Mangoes

Chapter 9

After we finish hugging, Mason, Mom, and I sit in the living room. Mom admires the plants, telling Mason how impressed she is by their ability to maintain all of them, though I’ve noticed some are yellowing in their leaves. A few sag toward the floor, sickly and flaccid. Mason has left out their bottle of whiskey from the other night, now nearly empty. They screw the cap onto it and roll it under the couch. An ashtray with a half dozen cigarette butts—one still smoking—sits on the coffee table on top of the packet on post-stroke care. Mom hates cigarette smoke, says smokers are disgusting. She doesn’t bring this up. She suggests we clear off the table and play a board game. Mason gives a noncommittal grunt. I get up, pick the packet and ashtray off the table, and place them on the kitchen counter, then go to the hallway closet where Mason keeps their board games. I browse, looking for a game simple enough to keep us all engaged. I settle on a game about birdwatching. It’s one of my favorites, though it requires three people, so Mason and I haven’t played it much. Last time, Aunt Dee was our third player.

We take our turns, collecting bird cards from a central deck and adding them to our hands. We spend tokens with binoculars printed on them to gather victory points. Mason wins with a European starling. I think I see a smile glint across their face. Board games are a therapeutic type of controlled stress. We subject ourselves to arbitrary rules for an hour and compete to see who can manipulate them the best. I’ve always loved them.

We order pizza and talk between bites. Mason tells us about a commission they got to paint a baby’s portrait, how it’s the ugliest baby they’ve ever seen. They show me a reference photo of an infant with crinkled fingers and a little upturned nose. I don’t think the baby’s that ugly, but I keep this to myself. Mom says I was an ugly baby, too, square-headed and grey for the first minutes of my life. The word “brick” comes to my mind. I wonder what Mason was like as a baby, delicate and vulnerable, a pudgy little thing made to be loved. I look at them now, while they describe another piece they’ve been working on, and feel a welling sadness. It’s all I can do not to cry in front of my friend. They need strength now, stability, something I can’t provide but which must exist out there somewhere. I have to believe there is a place for Mason. There will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year.

We stay up late into the night listening to Mason’s favorite music, energetic punk and experimental hip-hop. It’s the type of music you dance to in a mad frenzy, electrifying your every movement, lyrics white-hot with political fury. They sit still by the stereo as the speakers rattle inches from their ears. Mom taps her foot along politely, though I know the music is too loud for her, even across the room. I wonder how many similar sacrifices she’s made for my sake.

Mom and I spend the night, her on the couch and me on the cot. She falls asleep, snoring minutes after Mason leaves for their bed and turns off the light. I stay up with my phone inches from my face, googling “How to help a grieving friend.” I read a short list of instructions. The article’s author tells me to reach out, to offer practical help when needed, to listen, and to avoid platitudes. Seems workable. It mentions nothing about what to do when the biosphere that depends on your friend begins to die. I google “Mango plant care” and scroll through YouTube videos until I pass out.

***

Mom’s awake before me, still horizontal on the couch, scrolling on her phone. Mason’s door is shut. I stand up and stretch, impressions of the cot’s seams on my forearms zig-zagging railroads across my skin. I go to the kitchen and fill a glass with tap water. A snake plant sits in a green glazed pot on the window sill above the sink. I stick my finger into the soil and find that it’s bone dry. I pour my glass of water into the pot and fill it again. I sip, then place it next to the stovetop. I retrieve a pan from the drawer under the oven and wipe it out with a damp paper towel. From the refrigerator I grab a package of soy breakfast sausages and a quarter stick of butter. I turn them over and read the instructions. I’m a terrible cook but I can follow directions. I open the plastic package with a kitchen knife and set the burner to medium. I leave the vent fan above the stove off. I hope the smell lures Mason out of their room.

The smoke detector shrieks just outside Mason’s bedroom door. I bat at the cloud that has drifted through the house, acrid and billowing. I stand on my tiptoes and unscrew the screaming thing from the ceiling. I yank out the batteries and shove them into my pocket, then rush back to the kitchen. Mom, who has been covering her ears the entire time, relaxes and returns to scrolling. The pan is off the burner but the oil still sputters with the heat. I use a dish brush to scrape at the burnt mess. It’s not coming off. I’m running it under hot water when Mason’s door opens behind me. I turn around and see them standing there in a chest binder, a plaid overshirt, and grey sweatpants. I hope they didn’t sleep in the binder.

“Bee,” Mason says. “What are you doing?”

“I was going to make breakfast. I’m sorry. I’ll replace the sausages.” The empty package sits at the top of the garbage can. I’ve already taken a picture of the label so I can find it at the store again.

“It’s fine.” They yawn and scratch their neck. “Hey, we gotta talk.” They invite me into their room with a wave of their hand. Mason’s room doubles as their studio. One corner is dedicated to their collection of paint and brushes, neatly arranged on a column of hanging shelves. Half-finished paintings scatter the floor. An easel rests on top of a crumpled white sheet spattered with paint. It holds a canvas with the beginnings the ugly baby’s portrait. I sit on the foot of Mason’s bed. They sit at their desk, wringing their hands.

