“I’m sorry this night’s turned into such a bummer,” I say. “It was supposed to be fun. Getting back to normal a little bit. Doing the tradition.”
“You knew Eli. Did you think all our dates were rainbows and ponies and ice cream?”
“No.”
“Not that this is a date.”
My face reddens. “I know.”
Thankfully, Jesmyn doesn’t acknowledge my embarrassment. “We talked about real shit that matters. I’m not scared to have genuine conversations.”
“Me neither.”
“Then this friendship has a shot, I guess.”
“I hope.”
We settle into a comfortable silence and watch the sky darken, the sun setting. The breeze is soft, as though the day’s breathing is slowing before it sleeps.
When I finally speak again, it’s not to fill the lull but because I want to talk. “Blake’s grandma invited me to spend one more day with her. I guess we’d do the things she wishes she and Blake had gotten to do together for his last day on Earth. Try to re-create his personality or story or whatever.”
“How would that work?”
“Never done one.”
“That sounds tough. Like emotionally.”
“Oh, I’ve considered that.”
“Are you gonna do it?”
“Not sure.” I want to tell her how hungry I am for some absolution. But that would be an admission of guilt, and right now, that’s my secret, a box of snakes under my pillow. I also want to tell her how afraid I am that I won’t be able to do Blake’s story justice and that’s what’s making me hesitant.
A few moments slip by. “You ever been to the beach in November?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“I have. Once. My aunt got married on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. In November. Georgia and I were so excited to be going to the beach. We packed swimming suits and everything.”
“Isn’t it way cold?”
“Our parents tried to tell us that, but we didn’t listen. Anyway, we get there and everything is closed. Nobody around. The beach is freezing. But you couldn’t tell how cold the beach was by looking. There aren’t leafless trees there or anything. The ocean looks the same; everything looks the same. So it could be summer, except that the beach is deserted and everything’s closed. It’s a really sad and lonely feeling.”
Jesmyn tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I bet.”
“That’s me now, inside. Beach-in-November.”
Jesmyn stands. “Come with me.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“No, to where we can see the skyline. I’m still not used to getting to see skyscrapers every day.”
We walk to the other side of the park, where we have a view of Nashville’s skyline, twinkling in the humid distance. Jesmyn sits in the grass.
“Not worried about chigger bites?” I ask.
“Not really.”
I sit beside her. “I’d hate for us to have any unshared tribulation.”
“I can see why Eli liked you so much.”
“You can?”
“Yeah. You use words the way a musician uses surprise chords in a song.”
“That a good thing?”
“I’m not going to insult you after you’ve enriched my life by showing me squirrel rodeo,” Jesmyn says with a half smile.
“Did you and Eli talk about music a lot?”
“Does ninety percent of the time count as a lot?”
“Talking with me must be pretty beach-in-November.”
She shakes her head and stares at the buildings, rising bone white into the sky. She looks distant. Haunted.
I study her face. “Sorry if I said something dumb.”
“You didn’t.”
“What then?”
She keeps her eyes fixed on the skyline. She takes a deep breath. “I’m scared. School starts in two days and I’m not sure I’m ready anymore.”
“Me neither.”
“Even with Eli gone, I have one more friend going in than I expected. But I’m still terrified.”
“I have a lot fewer friends than I expected. So I get it.”
Jesmyn shifts position, sitting cross-legged. She picks at blades of grass. “And now I’m scared of dying before I do all the things I want to do in life. Seventeen years isn’t enough. There are so many pieces I want to learn. I want to record albums and perform. I never used to obsess about dying.”
“Me neither. I sometimes look at my bookshelf now and think about how someday I’m going to die without ever reading a lot of the books there. And one might be life-changingly good and I’ll never know.”
Jesmyn reaches over and gently picks a ladybug off my sleeve. “Will you go with me on the first day of school? Like walk into the school with me?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Jesmyn lies on the grass with her hands behind her head. I stay sitting.
“I have an idea,” she murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“We should make a rule that we only spend some of our time talking about the past.”
“Probably a good idea.” I’m glad she suggested it, because I don’t feel like I have the right to.
“It doesn’t mean we care about them less. It just means that we still have to live.”
On the street adjoining the park, a car passes, blaring music from open windows. A group of seven or eight Vanderbilt-aged kids walks past, giggling and chattering. A father and mother stroll by on the path, the father carrying an exhausted toddler on his shoulders.
Night descends as a falling blanket. The city is a constellation of lights, each one representing a hand that turned the lightbulb. A hand attached to a mind containing a universe of memories and myths; a natural history of loves and wounds.
Life everywhere. Pulsing, humming. A great wheel turning. A light blinks out here, one replaces it there. Always dying. Always living. We survive until we don’t.
All of this ending and beginning is the only thing that’s infinite.