My Body Remembers Your Face

Sensitive Content: substance abuse; mentions child abuse

“Look at the camera, Milo,” he says, waving his hands back and forth, “Come on, Milo. Look over here, right here.”

3-year-old Milo is entranced with a butterfly, his pudgy hands reaching for it.

The man laughs and walks over to Milo, picks him up and they smile at each other, Milo now reaching for the man’s face.

At that moment, Lana takes the picture.

Thirty Years later

I’m standing on a street corner with the clothes I had on when I was thrown in jail. I’m carrying a plastic bag with the things I had on me: my wallet, keys to a car I don’t own anymore, a bandaid, a broken plastic watch my daughter gave me when she was three, an empty plastic water bottle and a red bandana. They don’t often tell you that after you get thrown in jail, they don’t let someone just come pick you up. I mean, sometimes they do, I guess. But also, in my case and lots of others, they’ll drive you somewhere. Somewhere you don’t even know. Somewhere you’ve never been, and they’ll just leave you there. And that’s me right now. And because everyone has a cell phone, there are no pay phones.

I look around.

I look down the street and see a woman walking toward me.

I put on my best smile.

She sees me and hurriedly crosses the street so she can walk on the other side.

I start to open my mouth to say something to her, to say that all I wanted was to use her phone for a sec, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the store window I’m standing in front of and realize:

I look like shit. My clothes are dirty. And I’m wearing a bracelet that basically screams, “I just got out of jail!” Or “I escaped a mental hospital!”

Neither are great.

I take out my wallet with the slim hope that there is some cash inside of it.

When I was arrested, I was blackout drunk at a bar, so my hope is that I didn’t spend all of my money. Maybe some part of me anticipated I’d be in this situation.

The wallet is empty of cash.

As usual, I did not anticipate the future.

I take out a credit card and hold it as if it could actually save me.

It can’t. There’s nothing on it. I know this for a fact.

I maxed it out the night before I got arrested.

I maxed it out at a strip club.

I know. So original.

But I could still use the credit card.

I look back at the store window and straighten my hair out as much as possible.

I put the wallet and broken watch in my back pocket.

I toss the water bottle, keys, and bandana into the trash.

I try to rip off my bracelet but of course it’s nearly impossible to take off. If I keep trying, I know I’ll have to use the bandaid I just threw away.

I walk down to the Starbucks on the corner.

I keep my hands behind my back as I walk in. As if I’m just leisurely strolling. As if I’m not hiding anything.

The young woman behind the counter doesn’t wince when she sees me, and I take this as a good omen.

“Can I have a grande macchiato, please?” I ask sweetly.

“Of course,” she says, “Your name please?”

“Milo,” I say.

“$3.50,” she says.

I put my hands below the counter and take out my card.

I hand it to her.

I watch as she tries to charge it.

Tries again.

She looks at me and blushes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says quietly, “It won’t go through.”

I make my eyes go wide.

I am counting on her goodness.

I am counting on the knowledge that most people do not like to be the bearer of bad news.

“What do you mean?” I ask, “Can you please try again?”

She nods and tries.

She looks at me and her blush deepens. She shakes her head.

I sigh, “It’s ok. Sorry to trouble you.”

“Oh no! I’m sorry!” she says shaking her head, as if she’s the one to blame.

I start to walk away and then turn around, “Do you think I could borrow your phone? I was going to ask after I bought something, but…”

“Oh,” she says, “Um. Sure yea. You can use mine.”

Success.

I beam at her.

“Thank you so much,” I gush.

I take her phone.

I sit at the table right in front of the counter so she can see me.

So, she knows I’m not going to run off with it.

I stare at the screen.

I dial the number I always dial when I get in trouble.

And there’s a small part of me that hopes she won’t pick up.

That maybe she knows enough now not to answer unknown numbers.

That maybe she’s finally realized she needs to cut ties.

It rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Kathy,” I say, “It’s Milo.”

 Kathy and I are silent as she drives.

I’ve tried small talk, but all I get are one-word answers.

So, I stop.

It’s now been 20 minutes of silence and I’m bouncing my legs up and down like a goddamn child and tapping my fingers against the dashboard because I can’t stand the quiet.

I glance over at Kathy to see if my movements are causing any sort of reaction. But her face remains stoic. Gaze straight ahead. As if I’m not even here.

At 21 minutes, I can’t take it.

“Come on, Kathy. Let's go somewhere. Get a few drinks?"

She doesn't answer.

"Kathy-

"Milo, you just got out of jail. Let's just...chill. Ok?" she says, finally looking my way.

"Who are you and what'd you do with my sister?" I mutter.

