 
That Common Redness

By Kunal Mehra

Copyright 2020

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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It was an unusual winter day. The sun wasn't hiding behind the clouds – it was shining unabashedly, defiant and insistent in its presence. Peter put a hand to his forehead, blocking the light from his eyes. It had been a while since he'd seen sunlight. He smiled, having forgotten how delicious its warmth felt on his body.

It was quiet today. His roommate, Michael, had been relocated to the floor below. He told the nurses the elevator was starting to get too claustrophobic and he couldn't handle using it on the way to his daily walks. Within a couple of days, they found him a room downstairs.

Now, alone in his nursing home room, Peter felt strange, with an emptiness starting to fill the space where Michael used to sleep. He relished the newfound silence: Michael loved television and had it on most of the day. It didn't matter what was playing; he just needed something to stare at.

There was a knock on the door. "Look who's here! It's Peter, all by himself. He's the king of his room now." Lisa was friendly as usual. "Are you lonely? You miss Mike?"

"You know me. I'm always lonely. Mike or not, it doesn't make a difference."

"Well, let's perk you up." Lisa pulled a chair closer to his bed, where he was lying bundled under two comforters. "You look snuggly and warm. I hope you weren't cold last night."

"I had a crazy dream: my son was visiting me. He was sitting in that same chair. 'Let's go for ice cream, dad', he said. And we got into his old pickup truck and drove to Dairy Queen. We didn't talk much. We mostly just sat next to each other and licked our cones. Reminded me of when he was a kid and I used to take him out...except, now he paid for it and he helped me get in and out of the car."

"That's a sweet dream, isn't it?"

Peter gazed away, looking out the window. "Yeah. How's your family doing?"

"Here, let me take your blood pressure first. Just lay your arm down. I know you don't like the compression, but I'll unwrap this monitor as soon as I can."

Peter pulled the comforters over his chest and closed his eyes. He felt the cuff tighten around his thin arm, squeezing him until it finally decompressed.

"Your pressure's a little over what the doctors want to see, Peter. 145/80."

"How's your family doing in Mexico?"

"I spoke with my mom a few days ago. Let's take your pulse now." Lisa placed her thumb on Peter's wrist and closed her eyes. The rhythmic throb of his life echoed into hers as she counted up to fifteen, heartbeat after faithful heartbeat.

"Seventy-three. Looking good, Peter. Hope you stay warm and cozy. And don't miss Mike too much."

"Did I tell you about a dream I had last night?"

"The one where you were having ice cream with your son?"

"Can't stop thinking about it. It's been a while since I saw him."

"He'll visit you soon. I'm sure he misses you."

Peter slouched deeper into the bed as Lisa waved goodbye on her way out the door.

~

Jacob ran up the stairs, his guitar case swinging along with him. The elevator was slow and often had a long wait. He tidied up his jacket and collar before knocking on the door.

"Hi ladies! Sorry I'm late. Don't get me started about traffic. Seems like it's rush hour all day long now."

Anne looked up from her phone. "Well, there you are! We were starting to get lonely in here."

"Sorry...I should've started earlier...I didn't expect the traffic to be so bad. How are you beautiful ladies doing? What songs are you in the mood for today?" he asked, with a smile on his face.

Margaret was glued to the TV, gazing at it as if in a trance. "I don't care," she mumbled.

"She's in love with the TV," Anne said. "Let's go for some Gene Kelly."

Jacob closed the door and pulled a chair in towards the center of the room. "Do you want the shades opened? It's kinda dark in here."

"No. Margaret prefers it closed so she can see the TV better," Anne replied.

Jacob picked up his guitar and started playing 'Singing in the Rain'.

Anne closed her eyes and relaxed deeper into the recliner. Between weekly phone calls with her grandson and Jacob's visits, Tuesdays were one of her favorite days of the week.

By the time Jacob was halfway through the song, Anne couldn't stay sitting – she got up and using her walker, slowly started tap-dancing her way through the room. "I've got a smile on my face...as I walk down the lane...just singing, singing in the rain. Come on Margie, dance! Isn't this great? Look how much fun we're having."

Margaret shook her head. "You folks are loony. It doesn't matter to me, because my daughter's coming here tomorrow to get me out of this place. But you've got to admit it – we have a bunch of lunatics in here."

Jacob laughed as he continued singing. "We are crazy Margaret, but like they say, 'normal' is just another setting on the dryer."

It had started to rain now. The regular December drizzle and overcast skies had returned, overriding the brief unexpected sunshine. It felt good to be inside, warm and dry. Jacob was up late last night, arguing with someone on an online forum that he frequented. After almost an hour of back-and-forth bickering, he had finally turned his phone off, but the constantly-churning thoughts kept him awake for much of the night. When he woke up, he realized he had slept well past his alarm.

Margaret glanced away from the TV every now and then to look at Jacob. She had, in the past, been mostly indifferent to what he played. 'Music therapy is not for me,' she'd tell him. 'I don't believe in that stuff.' She often referred to her daughter coming to rescue her, even though she didn't have any children.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," said Anne.

"Here come the M&Ms," Khalid jauntily announced as he and Lisa wheeled in their cart. Anne was used to his silliness. Margaret however, having forgotten that he had been doing this every time he came into her room for the past eight months now, was puzzled: "What do you mean?"

"A Muslim and a Mexican at your service, ma'am. We're almost as sweet as any M&Ms out there," Khalid replied, his face breaking out in a huge grin.

"I can't have sugar," Margaret replied.

"That's why it's a great deal, Ms. Margaret: our sweetness is all around you, but you don't make the doctor angry by eating it. While I'm here, I need to update your chart notes, ok?"

Jacob was not prepared for more company. "Almost as sweet is the key phrase there, folks. Anne, do you want me to keep playing?"

"Absolutely. I need you to keep playing while they do the blood pressure. Keeps my reading low. By the way, is your finger ok?"

Jacob had a Band-Aid on his index finger and it was coming loose. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. Clumsy me sliced it on a can of tomatoes last night." He tightened the Band-Aid around his finger.

Lisa sat next to Anne's recliner. "How are you doing today, Anne?"

"I was just texting my grandson before Jacob got here. He's really enjoying his first quarter in college. He wants to major in international relations. Kids these days have so many choices."

Lisa got the blood pressure monitor off the cart. "Yeah...lucky him. I didn't have a lot of options when I went to college. Can I get you to roll up your sleeves?"

Jacob stopped strumming his guitar. "Since we're talking colleges...I'm curious now...Khalid, where did you go for college? It wasn't here in the US, was it?"

Khalid was trying to get Margaret to answer his questions so he could update her chart. "Here, Ms. Margaret, I need a few minutes of your time. I promise this won't take long and then you can get back to Mister Rogers for the rest of the day. He won't even know that you were gone. Say what, Jacob? You're asking where I got my degree from?"

"That's right," Jacob said with a straight face.

"Ms. Margaret, we started a new medication for you yesterday morning. How are you feeling since then? Jacob, I got my nursing degree in Kansas, seven years ago. Flat cold Kansas."

Jacob looked straight at Khalid. "You did?"

Margaret was still entranced by the TV. "What medication? I don't take any of that stuff. I don't need any medicines."

"So, you never took the medication yesterday?"

"You trying to test me? I just told you. I don't do meds!" Margaret replied, taking her glasses off and pointing the remote at him.

"When was your last bowel movement?"

Margaret threw the remote down in her recliner: "Now why would you ask me that?"

"We have to keep track of it, Ms. Margaret. It helps the doctor make the right decisions about your health. There's a place right here for it in your chart."

Anne looked at Margaret and shook her head. "Oh Margie...come on...the guy's just trying to do what he needs to do."

Khalid updated her chart notes: patient refused to take medication; feeling surly and uncooperative; no answer provided for BM question. Notify Dr. Merkel; might need an appointment soon.

"I still didn't get an answer," Jacob said, laying the guitar in his lap.

"Listen, Mr. Elvis Presley. Today, I'm here to do my job, which is to take care of Ms. Margaret. Maybe next time, I'll massage your feet and tell you everything about me. Ok?"

Lisa cleared her throat and got up. "Your pressure's looking good, Anne. I'll update your chart notes."

Anne picked up her phone. "Thanks sweetheart. My grandson's going home to visit his parents next weekend. I'm so happy for them. Jake, I think we're probably done for the day. Margie doesn't care either way, does she?"

Margaret was trying to switch channels, pressing random buttons on the remote, which was entangled in her curly white hair.

Khalid closed his laptop and got up from his chair. "Do you need help with that remote?"

"Does it look like I need help?" Margaret glared at him.

Jacob shoved his guitar into the case, his mind fixated on the online forum. He was eager to get back to it. "See you next time, Anne and Margie," he said, as he started walking out.

"Bye Jacob," Lisa waved. He had already left the room.

~

"Would you open that window for me, Lisa? Looks like a mighty fine day outside," Peter asked, taking a sip of his soda.

"You sure about that? It looks warm, but it's breezy out there."

Peter looked out the window and then at the calendar next to it. The December page had a photo of the sun rising up from behind snow-covered mountains.

