“George?” I asked.
“Vegas. Work again.” Her words were clipped. I decided to leave it alone. I liked listening to people talk about things they loved. George was the sorest of spots for her. She sort of just pretended like her husband didn’t exist. Darius did too come to think of it. Anytime I brought him up they’d give me this blank stare like they didn’t know who I was talking about. Poor George, he really seemed to be a very nice person.
I was about to ask her about the websites she was working on for some of my friends when I froze. It was only a split second, but Fig was perceptive. Fig could sniff change in the wind like a fucking fox. Her eyes grew large and she fumbled with the milk jug she was holding.
“What kind of tea are we having?” I asked cheerfully, turning around to look at her. Her sharp little shoulders tensed up as her eyes shifted around my face. I let it go. I smiled and complimented her kitchen table, which was thankfully on the opposite end of the room away from…
My striped canister, and my Thug Life cookbook, and the three little flower jars with a single pink daisy in each one. A coincidence? Ha! My heart was pounding, but I nodded as Fig offered to give me a tour. The tour went something like this:
My kitschy Space Needle in her living room.
My cow print chair in her foyer.
My stone flower skull on her bookshelf.
My wire basket with blankets spilling out.
My cream fur throw over a chair.
My lamp.
My bed.
My living room artwork on her wall.
When our tour reached her spare bathroom I just about threw up. Darius had been right about the paint. Her bathroom wall was painted a metallic teal, the same color as the fake-out Instagram picture he posted to my wall. Could it be a coincidence? Well, how many times could you chalk it up to coincidence before it wasn’t one? It wasn’t until we reached the master bathroom, having walked through her bedroom to reach it, that the final blow came. First I saw her shower curtain, an exact replica of mine. I’d had it custom-made, and as far as I knew, there were no others like it. The blow of the whale floating beneath the surface of water, about to swallow a ship, was only softened by Darius’s cologne on her bathroom counter. That took my breath. She saw my eyes, saw my face pale, and I swear I could feel her thoughts in that moment, spiraling out of control. I waited for a lie, for a cover-up—for anything—but Fig chose to remain silent instead, leading me out of the bedroom, through the hallway and back toward the kitchen where the kettle was boiling. I lingered at the island, not knowing what to do. Should I fake illness? Stay and try to pretend everything was normal? Call her out right here and now? I felt so confused.
She was busy on the opposite side of the kitchen, her head bent over tea bags and cups. I listened to the clinking of the china for a moment before I spoke. “Fig,” I said. “What is Darius’s cologne doing in your bathroom?”
She stilled, her hand hovering over the kettle. When she turned around, there was a smile plastered on her face.
“Darius’s cologne?”
“Yeah, the bottle of 212 I saw up there.”
She turned back to her tea making. “Oh, it belongs to George. I found it under the sink. We were at Nordstrom a while back and someone was giving out samples. He loved it, bought it right away. I didn’t know Darius wore that too.” She turned back to her tea making while I pondered her words. I knew for a fact that Nordstrom didn’t sell that cologne. In fact, I ordered it for Darius from an online website that shipped from Europe. She was lying. Why?
Chills crept up my spine. Was it Darius’s cologne? Oh god. I took the tea with shaking hands. I’d been the one to buy it for him years ago. It definitely wasn’t mainstream and it was hard to find.
“You okay?” Fig asked, cocking her head to the side. “You’re shaking like me after chemo.” She laughed. A distraction! Good.
“Yeah, I’m worried about my dad. Have you had a doctor’s appointment lately? What are they saying?”
She did what she did every time someone brought up her cancer, she wouldn’t make eye contact. She’d stare at the ground and try very hard to not answer your question.
“You know … same ol’, same ol’…”
“Well, are your test results coming back clean? Are they finding anything we should be worried about?”
“There’s always something, she said. But, I’m fine. I deal. I’m mostly not okay, just trying to survive. I think about death a lot…” Her voice dropped away as she stared into her tea. If I weren’t so used to this I would have fallen for it. It was a brilliant diversion tactic and she used it in almost every situation. You became so distracted worrying about her that you completely forgot your question wasn’t answered.
“Are the tumors benign?” I tried again, something more direct.
“I have more tests next month.”
“To find out if the tumors are benign?”
She shrugged. I looked at my watch.
“I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for the tea.”
When I got back to the house, I locked the kitchen door. I never kept it locked, something Darius was always on me about. He’d say, Someone can just come right in here and…
And what? I’d say. Because no one wanted to say rape out loud. I knew he was right. I was just being stubborn. But, I didn’t lock the door because I was afraid of rapists, or the robbers. I locked it because I wasn’t sure what exactly was happening. What I’d allowed into our lives.