She doesn't respond.

Just takes a deep breath like I'm an obstacle that needs to be overcome.

And the silence is there again.

Dreadful and consuming.

So, I roll down my window and stick my head out, letting the sound of the wind comfort me.

An hour later we are driving on a very familiar dirt road.

This is the road I dream about.

And there’s the house at the end of it.

I haven’t been here since I was 16.

Kathy moved in when I went to jail and has since made it look ‘cute,’ with plants on the porch and a rocking chair. She’s had it re-painted, so it looks almost idyllic. A place where a family can thrive. Have happy memories.

But as you probably guessed, this is not the house of my memories.

The house I remember was an ugly brown with nothing on the porch but cigarette butts; a screen door that was practically off its hinges, always swaying and threatening to whack someone in the face. And sitting on the porch almost 100% of the time, was my father. Smoking the cigarettes and drinking the whiskey and having nothing to say to either me or Kathy unless it was to go buy him another pack of smokes from the liquor store.

I get out of the car and stare at the house I don’t recognize.

I pull out a pack of cigarettes that I made Kathy buy me when she picked me up.

I can see her staring at me as I light it.

We both used to hate the smell and here I am inhaling like it’s the best thing ever (it is).

But Kathy knows that I am nothing if not a hypocrite.

Just like our father.

“Looks good,” I tell her.

“Mmm,” she says.

We are both still standing by the car.

I look at her and open my mouth, start to ask her why she moved back. Why she’s living in our childhood hellhole. Why-

“I want to show you something,” she says and starts walking toward the house.

I stare at my little sister and, not for the first time since she’s picked me up, notice how different she is.

“You take up yoga or something?” I ask her as we get to the porch.

She laughs and turns to look at me, “No…just stopped drinking.”

I don’t say anything.

I know I should cause it’s a big deal.

And I know it’s a good thing, but I’m also ashamed to admit that I’m disappointed to lose my life-long drinking buddy.

She’s staring at me, waiting for a reaction I don’t give, so she just smiles sadly and continues into the house.

It looks as different on the inside as it does on the outside. 

It’s clean and has new furniture and there are no dirty dishes in the sink and there are fresh flowers on the table and there are pictures of people smiling on the wall.

I walk toward the pictures and stare at younger versions of me and Kathy. Pictures where we look like happy children even though we weren’t. A picture of our parents, both smoking and smirking at the camera. A picture of me with my daughter and my daughter’s mom. I look at it and then look at Kathy who’s watching me.

“I found it on Natalie’s Facebook,” she says.

“Hm,” I say.

“Have you spoken to her?” she asks.

I shake my head.

Kathy nods.

I haven’t spoken to my daughter, Sylvia, or her mother Natalie, in years.

I tell myself it’s because Natalie told me to stop calling, to stop visiting, to stop getting Sylvia’s hopes up.

But really, it’s because I don’t want to see her.

I don’t want the reminder that I turned out to be just as bad of a father as my own.

“Follow me,” Kathy says.

I follow her down the hallway and look into the room that used to be ours.

She’s made it into an office.

“Don’t you have nightmares living here?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, just keeps going until she reaches the room at the end of the hall.

Our parents’ room.

“I haven’t touched this one yet,” she says without turning around, “I’m still going through stuff.”

She opens the door and steps aside.

I stay where I am, looking at Kathy.

“Why did you move back?” I ask.

I feel like I already know the answer, but I want to hear her say it.

“I’m selling,” she says without looking at me, “I’m selling…and then moving to Seattle with Leonard.”

I feel like she’s just punched me in the gut.

“Who the fuck is Leonard?” I ask.

“My boyfriend,” she says, still not looking at me.

“Boyfriend,” I repeat as if I don’t know what the word means.

Hours ago, I sorta hoped she wouldn’t answer the phone.

I wanted her to be living a life without me always dragging her down.

And here she is about to do it, and all I can do is brush passed her into a room I still have nightmares about, because going in there is easier than looking at her.

“Milo,” she says quietly but I don’t turn around.

I stare at the boxes piled on the bed and the stack of what look like photos and letters lying beside them.

“What’d you wanna show me?” I ask without turning around, trying to keep my voice even.

She’s silent for a moment and then I feel her walk around me, toward the pile of photos and letters.

She picks up a photo lying on top of the rest and hands it to me.

I stare at it and feel the ground beneath me start to shift.

It’s a picture of me.

I’m maybe 2 or 3 and holding me is a man who, even though I don’t remember ever seeing him before, is causing my heart to pound as if I’m on PCP.

He looks just like me.

And as I stare at the picture more, the world begins to blur.