“I’m gonna sell this house,” Mason says. They look down at their feet. “My aunt’s lease is ending next month. She left me a little money, so I can pay that off and move wherever I want.”

“Are you gonna move out to the west coast?” I ask. I see that their computer is open to a page of apartment listings in California.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s time for a change.”

“I don’t want to be so far from you.” I don’t know if this is the right thing to say, but it’s true. I doubt it will change their mind. Mason nods slightly but says nothing. They turn back to their screen and scroll aimlessly.

“It’s just, there are too many memories here.”

“What’s going to happen to your plants?” I ask.

“I don’t know. After Mom died, I couldn't stand to see this house empty. It drove me crazy. I needed to see something alive in here. Now I just don’t care. I kind of hate them.”

I don’t know what to say. Voicing my concern about the well-being of plants seems silly in light of Mason’s loss. I opt to stay silent.

Mason and I became friends in Ms. Song’s class. They were the only other student who regularly ate lunch in her room, and we bonded over video games. They told me they wanted to be an artist, that they loved to draw, how every other subject in school felt like pulling teeth, how, if they had their way, everyone would only have to study what they want. I told them that even math was important, that we need to be able to understand the world in order to be a part of it, that the universe made math exactly as it is so that humans can do things like go to the moon or cure cancer. Mason told me that they hated God for making them a girl. I told them I sometimes hated being a boy, but I didn’t see what God had to do with that. Mason and I would talk about philosophy at recess, our middle school level understanding of it, at least. Mason later told me that these conversations were the reason they lost their faith. I still don’t know how to feel about it.

On the way to her place, Mom tells me a story of the first time Mason came to our house. They brought their sketchbook and we took turns drawing characters, giving them voices and backstories. Mom says that she heard me laugh harder than I ever had before or since. She says we were perfect for each other.

When the two of us were in sophomore year of high school, we kissed. Mom doesn’t know this. It only happened once, after they told me they wanted to be close to me in the way that regular friends aren’t. I felt so ashamed, like I had hurt them in some way. I felt like I had manipulated them into doing it. They told me it was fun, but they didn’t want to do it again. I spent a week afraid that they would never talk to me again. A month later, their mom died. When we returned home from college on winter break for the first time, Mason told me their mom had been an alcoholic. She was an ER nurse, and she drank to cope. They told me that she wasn’t around much, but that when she was, she’d act belligerent. She told them once that she wished she’d never had a child. Mason’s dad has never been in the picture.

I ask Mom to stop at a hardware store. I run in and pick up a terracotta plant pot, soil, and a watering can printed with pink flowers. At home, I pour dirt into the pot, moisten it, and dig out a hole big enough for the mango seedling. I place it in, now with a spindly root a couple inches long and a stem just barely poking out.

***

It’s the middle of the afternoon when I get the email telling me I’ve been selected for a second round of interviews. I’ve been provided an all-expenses-paid trip to Los Angeles. The flight is scheduled in a week. I excitedly tell Mom. She’s in bed reading a book. She places it on her bedside table and sits up.

“You just got out of the hospital. You are unstable. You don’t need something like this right now.”

She’s probably right. I’ve been taking my medications, but I haven’t followed up with a therapist like I was supposed to. The hospital has called a couple of times to bug me about it. I’ve been in therapy all my adult life, but I can’t bring myself to schedule an appointment. I don’t want to talk about the hospital. I can’t even think about it without cringing.

“I don’t think you understand how much this means to me.”

“I know you like the show, but your health needs to be your number one priority. I can’t watch you from across the country.”

“This is why I don’t tell you things. Whenever I want to talk about something I’m passionate about, you shut me down.” I storm off to my old room. Mom doesn’t follow me. I feel like a teenager. I haven’t stormed anywhere in years. I call Mason and tell them about the second interview.

“I could go with you,” they say. “I was gonna head out there and check out some apartments, maybe find some roommates.”

“Great,” I say. “The flight is next Friday. Can you be ready by then?”

“Yeah, just gotta move some stuff out of my aunt’s place and I’ll be good to go.”

I don’t ask about the plants or the half-finished portrait. I figure Mason’s got enough on their plate without me bugging them to do their chores.

“Thanks again, Bee. For everything. Shit’s real bad right now and it helps to have you around, y’know?” They pause for a moment. “I’m gonna miss you a lot.”

“I know.”

We say our goodbyes and hang up. I can hear Mom watching a show through my bedroom wall. It’s probably a cop procedural, given the gunshots. I lie on my bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on my ceiling. The sun drops in the sky, casting stark shadows against my bedroom wall. The mango plant sits on my window sill, illuminated fiery orange and brilliant, a life that’s my own to care for, a thing made to be loved.