"Yeah, never mind. They say I'm losing my marbles. Don't know why I thought it was spring."

"Let me get you a heated blanket," Lisa said, as she stepped out.

"Thanks."

He turned the TV off and finished the soda. He usually watched a couple of shows around noon and had just finished watching a rerun of 'I Love Lucy'. He gazed out the shut window. The sunshine drifted in, harboring a kind of peace he hadn't felt in a while. His closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He ran his hands across his face, through his silky white hair, as he sank deeper into the chair.

With his Alzheimer's, he seldom remembered what his last meal was, but memories from decades ago stood out fresh in his mind. He remembered sitting on a porch swing with his son. It was late spring. Tim must have been around four years old. He was playing with the flowers that were being blown onto the porch; he'd pick them up, smell them, tear them apart and then throw it all away into the wind, his hands still trying to catch them mid-air. That was almost four decades ago.

The last he saw Tim was over two years ago, when he had stopped by the nursing home for a quick weekend visit. In Peter's mind though, it had only been a few months since his last visit.

"Here you go," Lisa said as she covered him with the blanket. "You warm now?"

Peter nodded.

"Ok, now I need to do a random blood sugar test, Peter."

"Tell me about your family. Where do they live?"

She cleaned Peter's index finger with a disinfectant wipe and took out a lancet from her kit.

"You'll feel a little pin prick, ok? My parents live in Mexico."

A few drops of blood poked out of his finger. She got them on the test strip and inserted it into the meter.

"Will they visit you?"

The meter registered the strip and displayed the numbers. It was over the normal limit.

"You're at 140, Peter. You've got to stay off that Coke. My parents might come here. I'd like them to visit me, but it's a little hard for us these days."

"What do you mean, 'hard'?"

"Well, you know...visas aren't exactly being thrown at us Mexicans."

"Follow the law and they'll be fine. Plain and simple. That's what we do in this country. It's a country of the law. Everyone's welcome long as they follow the law and stick together and live in their neighborhoods. And speak English. You gotta speak English."

She wrapped a Band-Aid around his finger and wrote the numbers on his chart. "Yes...maybe. It's a nice day outside, huh?"

"Yeah, last thing I want is our ballots going out in ten languages. You've got to learn English."

"It's beautiful outside, isn't it?"

"Sure is. Here in Key West, it's sunny every day."

Lisa felt tempted to remind him that he was in Olympia, Washington and not in Key West, Florida, where he had raised his family, but passed up on it, knowing that it would only confuse him more. "Sunshine is beautiful, Peter."

There was a knock on the door. "That's probably your lunch," Lisa said, as she got up to open the door and brought the tray in.

"Let's get you set up for a meal. Here's your nice clean napkin and clothing protector," she said, as she pulled the bib over his head.

Peter stared at the food with furrowed brows. "What's this – noodles with some wonky sauce?"

"Wednesday's lunch is Thai stir-fried noodles with chicken."

"Don't they remember that I don't care for this stuff? This isn't the first time they've dumped this oriental food on me."

"Sorry, Peter. Can I get you another meal?"

"No, forget it. I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure? It will only take me a few minutes to check in the kitchen. Here, keep your milk and dessert."

"No, I don't need it."

"Hold on. I'll be right back."

Lisa scooped up the plate and went out.

Peter wheeled his chair to the window. Down below, a man was pushing a baby in a stroller. He was wearing a hoodie so Peter couldn't see his face. He stopped for a minute to adjust the rain cover over the baby's head before resuming their walk into the nursing home. Peter felt his arms shake as they walked into the home. Maybe that was Tim and his kid coming in to surprise him.

There was a knock on the door. Peter turned around in anticipation. "Yes! Come in!"

It was Lisa. She had brought with her a new tray of food. "Let me guess. You were wondering where I was and were looking out the window for me?"

"You wish," Peter said, disappointed, but also brightening up again. "Anyway, what have you got there?"

"Your new lunch. Mashed potatoes and turkey with gravy. I even had them add peas on the side because I know you like veggies."

Lisa placed the food tray on the nightstand as she wheeled Peter's chair closer to it.

"What do you mean 'new lunch'?" Peter asked, staring hungrily at the food.

"Remember, they brought Thai food earlier and you said you don't like it?"

"Did I? Guess I must have. I say a lot of things."

Peter ate quietly, the silence being punctuated mostly with the sounds of him chewing.

"You like mashed potatoes?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I love it."

"Good. Good. Glad you like our food. You've got to speak English. There's no other option."

Gravy occasionally dribbled down from his mouth onto his bib. Lisa scooped it up with the napkin as she watched him eat.

"I've told them over and over to keep those spices away from me. Not asking for much."

"Sorry...that must be aggravating."

"Sure is. Back in the day, if you wanted those oriental foods, you'd be flying to Asia or wherever. They didn't just show up on a fine white plate in front of you in your nursing home in Key West."

Lisa hesitated before speaking up. "Things evolve over time, Peter Now you don't have to travel so far to get a taste of global cuisine."

"Yeah, well, I don't care much for it. If people want to taste it, they should go where the food is, not the other way around. What will happen to our culture if these foreign people start to take over with their stuff?"

Peter had finished his lunch, but still held on to the fork. "Tell me one thing. You're Mexican, right?"

Lisa nodded, looking down at the floor.

"Is Lisa your real name? Never heard of a Mexican named Lisa."

Lisa cracked her knuckles, finger by finger, as she shifted uneasily in the chair. "You want me to turn on the TV?"

"No, I want an answer to my question," Peter said, pointing the fork at her.

"Yes, that's my name. I love how nice it is outside, isn't it?"

"Just when I thought I knew it all...Mexican Lisa. Oh well. Help me lie down now, would you?"

"I don't think lying down right after lunch is a good idea."

"It's been hours since my last meal," Peter replied, staring at the empty dishes on the tray.

"Well, let's get you in the recliner. Can you scoot forward a bit?"

Peter slowly moved forward a few inches.

Lisa moved the blanket. "Ok, on a count of three, lean on me and stand up," Lisa said as she spread her feet apart.

She walked him to the recliner and helped him sit down. Peter breathed heavily as he settled into the recliner.

Lisa smoothened the wrinkles in his clothes as she re-draped the blanket over him.

"Are you comfortable?"

Peter nodded, his hands resting on the armrests.

Lisa sat in the chair across the other end of the room. It was warm and quiet now and the only sound she could hear was that of Peter snoring with his arms were crossed over his belly. His tall skinny frame expanded out with each inhale and slowly retreated with each exhale.

On the nightstand next to his bed, beside the can of Coke, was a framed photo of Peter and what she guessed was his wife, sitting across from each other by the dining room table. A kid sat in between them with a white napkin draped around his neck and a spoon dipping into a white enameled plate. A basket of bread lay in the center of the table. Peter was smiling at his son.

She thought of that son now, a son who had seemingly disappeared from Peter's life. 'Stuff happens, Peter', is what she wanted to say to him when he mentioned that Tim hadn't visited him in a while.

The sun had wandered away behind the drifting clouds. She closed her eyes and was reminded of a day from her childhood in Mazatlán. She must have been around seven years old. It was sunny and windy at the beach. She was perched up on her dad's shoulders as he walked on the beach, her legs around his neck. The wind was blowing in their faces, making it hard to hear each other. Somehow, past the sound of the howling wind, she heard her dad tell her how they were walking up north. 'I want you to keep going north,' he had said. 'Things will be hard, but you have to keep going up. I want you to have a better life in the States.' She didn't care or understand much of it at that time, but he had reminded her about that day at her graduation ceremony, after she had been accepted into a nursing school in California. 'All along, I know you can do it,' he had told her then in his shaky English, as they posed for photos. 'Dad, you mean, 'I knew you could do it?', she had corrected him. 'Si, Si...same thing. You good.'

That was over thirty years ago but it felt like centuries. Lisa was woken up from her reverie by her phone beeping. It was noon and time for gym hour.

She got up and gently opened the door. As she was walking out, she heard "Thanks for the peas." Peter was half-awake and smiling at her.

~

The gym, which was a couple of blocks from the nursing home, was noisy and crowded, an awkward transition from being in Peter's quiet room. She usually started her set with a fifteen-minute warmup session on the treadmill, listening to her favorite music. But today, she didn't feel up for music.

She got on the treadmill and started browsing through her WhatsApp messages. Her friend Carlos, from high school, was online. She sent him a message: "Ola Carlos! How's it going? Been a while since I heard from you. What're you up to?"

Skimming through the contacts on her phone, she decided to call John.

"Hey John, how's it going? Is this a good time to talk? Ok, cool. I wasn't sure if you were at your desk. How are things?"

The loud music from the gym speakers made it hard to hear.

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that. How soon will you find out?"

She turned up the incline button on the treadmill.

"Oh, I'm doing well. As well as I can be. I like my job as much as –". She turned around to see Khalid tapping her on the shoulder. "Hey John, hold on one second please". She paused the treadmill, wiped the sweat off her face and took off her headset. "What's up Khalid?"

"Just wanted to make sure you're still coming over for snacks tonight."

"Yes, I'll see you at around six."