And then there’s darkness.

I come to and Kathy is standing over me.

I’m lying on our parents’ bed.

I sit up.

“So,” I say, “I’m guessing that’s my real dad?”

Kathy nods, “I’m assuming so.”

“The rumors were true then,” I say, looking at the pile of photos next to me.

Kathy doesn’t say anything.

Everyone always said I looked nothing like my father.

That I had to have been bred by someone else.

But my mother swore up and down that I was his.

That my looks simply came from her side of the family.

And my father never contradicted her.

But he sure did hit me a lot and burn me with his cigarettes.

But, then again, he did the same thing to Kathy.

So.

“There’s more,” Kathy says.

She takes some letters and hands them to me.

I open the first one.

Dear Lana,

I know you’re married now, and I don’t want to interrupt your life, but I do want to see Milo.

Please.

He’s my son, Lana, and I love him.

I want to be a part of his life.

I open the second one.

Lana, it isn’t right to keep a father from his son.

I helped you raise him for the first three years.

You were hardly ever with us anyway, and you know it, but you think it’s ok to take him from me?

Please write me back.

I just want to see my son.

I open the third one.

I can come find you, you know.

I can get the courts involved.

You were the one who cheated on me and honestly? I don’t even care about that.

I just want to see Milo.

Write me back.

The next several letters are,

Tell him I love him.

Here’s some money for his clothes.

Here’s some money for his schooling.

Here’s some money for toys.

For a car.

Tell Milo I love him.

I stare at the pile of letters.

“Why didn’t he come find me?” I ask.

I don’t recognize my voice.

I sound like a little boy.

“I don’t think he knew where you were,” Kathy says, “He was writing to a P.O. box.”

I nod.

“You know what’s funny?” I ask.

“What?” she responds softly.

“She didn’t even like me,” I say, “Mom didn’t even like me. Why wouldn’t she just let me go?”

Kathy is quiet for a long time, “Maybe it’s because she didn’t like you…Maybe she didn’t want you to be happy.”

I look at Kathy and something cracks inside of me.

Before I know it, before I can stop it, the tears are rolling down my face.

Kathy swoops in and wraps her arms around me.

She doesn’t say anything. She just lets me sob.

And I do.

For a long time.

And believe it or not, it’s the first time I’ve cried in about 24 years.

Our parents went ballistic if we cried, so we never did.

I start to quiet down and look at Kathy who has tears in her eyes too.

I wipe them from her face.

“Thanks,” I say.

She nods.

I sit down on the bed, and she sits next to me.

“So,” I say, “When do you go to Seattle?”

“We’re supposed to leave in three months,” she says, “I wanted…to give you time. To get settled. Find a place.”

I nod.

“I can push it back,” she starts to say, “I can tell Leonard-

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “No. You go.”

“You sure?” Kathy asks, her eyes narrowed.

She’s looking at me like she’s afraid I’m going to run out to the liquor store and drown my sorrows like I usually do.

And it's crossed my mind.

But right now, I don’t want to do that.

“I want to meet Leonard,” I say, shifting the conversation onto her, “I want to meet this guy you’re actually in a relationship with.”

Kathy laughs.

As long as we’ve been adults, she’s never had a relationship.

One-night stands, sure. But never a relationship.

“I want you to meet him,” she says smiling, “He’s…a good man.”

“He helped you quit drinking?” I ask.

She nods.

“I feel good when I’m with him,” she says, “I feel at peace.”

“Wow,” I say, “What’s that like?”

“Strange,” she says.

We both chuckle.

I pick up the letters and look at the address he’s writing from.

It’s not too far from here.

“That’s not too far from here,” Kathy says, reading my mind.

“He might not even be there,” I say, looking down at the envelope.

“We can google him,” Kathy says.

I look at her.

I nod.

We go to the computer and type in his name.

His face is the first image to pop up along with a Facebook link.

His hair is grayer, his cheeks are fuller, but it’s absolutely him.

Kathy clicks on it.

She writes that she’s my sister and that she found his photos and letters while cleaning out the house.

She hits send, and we both stand there in silence.

As if he’s going to respond right away.

As if that actually happens in real life.

A ding sound comes from the computer and we both jump.

You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this message. Please call me.

I stare at it.

I stare at Kathy.

She hands me her phone.

I dial the number.

I hear ringing.

“Hello?”

His voice makes the hair on my arms stand up.

My heart begins to pound.

“Hello,” I say, "Um...this is Milo."

“Oh my god,” he says, his voice immediately cracking.

There is a pause.

I think I can hear him crying.

And then,

"Hi, Milo."