Khalid gave her a high-five. "See you soon, Senorita. Don't sweat too hard."

She restarted the treadmill. "Sorry about that. But yeah, I like my job. The people are friendly and there's no workplace drama. I have reasonable work hours. I'm glad I don't do shifts. I'm just not a night person.

"Say that again please...it's hard to hear with this loud music going on. I used to stay up late in college? Ha...that's true, but I don't have the energy for that kind of stuff now. I stay busy with friends after work and by like 9pm, I'm ready to go to sleep. Oh, you need to go? Sure, I know...I called you probably in the middle of your lunch. Thanks for listening to me babble. Talk to you later."

The treadmills on both sides of her were humming away busily. She smiled at the guy next to her. "Sorry, hope I wasn't bothering you." He waved his hand at her. "No worries."

~

Samir, as usual, refused to listen when Khalid asked him to clean up his toys in the living room.

"Samir – you need to pick up the toys and take them to your bedroom. Lisa Auntie won't think very highly of you if it's not cleaned up. You want her to like you, right?"

He ignored his dad and kept running after the fire truck. He was startled by a knock on the door.

"It's Lisa Auntie!" he shrieked and ran to the door.

Khalid welcomed her in. "Salaam Senorita! You finally get to see our palace."

Lisa handed Khalid a box and picked Samir up. "You've grown a lot since I last saw you. How old is he, Khalid?"

"Ooh...what's in this box? Wow...thanks for the lovely cupcakes. He's seven, but acts like he's seven months old."

"As do you, at times..."

"That's not true. Usually, I act like I'm five years old. Hey Sharifa, Lisa's here; look at these cupcakes! Who were you talking to in the gym today, by the way?"

They walked into the living room, Samir tugging at her pants. "A college friend. Very typical of you to poke your head into other people's business."

"I'm good at a few things and sticking my nose in other people's business is one of them. Hey Samir, let go of her and clean up your toys," Khalid motioned to Samir.

Lisa sat down on the couch as Sharifa came in with a tray of drinks.

"Welcome to our home, Lisa. Here's some cinnamon milk. It's a traditional recipe called Kerfa bel haleeb."

"Oh, thanks, that's very kind of you," Lisa said, as she got up to take the drink.

Sharifa motioned at Samir's toys. "Sorry for the mess. You know how boys are. They'll do the opposite of what you tell them to."

Lisa liked the clutter. It reminded her of her childhood. She felt at home and at ease.

She took a slow sip of the drink. "This is so yummy. It's perfect for a cold day. It reminds me of Horchata that my mom used to make when we were kids. It also has cinnamon."

Sharifa smiled. "Funny how we carry our traditions with us wherever we go. It's like we tuck them into the bags, check them on the flight and then we never let go after that."

Khalid started picking up Samir's toys from the floor. "I'm glad Sharifa hasn't let go of the Kerfa tradition, because the way she cooks it...it makes my whole day when I come home and have some. I'm also glad she hasn't let go of me. Yet."

Lisa dug deeper into the couch, her legs folded across as she sipped the milk. "Khalid, you remind me of my uncle. He's such a joker. Always finds something to tease about."

Khalid had now gathered most of the toys – Legos, cards, puzzle pieces – and sat down with them in his arms. Samir, who was locked in Sharifa's lap, was getting antsy that his toys were being moved.

"No wonder your uncle's still alive – a good sense of humor will keep him going for a while. How are your parents doing?" Khalid asked.

Lisa looked at her glass. "They're okay."

"Do you plan to see them anytime soon?"

Lisa smiled pensively as she looked at the three of them cuddled next to each other, covered in toys. "I don't know. Does Khalid miss anyone, Sharifa? Guessing the answer is no."

"I miss my soon-to-come grandchildren," Khalid chimed in, before Sharifa had a chance to reply.

Sharifa shook her head as she drew Samir closer.

"Come on, be serious for a change," Lisa said.

"I am serious. I miss them and I already feel afraid for them. Speaking of change...some people don't like change. Jacob doesn't like change – he doesn't like us folks coming here. Peter's always talking about the good old days. What he means is the good old white days. They can call it whatever they want – protecting jobs, keeping their suburbs safe, preserving their culture – but in the end, we're just not white enough for them."

Khalid put his drink on the table, next to a golden acrylic coaster decorated with Arabic calligraphy.

"What does that coaster say?" Lisa asked.

"Oh, it says –" Sharifa started to reply, but Khalid jumped in before she could finish. "Eid Mubarak. We brought that with us from Egypt. It was a wedding gift from my uncle. See, that's exactly the kind of stuff that Peter doesn't want to see here in the US. I think it would be funny if I put that on Peter's nightstand...don't you think?"

Samir leapt out of Sharifa's lap and ran towards Khalid, going for his scraggly beard.

"No, no no... you can't do that! Go back to your mom," Khalid motioned. "Ya Allah...the happiest day of my life will be when Samir grows up enough to stop pulling at my beard."

Lisa burst out laughing. "I can see why he wants to go for your beard. It's like an amusement park for him."

"Oh Lisa...little do you know. It wouldn't be this bad if he just visited the barber," Sharifa said, as she took Samir back in her lap. "But he refuses and instead, trims it himself."

"I can't afford a barber. I've got to save money for these kids and then their kids. I can't spend the whole day drinking Kerfa."

"Kerfa or not, I think you're jumping a generation here. Aren't you worried for your own kids?" Lisa asked.

"Ha, I have no hope for them right now."

"Sharifa, I have to say that I admire Khalid's fearlessness at work...the way he takes on some of our challenging colleagues and patients. If I had half the courage that he has, I would've confronted Jacob months ago. Khalid, did you tell her about what Jacob asked you the other day?"

Khalid nodded. "I did. It was the first thing that came out of my loud mouth when I got home. But I must tell you, Lisa. I'm as afraid as anyone else. I'm scared down to the last hair in my beard. But I have to cover up my fear with laughter. It's one-for-one."

Lisa looked at him, shocked. "So, you were faking it all along?"

"I wasn't faking it; I just don't have any other option. I can't keep being afraid and I need this job. It took me over a year to find this job and I wanna keep it. Who's going to feed my family? Speaking of feeding, I've got to wash a few dishes and check on Elisha. Don't miss me, I won't be gone that long. Hey Samir, come along. Let's see what your little sis is up to."

Khalid gathered the toys from the couch and walked Samir to the kitchen.

"You've got a good one, Sharifa," Lisa said, pointing in Khalid's direction. "How did you guys meet?"

Sharifa rested her head down on the couch. "Ha...we're getting juicy here. His dad was a regular customer at my uncle's grocery store. One thing led to another and we fell in love. Only one problem though."

"Oooh...problem...what happened?" Lisa asked, smiling.

"We were from different castes. And he's much darker than me."

"You guys do all that caste stuff?"

"Khalid and I don't, but my family certainly does. Long story short, I told my dad I was marrying him either way. He had to decide if he wanted to call me his daughter going forward."

"Wow. I can't believe it."

"Yeah. He relented in the end. He said, 'I guess you could've done much worse...you could've married a black guy'. It was a pretty traditional Egyptian response."

Lisa shook her head. "Insane."

"Yup. That's my family. Do you have any family here in the States?"

"No, my parents and brother live in Mazatlán. I'm the only one from my family who's made it out of Mexico. They always said I was the odd one out."

"They meant you're the odd one in a good way, right?"

"Hmm...I don't know. I've been on the sidelines all along..."

"What do you mean?"

"Growing up, I was always called out for being weird. My mom would harass me because I ate Asian foods. My brother said I listened to too much weird music. My dad kept telling me to stop being so shy. No wonder I'm a misfit now. Once, I had a friend spit on me because she didn't like my haircut."

Sharifa gasped, her mouth wide open. "Really? Spitting on you for not liking your hair? I love your hair, by the way."

"Thanks," Lisa replied, twirling her navy-blue hair. "But you know –". She stopped and covered her mouth with her hair.

"What?"

"I've got to get this off me. We had this Afro-Mexican girl in our school. I must've been in around ninth grade and I remember constantly touching her hair, often without asking her first."

"Afro-Mexicans? What's that?"

"Long story, Sharifa....probably like yours...but they are descendants of African slaves who were brought to Mexico to work on farms. Many Mexicans look down on them. They call them Prieto or Moreno. Can't say that I've never done that." Lisa looked down at her shoes. "Guess it's out in the open now: I'm no angel."

"You know what? I think we're all on this ladder. Someone's always above us and someone's always under us. I feel terrible about it, but that's the way it's been."

"I know, right? And being a brown person here doesn't help much. We're almost at the bottom rung."

Sharifa cleared her throat as she looked away from Lisa. "Umm...yeah, I guess you could say we're almost at the bottom."

Lisa put her drink on the table and scratched her head. "Ouch. That's not what I meant. You know what I mean, right?"

"I know. One last thing: you mentioned being brown...you know what I do? I strut it like I do my booty. It's big and some people may not like it but it's their problem. I'm wearing it as proudly as I do my burkha."

Lisa laughed out loud. "You're funny...sort of like Khalid but in a different way."

"Oh yeah, he and I are so different when it comes to this stuff. He's funny on the outside but scared deep inside. I'm more like, 'Bring it on. I'll show you what I got'. But really, you think you're no angel? I guess –"

"Hey, sorry to interrupt you, but you want to hear a crazy story?"

Sharifa smiled. "From you? Of course!"

"Ok, so two Thanksgivings ago, I was bored to death of sitting home and watching TV. I didn't have many friends and wasn't sure what else to do. So, I said screw it, I'm going to drive to Mexico. And –".

"Wait...you drove to Mexico on a moment's notice?"

"Yup. Didn't tell my family, didn't tell anyone – just like that, I packed my makeup, got in the car, threw a few beers in the cooler and drove to the border. Took like nine hours. I was on the Mexican side of the customs booth. But then, as I was moving through the line, something choked in me. I don't know why..."

Lisa strained her eyes, her face grimacing. "I couldn't bring myself to go any further. But I couldn't turn around either – there were people behind me in the line. So, there I was, stuck somewhere in the middle between Mexico and the US. Few minutes later, I did a U-turn, but didn't feel like coming 'home' either! So, I just sat in the customs parking lot."

"You did?! You drove all that way for customs?"

"I did use the restroom, but yeah, I mostly sat there in the car, Facebooking on my phone, scrolling past people posting photos of Thanksgiving dinners. Turkeys and gin. Families and friends together. Warmly-lit comfy homes...all that stuff that I didn't have. Couple of confused hours and a beer later, I reentered the US and reached home the next day. That was a crazy trip on so many levels...anyway, not sure why I brought it up. I'm such a weirdo. Sorry, you were mentioning angels?"

"You know what would be funny?" Sharifa had a sip of her drink and smiled. "What would be funny is if you took up a job in customs working at the border. That way, you'd spend more time dangling in that middle no-mans-land."

Lisa gazed at her, puzzled.

"Sorry, that was rude. I didn't mean it that way," Sharifa said.

Lisa burst out laughing, followed by Sharifa. "I don't think it's rude...it's kinda sad, but still funny."

"Glad you agree...but I know what you're saying, Lisa. I joke that Khalid and I are stuck in the hyphen between Egyptian-American...that tiny little hyphen is where we live. Anyway, don't feel too guilty, is what I was saying. It's all relative."

"What do you mean?"

"Khalid's never told you about his mom, has he?"

"No...what about her?"

Sharifa looked behind her. Khalid was in the kitchen. They could hear him washing the dishes. She moved closer to Lisa.

"I want you to promise me that this stays between us. Forever. Can you do that?"

Lisa shifted uneasily. She could sense discomfort in Sharifa's tone.

"Yeah, I guess. What's going on?"

"No guessing, Lisa. Tell me that this will stay between us."

"Ok. I promise."

"Khalid's never mentioned this to anyone besides his sister. Let's see...around seven years ago, his mom was diagnosed with emphysema. She was staying by herself at the time, but because she was having trouble breathing and often needed oxygen therapy, we decided to have her move in with us. It was too much having Khalid visiting her every day, coordinating her care with doctors, delivering the meds and all that caretaking stuff."

"That was nice of you two," Lisa replied, taking a sip of her drink.

"It also helped that after she moved in with us, we started getting her supplemental security income checks at our address and Khalid could cash them. That helped us get along with rent, food and bills. He had just graduated from college, had been searching for a job for a year and with a newborn, we were struggling financially. We were more than happy for a few extra bucks coming our way.

"But...it was hard having her over. As you can see, our home isn't exactly spacious. Things started to get complicated and tense soon after she moved in. I was afraid Samir might catch her infection and get sick and didn't want him spending too much time in her room. She didn't like that and then Khalid would get annoyed at me that I was making his mom sad...it was one litany after another. We loved each other, but there's only so much hardship that love can handle."

Sharifa wiped her eyes and held the drink in her hands. The sounds of Elisha crying floated through the hallway. Khalid was putting her to bed. "He tucks her in every night. When she's bundled up, he says a little prayer over her before kissing her goodnight."

"That's adorable. His kids are lucky."

Sharifa looked away towards the window. It was dark but she could hear their neighbor walking the dogs on his daily evening routine. She put her drink on the table and gazed down at the floor.

"There's no good way to say this. She wasn't getting better. The doctors said she'd be better off in a nursing home. A month after she moved in with us, we were convinced they were right. We weren't equipped to handle her illness. Khalid, however, was lost."

Sharifa looked in the direction of the hallway. Khalid appeared to be busy with the kids. "Some days, he'd spend hours lying in bed gazing at the ceiling, as if he expected God to drop a solution from up there. I'd walk in and he'd be looking up with pleading eyes. 'What are you doing Khalid?' I'd ask. Without looking at me, he'd mutter: 'I'm praying.' 'For what?' 'For mom. For food on the table. For my sanity!' I remember once he walked into the bathroom and asked me to cut my shower short. He thought I was using up too much water. It was insane. I don't think we were that bad off, but he was obsessed with saving every penny."

Lisa moved closer to Sharifa as they both looked down at the fire truck on the floor that Khalid had forgotten to take with him. Sharifa pulled it back and pushed it forward with her toe. It rattled forward until it hit the table and came to an abrupt stop.

"Khalid knew that the nursing home was better for her. But he also knew that if she went there, the supplemental checks would stop."

Lisa felt her chest tighten as she stifled what was coming to mind.

Sharifa looked up from the stuck fire truck with a grimace. "The checks overruled, and he decided she would stay here. And that was the beginning of the end. She stayed with us for six more months. And right until her last breath, those checks kept coming – every couple of weeks, he'd go to the bank and deposit them."

Lisa noticed that Sharifa was gazing out towards the window. The pear tree in the front-yard felt naked, cold and wet. The other bedroom seemed quiet too. Maybe Elisha and Samir were both in bed asleep.

"Towards the end of her life, his mom used to spend all afternoon staring out her window, silently. Maybe she knew something was wrong but couldn't put her finger on it. She started to get frequent bedsores that lasted weeks. She'd refuse to eat or drink."

Sharifa rested her head on Lisa's shoulder as they held hands. "Thank you for being here." Lisa looked down at the floor, unsure what to say or feel.

Their silence was interrupted by the sound of Khalid walking into the living room with his half-full glass of the Kerfa drink. "Oh look, someone's getting really cozy here. What are you gals up to?"

"Just catching up," Sharifa said.

"Wow, it's almost eight. I should get going." Lisa got up from the couch and hugged Sharifa.

"What...as soon as I'm free, you want to leave? You haven't even had anything to eat," Khalid asked, looking puzzled.

"Sorry...I didn't realize how late it is. I have to work tomorrow," Lisa replied.

"Come on...you have to bring up that w-word? Oh well. It was nice of you to come visit us, Senorita."

"Thank you both for having me here. I really appreciate it."

They walked to the door and hugged her goodbye. Lisa put on her jacket from the coat rack and stepped out into the cold rain.

~

Peter was fumbling with his phone. He didn't use it much, except to text and call his son. It was supposed to be easy to use, but every time he turned it on, he wasn't sure how to use it. He often waited for the nurses or the aides to help him. Today, he was hoping they would show him how to send a message.

He placed the phone on the nightstand next to him and looked out the window. The aide from last night had left the blinds on, but he could hear the rain pouring down. Raindrops clung to the glass pane, refusing to let go. The weekend newspaper lay spread open on his chest.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Peter said.

It was Jacob. "How's it going, Peter?"

"What a day it's been. I sure am glad to be indoors today."

"Yeah, it's wet and cold outside. And it's just the start of winter, so we've got a few more months of this." Jacob took off his raincoat and hung it on the coat-hanger. He rubbed his hands together.

"What've you got for me today?" Peter asked grumbly.

"Well, what do you feel in the mood for? I'm flexible and I'm sure we can work something out that'll make you happy."

"Make this rain go away, would you? It's not supposed to rain this hard in April."

"April? We're still in December. But I've got something that'll make you feel mighty good."

Jacob closed his eyes and began strumming his guitar:

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way,

Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind,

It's gonna be a bright, bright, bright, sun-shiny day!

Peter placed the newspaper on the nightstand, on top of the phone. "Give me a hand, would you?"

Jacob put down the guitar and offered his arm to Peter to help him sit up. Peter started coughing.

"Do you need some water?" Jacob asked.

"No, what I need is for you to pick another song. Maybe Johnny Cash or Dean Martin? Of all the people, you had to pick that African guy? I don't have anything against them people, but you got many other choices. Why would you pick that black guy?"

"I...I just thought it'd make you feel better on this gray day.... but...well, I know what you mean."

Jacob got up and closed the door.

"You know how it is these days, with all this political correctness crap. I have to be careful of what I play and say."

"I always say what's on my mind. I'm an honest guy with nothing to hide and no one to hurt. Now, let's go for a walk outside. It's beautiful out there. And I'll have some water."

Jacob ignored the part about going for a walk. "Sure, hold on," he said as he walked out the door.

Peter looked at the nightstand, running his fingers across his bushy white eyebrows. He knew there was something important on there but wasn't sure what it was.

"Here you are," Jacob said as he handed him the water. "I hear you, Peter. We're on the same team," he whispered.

"What?"

"I mean the good ol' days when things were simpler and we had this country to ourselves."

"I'm old, but damned if I get what you're saying."

"We were just talking about yes to Johnny Cash and no to Johnny Nash...remember?"

"We were?"

"Don't worry. Here's a nice song for you."

Jacob started singing 'You Are My Sunshine' by Johnny Cash:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

You make me happy when skies are gray,

You'll never know dear, how much I love you,

Please don't take my sunshine away.

"Oh, now I remember it," Peter blurted while Jacob was still singing.

"Glad you do. It's not something we should forget easily," Jacob said, before resuming his song.

"Yeah, I want you to show me how to text my son."

"What?"

"This stupid phone!" Peter said, as he threw the newspaper down and shook the phone in Jacob's face. "I want to say hi to Tim."

Jacob put his guitar down and took the phone from Peter.

"Sure, let's do it." Jacob found Tim's name in the phone's contacts. There were a series of messages sent by Peter with most of them being unanswered.

"You just want to say hello?"

"Yeah, hi."

Jacob sent a text and handed the phone back to Peter.

Peter put the phone away on the nightstand and took a deep breath, sinking down into his bed. "How time goes by...you know about my memory stuff. But there are some things I'll never forget. My family used to live on a farm. One summer, in late August, there was a thunderstorm. I was working on the lathe in the barn when Tim came running in. He must have been around six or seven."

Jacob checked his watch. His shift was almost over. He reluctantly readied himself for what he thought would be yet another rambling story.

Peter continued. "He was weeping buckets, that boy. He thought the lightning was going to take him up 'straight to heaven', is what he told me. He was cold and wet, and after holding him close, so was I. We sat there, the two of us huddled together, looking out at the late summer storm. We could feel the thunder in our bones. I felt so big and protective – like I would have gone out into the lightning to save my little boy. That was long ago...kids change."

"Yeah, I guess we all change, hopefully for the better," Jacob said as he got up from the chair. "Well, my time's up for today, Peter. I hope you hear from him soon."

Peter was looking at his phone as Jacob picked up his guitar and walked out.

~

By the end of the day, Jacob's wrists were achy. Even though it was his job, he had come around to accept it as a fact of life – his wrists would ache almost every evening and there was nothing to be done about it. He used to think it was because of playing the guitar but he wasn't sure – sometimes they would hurt when he hadn't played for days.

It was raining as he sat in his car in the parking lot, reading a text from his mom: "You'll be happy to know that your stepdad doesn't like your dad either. Steppy says dad deserves what he got.

"I was never good at math, but I think two plus two doesn't always equal five. Oh wait...I meant, four. But what I was saying was that things don't always add up. How did we end up not talking to each other?

"Which city do you live in? Do you have a dog? I live out of a van with my favorite pet: Steppy."

He smirked as he threw the phone down and started charging it. His mom had been texting and calling him for years. He couldn't remember when he had last replied to her.

He turned the heat on and warmed his hands, which felt cold and stiff. It was time for his early-evening ritual: browsing his favorite website – Freedom14 – and sharing his almost-daily updates. He didn't care that the liberal media labeled it as a hate site. He was convinced that 'hate site' was just a phrase they used to categorize anyone who disagreed with them.

There were a few regulars on the forums that he looked up to for advice and support, but mostly, being online gave him a sense of community, something he knew was lacking all his life.

He turned on voice dictation on his phone. "Hey folks," began his post. "It's been a busy week and I apologize for not posting sooner. But Y'all will be proud of me, I hope. A few days ago, I put one Muslim terrorist back in his place, reminding him of where he came from. I had a lot more to say to him, but you know how it is at work these days...you've got to be politically correct in a billion ways and all that liberal stuff.

"It gets tiring, defending our place in our country. We're the ones that made it what it is today and yet we have to work so hard to keep it clean. Shouldn't it be the other way around? They should be thanking us for letting them in. This has been our country for what...three hundred years?

"On another good note, a resident at work reminded me of our culture. I was playing him a song by Johnny Nash, because I had no idea where he was on the political spectrum. He stopped me mid-song and asked me to stop playing that 'black' song. I've never been so happy at being interrupted in the middle of a song. Yeah! We need more people standing up and speaking out for our culture, like this old gentleman. These immigrants have to put in effort to learn about our country. It's their job to educate themselves, not ours to feed it to them.

"I mean, I've got other things to deal with...why should I waste my time teaching them our history? No one ever offers to help me, so why do I have the burden of educating others and defending our amazing culture?"

He turned up the blower and put the phone down. The car was fogging up inside, but he didn't mind it. It felt good, like he was floating in a safe steamy cloud. With his hands warm again, he picked up the phone.

"Not that I would take anyone's help...I've never been the dependent kind anyway. Ask anyone in my family. Well, you won't get any answers now because they don't talk to me – that's their problem – but if you asked them, they'd all say that Jacob was the most independent person they'd ever met. I don't ask for help, even when I'm down on my knees. And trust me, I've been there with some crazy depression and that kind of nasty stuff. But I made it out of that hole, all on my own strong arms. It's also true that I don't open up to most people (you guys are the exceptions), but I don't ask a lot from them either. Slick, sharp and strong, you know what I mean? Anyway, enough rambling. Hope you all are staying warm and white. Talk to you later.

"ps: Tell me what you think about how I dealt with that terrorist. Pretty cool, right?"

He was starting to get hungry, but didn't feel up for cooking dinner at home. He decided instead to pick up a meal from the deli at the grocery store. Going out for dinner would distract him from his phone and also give others on the forum time to comment on his post.

~

As usual, Zoey, his Chihuahua, greeted him at the door. No sooner had he opened the door and put the grocery bag down, Zoey started pulling at his pants. "Hey little one, did you miss me? What did you do all day?"

Along with dinner, he had also picked up a bouquet of red roses and a six-pack of Miller Lite. He started warming the dinner, opened a can of beer and got into the shower.

The steady warmth of the shower felt good on his body. He remembered Sara and how she liked to have showers together. He'd turn on the cold to surprise her; she'd shriek and push at him until he'd turn it warmer. The memory of their time together was fresh in his mind, somehow jumping over that vast moat of four years that existed since their separation. Not all their memories were as fond as this one, though. He remembered the times towards the end of their relationship when he felt lost and angry. He couldn't handle her refusal to share a reason for leaving him. "You can't just say 'it's not gonna work!'" he had screamed at her.

The kitchen smelt appetizing with the smell of mac 'n' cheese. Zoey was cuddled in her regular corner of the kitchen, next to the dog food tray.

He picked up his phone and started typing Sara a text. He wasn't surprised that he remembered her number after all these years.

"Hey, it's me. Not sure if you recognize this number. I don't know where to start. This will sound weird...receiving a text from your ex years later, but I was just thinking of us.

"Ever wonder how things would be if we were still together? I do. And it hurts. All that vulnerability, all that honesty and opening up to you, all those nights lying curled up in bed together. Remember how glad I was to be next to you and not at home with my drunk dad, who'd probably be beating me up, like he had hundreds of times before? And then there was that time when I told you about the squirrel whose tail I had braided in tight knots and left to die in the middle of the road, all because I couldn't find my car keys and was late to a beer date with Josh. You kissed me. No calling me a weirdo, no questions – just an awesome kiss."

He took another swag of the beer and laid back on the couch. He ran the cold can across his shoulder, up and down the arc of his bulging biceps before placing it on his chest, on top of his tattoo, which he had gotten inked several years ago. On the right side of his chest was a towering figure stuck inside a black phone booth, trying to call someone. A cable reached out to the left side, where the word Love was painted in bright red, on top of his heart. Except, the cable was broken and the call would never go through. And a padded lock guarded the phone booth from both the inside and the outside.

He turned on voice dictation on his phone. "Yup. I can't help that this message is so long. I've got to get it off my chest. It's probably as twisted as that damned squirrel. At-least it died and didn't suffer. Sometimes I feel like I should've been gone a long time ago. What the hell am I doing here? My past is a big fricking blur of abandonments and screw-ups – you included – and my future...well, it's a can of cheap half-empty beer."

The beer on his chest moved up and down with his breath. His heart started beating faster, the can swaying wildly. He picked it up, crushed it and flung it across the room.

"You know how I feel right now? Stupid and embarrassed, for opening myself up to you so naively and having it end so abruptly. You were always smarter than me. Makes me feel crappy just thinking about it. Where do our shared feelings of the past go when we don't have a way forward together? Do they just lie there, rotting in the trash can of our memories, wishing they'd never been aired? Stupid is the only adjective I can come up with for my behavior. In fact, I'm speaking this text into the phone and it still sounds absurd to hear myself say it out loud."

He called out to Zoey who promptly came running up to him and settled into the couch, which now smelt like beer. He massaged his wrist and started typing.

"I should've known better than to open up to you. Or to anyone, for that matter. People will gnaw your soul out alive if you're not padded up with toughness. And to think that your dad would bring a gigantic hammer down on our futures. What was I supposed to make of it? That I was too white for him, too western, too corruptive of an influence on his precious Muslim daughter? That my love for you wasn't strong enough to bridge the gap between our cultures? That he wouldn't even allow you to tell me why you broke up with me until months later? But guess what? It showed me a path forward and gave me something solid to focus on. Matter of fact, I'm grateful for the way things turned out."

His dinner was making hissing sounds in the kitchen. He ran up to it and turned off the stove. The mac 'n' cheese was smoking hot, but he ate it anyway.

He wasn't expecting a reply – he didn't even know if she was still in the States. Her family had often considered moving back to Turkey. The void that he felt after she left him didn't take long to fill up.

A friend at the shooting range invited him to a meetup hosted in someone's basement. When he got there, it seemed like any other party – a bunch of drunk young people wearing cool leather jackets patched up with strange-looking symbols. Loud music blared from the speakers as he tried to push his way through the crowd to where the beer keg was. His friend Jack was nowhere to be found, so he started chatting with a guy who went by Joey.

Joey was an intimidating figure: six feet tall, he was dressed in black punk boots and a tight denim jacket. At that time, Jacob had no idea what this was about. All he knew was what Jack had told him at the range: if you love our country, you've got to show up here. When he left the party, he and Joey had exchanged phone numbers and agreed to go out next weekend.

Over the course of the next several months, Jacob didn't socialize much with the meetup group – their cramped parties made his claustrophobia worse – but he became good friends with Joey. They'd go for rides in Joey's souped-up pickup truck to the predominantly immigrant neighborhoods in town. They'd time it to coincide with people getting home after work. As folks were walking in their driveways, Joey would rev up the truck so it'd make a huge rumbling sound and fill the air with black smoke. They called it the 'immigrant repellant' and would laugh out loud at the sight of people rushing in to their homes.

Joey also introduced him to Freedom14. He was taken with it right away and soon started spending his energy and time on the site rather than being outside with Joey. He couldn't muster the courage to admit that, of course. A year later, Joey moved to Dallas to be with his girlfriend. Jacob was sad to see him go, but a part of him felt relieved of the obligation to participate in what Joey called 'real-life activism'.

Now, a few years later, Jacob – who went by UsAndThem – had built a sizeable following on Freedom14. His posts regularly received positive responses and he was at the imperial king level, a label awarded to users who not only made regular high-quality posts, but also got new people onboard. Sometimes, things got heated, especially if trolls showed up and started to pick fights. Jacob considered it his responsibility to deal with these liberal losers, as he liked to call them. His signature for his profile was "European blood: we've got to fight for it. No fight, no thrill."

He was washing dishes in the kitchen when his phone beeped. He found it hard to believe that Sara would reply so soon. He ran to the living room. Zoey was out of sight, but he couldn't help calling out to her: "Zoey, did you send me a text?"

There were a couple of comments on his post from earlier in the evening.

Billy wrote: "What's up UsAndThem? Way to take him down, brother. We need more courageous folks like you to stand up for our culture. Hope the idiot learns his lesson and stays away from our people. And by the way, I know exactly what you mean by independence and strength. You need both of those or else you'll get trampled on."

TheOthers, a user who had recently joined and was often targeting him, posted: "Way to label folks based on their appearance. Must be convenient for you, right? You don't have to think of each person as an individual: Muslims? Terrorists. Mexicans? Rapists. Asians? Job-thieves. African-Americans? Thugs. Do you feel better after putting your colleague down? I wonder if you ever thought of stepping in his shoes and witnessing this from his perspective."

Chris, another user he got along with, also chimed in: "We know that you could be doing a lot of things with your free time and just the fact that you're choosing to instead focus on saving our culture tells us that you're made of the kind of stuff we need. Way to go, brother! ps: Don't let trolls like TheOthers get in your way. You have better things to do with your time."

BowlGuy, a user who was often mocked, was up to his usual stuff: "The bowl's empty and silent. It's here if you want to fill it with your story. Tell me. Tell me your story. As always, I never reply to your posts. I'm just here to listen."

Jacob was excited about the activity his post was starting to create and opened another beer. He often measured his success in terms of how quick the responses were and how many replies his posts received.

He started speaking into the phone: "Thanks Chris and Billy. I'm doing awesome. You might not realize it, but your replies and support mean the world to me. People can be so cruel and unkind these days that we forget to take the time to be nice to each other.

"Oh yeah, talk about getting stepped on, Billy. If I had a dollar for every time I'd had that happen to me, I'd be retired by now and wouldn't have to work with my crappy colleagues in that liberal trash can of a nursing home. Sometimes it takes a few hard knocks before you learn your lessons. But boy, did I learn a few lessons. I remember the last time I spoke to my brother, over a year ago (yeah, we're real close). He said I sounded disconnected; that's what he said: 'disconnected'. I asked him if the phone reception was bad where he was, because I could hear him fine. He said, 'no dude, that's not what I mean. I mean you sound disconnected from life. Like you been chewing on metal or something... I can't put my finger on it'. I said, 'hell yeah, I'm disconnected bro. When you experience trauma most of your life, the safest way out of that hole is to unplug yourself from your core emotions. No feeling means no pain. No pain means happiness.' I'm no shrink, so it's not like I'm some expert on self-care (in fact, I'm the last person in the world to know anything about most things. Heck, I don't even trust myself to tie my shoelaces correctly, let alone manage my emotions), but I know what works for me. Some might call my style of therapy crazy, but hey – it works.

"Anyway, that went on longer than it should. As always, warm and white, my brothers.

"Oh, by the way, TheOthers: dude, I'm honestly surprised you can put together a string of words to make up a sentence. I don't have time to "get to know" every colored person in this country. Appearances are quick and reliable. Trust me – I've learnt it from plenty of personal and professional experience. Their integrity is as solid as a drop of water. So yeah, I do judge based on color. I don't need to justify myself to you, but I'll answer your question real quick: no, I haven't stepped in his shoes. You know why? They stink."

He put the phone down on the couch. His wrists were pulsing wildly, almost as if his heart had all of a sudden gotten agitated and sped things up, commanding his blood to flow faster.

"Hey Zoey, where are you?", he shouted.

Silence echoed through the living room. He got up and looked around for her. She was cuddled next to his shoes by the door.

"What are you doing there? Come here. It's therapy time."

Zoey picked up the cue and sat down on the couch, as if she knew what to expect.

He sat on the couch's edge and took out a pocket knife from his pants. He ran his finger over its edge. Its stainless-steel blade felt familiar and inviting. "Not so close, Zoey. Give me a few feet of space," he said as he pushed her away from him.

"This one's for you, dad," he said with closed eyes, as sharp steel glided over his wrist. Blood came oozing out as Zoey recoiled away. Jacob lifted the bleeding hand and placed it over his heart, his shirt oozing with the warmth of redness. "Yeah, that was fun, dad. You being told by the principal that I had thrown a rock at Jimmy who had called me a fat dumb glob. We rode home in your car in silence, my mind trying to sort out where I should sleep that night. I woke up next morning with flailing purple arms. Lesson learnt: always assume the worst of everyone, especially your dad."

He pressed down hard on his wrist, squeezing the open wound. A stream of red reluctantly made its way out and gathered into his palm. "Been a few days since we last met." He was used to its familiar smell. It smelt like his past and his future. "I know it hurts, but it hurts less than letting my feelings out. Right Zoey? Emotions in, blood out."

He licked his palm and rubbed his hands together.

"Alright, that's enough. Go in now, deep down in again." He covered the wound with a bandage. "Take a long breath; next one's gonna be deeper."

He took off his shirt. "Let's cut to the chase. Mom, this one goes out to you. I love you." A long line of soft redness dribbled its way down his chest, draining out at the bottom of his ribs. A few deep breaths followed. "Yeah, right...you wish I did. Remember that evening when we were working in the garden and I nervously told you about you how I had just dinged your car? You lost it and said that I was your worst mistake. I should've lied instead and blamed the ding on dad. I asked what your second-worst mistake was and you threw a handful of dirt at me. There were earthworms crawling on my face. Lesson learnt: shun the truth like you would your past."

He closed his eyes and sunk deeper into the couch. Tears arose in his chest, made their way up his throat, but got squashed in his mind. "Blood's the only one that gets to go out, remember? Emotions and tears – you guys are on lockdown."

He picked up the rose bouquets and walked into his bedroom with Zoey following him. His room was sparse: just a twin bed pushed into one corner of the room. A black sheet and a black comforter covered it up. There was a window above the bed, but regardless of the weather, he seldom opened it. A soft-white bulb lit a bedside lamp that sat on the floor.

He shook the bouquets over his bed, until it was covered in a heap of red petals. He laid down on the bed and turned the lamp off.

The petals were soothing, their softness familiar. They took him in just as he was, bandages and slashes, unfulfilled tears and earthworms. He used to call it the mattress of unconditional acceptance and love and knew that all his life, he had been missing sleeping on it.

"Alright Zoey, that's better. I can feel myself now. We're on to phase two. Come here, you'll like it." Zoey jumped up on the bed. He draped the comforter over her. "We're loved."

It wasn't long before they were both sound asleep.

~

He tried to move his arms but there was no room for them to budge even an inch. Same with his toes – they were stuck in place. Try as he might, he couldn't move.

He was out downtown, hanging outside a cafe.

Help! I'm trapped. I can't move.

A bunch of people walked by beside him. Strangers smiled and said hi.

He said hello back. His lips moved but he knew that no one could hear him.

I'm hurting. This pain...it's brimming in me. Can you help?

Over the years, he had built around himself an invisible soundproof emotion-proof glass box. It was tough to live in, but he knew that stepping out or letting anyone in would make him hurt more. Occasionally, that box gave him nightmares.

~

It was late afternoon. The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds. Every now and then, the wind would rustle the branches and the shadows of the few solitary leaves would perform an impromptu dance on the hardwood floors in his room. Peter and Lisa gazed down at the silent ballet. Things were still and quiet for a few seconds before the wind moved its orchestral wand and it all picked up. Cars whizzed by occasionally on the street below. Peter was transfixed by it. Lisa couldn't tell if he was sleepy or entranced.

"Maybe someday I'll hear from him," he said.

"What?"

"My son. I sent him something on that phone yesterday."

"He's probably busy...you know how people these days are...with their jobs, phones, social media and all that."

"What's social media? Anyway, I don't buy that. I raised him to be a solid responsible man. I taught him to love and respect family and to put family above all. Family, God, Country. Somewhere along the line, he started to go wrong."

"Life happens, Peter. We all go off our chosen paths at some point and then maybe we get back on it. It's more like a series of random doodles rather than a nice straight line."

"Now I'm getting thirsty with all this talking. Can you get me some water?"

"Here you go," Lisa said, as she handed him a glass. "Let's get you sitting up straight now. On the count of three, I'll pull your slide-sheet, ok?"

Peter nodded as she pulled the sheet towards the head of the bed, dragging him up straight.

"Is that better? Do you feel cold?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm stiff. Don't recall it ever getting this cold out here in Key West."

"Let's tuck you under a blanket." As she draped the blanket over him, Peter smiled, the grin rippling across his wrinkled face. "My wife. My wife used to do this. She always made sure I was comfy."

"That's nice of her."

"She was a good one. I'm lucky she chose me. We were married for a long long time before cancer took her up to heaven. Now, I'd like us to go for a walk outside. Let's go."

Peter started to take off his blanket.

Lisa got up and stopped him. "Maybe we can go out in a few minutes. I'm sorry to hear about your wife. That must have been hard for your family."

Peter settled into the bed again. "It was the hardest thing I've gone through...and trust me, these old bones have seen a lot."

He was holding the glass in his hands, which were resting on the blanket. Its warmth felt comforting in his shaky hands.

"I'm getting old."

"You think so?"

"You don't need me to tell you that. Look at these arms: once upon a time, they lifted young calves on our farm. Now I can barely hold this glass. I might croak any day with this diabetes. Guess we all have to go through this thing called life, don't we?"

"We do, Peter. Even us folks do."

"What do you mean 'us folks'"?

"You know, us Mexicans. We also get old."

"Now why does that need to be called out? You think I didn't know that?" Peter shouted, as he tossed the empty glass on the bed.

Lisa picked up the glass and placed it on the nightstand. "I don't know...you seem to have something against us folks." She twirled her hair and bit her lips. "Never mind. Forget what I said."

"Come on now. I got nothing against you people. I just like my kind better. There's nothing wrong with that, is there? Just because I love people from one country doesn't mean I hate those others. It's like..." Peter threw his hands in the air. "It's like wanting pasta over a hot dog, damn you: I just have preferences. You don't have to get race into everything."

"You're right. My words never matter anyway. I'll keep it to myself from now on."

Peter started blinking his eyes and slouching into the bed. It was getting to be his nap time.

Lisa stood up. "You look ready for a rest. Want me to turn the lamp off?"

Peter waved his hand at her, checked his phone and closed his eyes. His deep breaths filled the room. With every breath, the blanket moved up and down, taking on a life of its own.

~

Lisa warmed a cup of water in the microwave in the staff room. She often had peppermint tea during her lunch break. Her mom was going to call in a few minutes and she was hoping the tea would calm her nerves prior to that.

While waiting for her mom's call, she scrolled through her list of contacts and messaged Amy, her college roommate: "Hey Amy! How's it going? Are you still in Texas? Want to chat sometime this weekend?"

Carlos, whom she had messaged several days ago, was online on WhatsApp but he still hadn't replied to her.

Her phone rang. It was her mom.

"Hi mom, how's it going?" she said, trying to sound cheerful.

"Spoke with your hermano just now. He said you don't call him."

"Yeah, I know. I've been busy with work."

She could feel her mom shaking her head on the other end of the line.

"Niños these days... they have no time for family."

"I want to see you and dad, though. How about coming up here for President's day weekend? I can apply for your visa as soon as you confirm."

"Why I would change my mind? For years, I been saying no to America. You left us almost twenty years ago. You come here if you want, but we not coming there."

"But mom, I would love for you to come see my workplace, my home, meet my friends."

"The day you left Mazatlán, you cut ties with us. Your papa gave you good life in America. You took hundred percent advantage of his generosity and never look at us after that."

"Mom, we've been through this a thousand times. Wouldn't it be nice if you two could visit me? Just for a few days? I want dad to see what my life here's like. I want him to know that he did well."

"Wait one second. Qué?"

She could hear her mom talking to her dad in the background. He appeared to be mumbling from afar.

"Tumbleweed," her mom said.

"What?"

"Papa says you tumbleweed. You ran away with the wind. Forget your roots. Why you don't come here?"

Silence filled that gap between the two countries. Lisa found herself squeezing the phone in her hand.

"I know why," her mom jumped in. "You too busy with American life. Papa is saying for years that he wants you home. I tired of reminding him that you too busy for us. And you hate Mexico. You say it's backwards and dirty. Too much gangs. From your golden country, you look down at us. You eat white man's food like mashed potatoes. You don't speak Spanish to us. You even change your name from Luisa to Lisa!"

"Mom, stop! It's been a hard day already." Lisa turned around to make sure the door was closed.

"No! You listen. You live alone. You have no friends. You not married. You forgot how to make chilaquiles. You forgot your friends here in Mazatlán. Our culture, Luisa, our culture! You forgot. You no roots."

"Could you try to be nice? You know...just for this call? Things are tough for me."

"Si, Luisa. You give hundred reasons to not visit us. But I know you don't care."

"Ok, never mind. This is going nowhere." She put the cup of tea in the sink and slumped down in a chair.

"You want us to feel bad and come. But no... this your fault; you left us."

"Yes mom, it's my fault, just like everything else. You want to know why I hadn't called in a while? I was waiting to see if anyone in our family was missing me. Maybe they would pick up the phone and call, I thought. But no... there was just static on the other end."

"Luisa, mi amor...don't do that to us."

"I know, I'm terrible. Anyway, what are your plans for the weekend? You still planning on a get-together with Tia Marissa and her kids?"

"Yes, they shall come stay at our casa. Your papa is very excited."

"That's fantastic. Bye now."

"Ok, bye amor. Nosotras te amamos. Carry passport with you all the time."

Lisa's heart was pounding as she put the phone in her pocket and wiped her eyes dry. She headed out for her appointment with Margaret.

~

"Come in," said a terse voice, when Lisa knocked on the door.

Margaret was watching television when Lisa entered the room. Jacob was in the other corner playing his guitar.

"Hi everyone," Lisa said, trying to sound perky. Anne was out somewhere. Lisa wished she was in the room.

"This guy's crazy. Look how big his mansion is! It has fourteen bedrooms. What in the world is he going to do with that many rooms?" Margaret shrieked, pointing her remote at the television.

'She probably doesn't even register that Jacob's playing music for her,' Lisa thought.

She wheeled the EKG machine closer to the bed and sat down. Her chest felt heavy and tight. "What have you two been up to today?" she asked.

Jacob pointed to his guitar as he kept strumming along to 'Memories Are Made of This'. Margaret was still watching the television. She had switched channels, presumably in disgust at the fourteen-room-mansion guy.

"Margaret, you said you had shortness of breath. Dr. Merkel wants an EKG reading to make sure things are fine. We'll do this now, okay?" Lisa said.

Margaret turned around to look at Lisa. "Oh, look who's here. What brings you here today?"

Lisa took a deep breath and steadied herself. "I need to take an EKG reading. Here, I can take that remote from you. Let's get you lying down on the bed."

Lisa rolled up Margaret's sleeves as she started to attach the electrodes to her arms.

"What are you doing to me?" Margaret yelled.

"I need to get an EKG reading. We've done this before. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes, okay?"

Jacob put his guitar down and walked up to them. "You sure getting an EKG is a good idea? I was in the room when she had a reading taken a while ago. She doesn't like this stuff."

Lisa looked up, puzzled. "I'm just following Dr. Merkel's orders, Jacob."

"Sure, but you need to use your professional judgement as well. We can't always be relying on doctors; they're not the ones spending hours with these patients – you folks are."

Lisa got up, her hands holding a couple of electrode patches. "Let's see, Jacob. I'm the nurse here. You were playing music when I came in. I'm instructed to take an EKG per Dr. Merkel and you're telling me I shouldn't be doing that?"

"I'm not saying you should ignore the doctor; I'm pointing out that you need to use your nursing degree to a more practical extent."

Lisa threw the patches down and walked up to Jacob. "What exactly are you saying?"

"Thought it was obvious but let me say it again: Not sure which village in Mexico you got your degree from, but here in the US we're taught to use a common-sense approach – use the doctor's input, but also rely on your professional judgement while keeping the patient's individual situation in mind. That's not a lot to ask for, is it?"

Margaret tried to sit up in the bed, propping herself up on her elbows. "What's going on here? What are these patches on my arms?"

Lisa ignored Margaret. "This is crazy. For one, I'm the nurse. You play music in that corner over there. You see that corner? That's where you belong! I'm fed up of being in the corner all these years, so screw you. I'm going to be right here in the center of this damned room. No more corners for me!"

She dragged a chair towards the center and stood up on it. Margaret looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Also, even though where I went to college is none of your business, I'll tell you anyway: I went to nursing school in California. I graduated with a GPA of 3.8. California used to be a part of Mexico, so you were right – I did get it in Mexico."

Jacob stood up tall. "I don't care where you got it from...all I'm saying is that you need to care more about your patients."

Bob, their head nurse, came barging in. "What's going on? I could hear Lisa shouting from my desk outside. Lisa, what are you doing up on that chair?!"

All three stared at the newcomer. Lisa sat down, with her head in her arms.

"I'd like to know what's going on too! She took my remote away! My daughter's gonna be here any minute. I'm leaving!" Margaret yelled.

"She's freaking out – she's throwing stuff on the floor and bullshitting about Mexico losing California to us," Jacob said, pointing at Lisa.

"That's not what happened!" Lisa shouted, standing up.

"That's exactly what happened – you just said that California used to be a part of Mexico."

"I give up. I can't work here." Lisa picked up the patches off the floor and wheeled the EKG machine out, before coming in again. "Oh, by the way Bob, it will be quiet from now on. I'm quitting." She slammed the door shut as she left.

~

Khalid was in the staff room checking his phone when Lisa walked in. He ran up to her. "Did that really happen? I'm reading your text and I can't believe it."

"Hold on, let me close the door," Lisa said.

They sat down next to each other. "You want some tea?" Khalid asked. Lisa nodded yes.

She nestled her head in her hands as she started sobbing. "I can't believe it. What did I do to deserve this? I came to this country with dreams. I wanted my dad to see my workplace and feel proud of me. Now I have to apologize to my boss for freaking out over someone who's abusing me at work?"

He handed her the tea. "So, you talked to Bob?"

"Yeah. I apologized for freaking out, but I told him it obviously wasn't my fault. This isn't the first time Jacob's done crap like this."

Khalid got up and started doing circles around the room. "I'm going to fix this. It's got to stop. It's got to stop."

Lisa was surprised to see him like that. "Well...whatever you do Khalid, don't get yourself in trouble. You have a family to take care of, remember?"

"This is insane. We are the nurses and he comes in and tells us what to do? Who the hell does he think he is...surgeon general?"

"I'm tired. Tell you what...you remember that phone call I was having in the gym the other day? Later that evening, at your home, you asked me who I was talking to?"

Khalid stopped his pacing. "What the hell does that have to do with Jacob?"

"It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. We're talking about me here, right?"

"Lo Siento, Lisa. I'm just...never mind. Yes, I remember that call."

Lisa walked to the corner of the room and faced away from him. "That wasn't a real call. I was just talking into empty silence. There was no one on the other end of the line."

Khalid ran towards her. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? I mean that I've got no one on the other end. No one who cares. I mean that I'm always putting up a front for people, to show them that I'm doing ok when I'm not. I mean that I don't know where I belong, if at all anywhere. For crying out loud, I'm not even Lisa. I'm Luisa. L U I S A!" For every letter of her name that she said out loud, she pulled at her hair. "I changed my name so I could be cleaner, so I wouldn't stand out."

"That phone call was a lie?" Khalid asked.

Lisa turned around. "Jesus, Khalid! What's wrong with you? You're still stuck on yourself, aren't you?"

"Jesus, Khalid? That's probably the closest a Muslim has ever come to Jesus," Khalid replied. "Shit. Sorry. I'm going crazy. Your hair looks crazier than me though."

"Here, sit down. I'll tell you something," Lisa said, turning around to face him, with her hair spread out wide.

Khalid offered her a chair. "I'm ok, but you should sit down. Do you need some water?"

"Stop asking me if I need stuff! Ever did this?" She turned on her phone and moved her thumb across it several times, starting from the left and dragging it to the right.

"Did what?"

"This. Swipe your thumb across your phone as if you're answering a phone call."

"Ya Allah! What in the world is going on?"

"Well, that's what I do most evenings. I practice for the golden moment when someone might call me. 'Surreal swiping' is what I call it in my head. You know...just in case, someone does call me. Done it to a point where my thumb gets tired and gives up." She threw the phone down.

There was a knock on the door as Bob came in. "Are you both okay?"

~

She walked towards the door of her home, with her purse clutched tightly in her hand. She was turning the key in the lock when she sniffed some fresh paint.

Curious, she walked around the front side of the house before stopping abruptly. Her hands let go and the purse fell on the wet grass. Scrawled on the siding of her home, in bright red, were the words "go home Illegal!" She felt short of breath, her chest starting to hyperventilate in the cold December night.

She wanted to go in and make sure things were ok inside. But for some reason, she got back in the car and locked the doors. She didn't remember why she got on the highway or why she chose that particular stretch of the highway. With the windows rolled down, the winter air came rushing in. She felt it course through her body, rustling the hair on her arms. The speed limit was fifty-five, but she was driving well over eighty, the cold wind thrusting her forward. With one hand on the wheel, she pulled the glovebox open and took out a roll of duct tape. She opened the visor and plastered a piece of the tape over the mirror, covering up the reflection of her face, inch by inch, until it was all buried under strands of sticky grayness.

The highway was dark and seemed to linger on forever. She didn't care about speeding tickets or the ditches by the side of the road. She honked at the emptiness. Her eyes kept drifting between being wide open from the cold air and droopy from the frustrating day. Keep them closed Luisa, and maybe you'll end up where you want to be right now. Home? Where the hell is that? Mexico's behind you; America's somewhere out there in the fog. Where do you fit in?

A smile spread across her face, morphing into loud uncontrollable laughter – laughter of the kind that doesn't care if the sun rises in the south. She let her car veer towards the shoulder, dangling over its edge before swerving all the way to the other side. She looked in the rearview mirror – nothing but nothingness – and parked the car in the middle of the road. She revved up the engine, her foot flooring the pedal and head leaning down on the wheel. The roar echoed through the insides of the night. Hear me! Hear me, you all! I'm here all by myself, just me! This is me, Luisa Guerrero Sanchez! Not Lisa, but Luisa! I've come a long way and hope someone's listening. Does anyone remember why I came here or why I'm still here? Would anyone miss me if I was gone?

She got out of her car and laid down on the hood, arms wide open, fists clenched tight, banging on cold metal with her entire five-foot-two body. Hear me, you cold red steel. Do you feel me? Do you feel my weight or am I nothing? Here, let me do it again. She stood up on the hood and jumped up and down until she had to climb down for fear of falling.

Let's try something else. She turned off the headlights, rendering her car invisible. Ready? Here I go. She started doing circles around the car. Run Luisa, run. It's what you've done all your life: run from your self, run from Mexico, run from America, run from intimacy, run from your family. She lost track of which round she was on or where she was. Breath was what got her down eventually. She laid down on the earth, taking in huge gulps of air.

Even though it was cold and damp, lying down felt good, long overdue. The soil asked her to let go of that which was heavy, that which didn't gel and that which hurt. It felt daunting, but worth a try.

Dad, on that graduation afternoon, you were right. Maybe I need you to say it again: I know you can do it.

It was sticky and her face hurt as she tried to peel it off, but she knew it had to go. Illegal. The first label. She threw it into the darkness, far away from her.

Weird. That was a delicate one, hanging onto several parts of her – her shyness, the way she licked her fingers at the end of a meal.

Pocho. That one was from a long time ago, when she was last in Mexico, so she had to dig deep in. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth as she finally got her fingers on it.

'Hey, Spic!' She remembered the guy in the pickup truck in the Safeway parking lot yelling it at her. Her instinctive fight response was to smile at him. Confused, he had shouted 'dirtbag' at her. The humiliation and fear from that incident was meshed deep in her psyche and she had to dig in hard to uproot those labels.

Loner. That was nestled so far inside her that she wondered if it was lost and lonely. She didn't know where to look for it and moved on to the next one.

Selfish. That came straight off her vibrant red heart.

I-can't-do-it came off much quicker than she thought.

What-will-they-think blew off her without her even having to pull it.

Do-I-fit-in required her to yank harder, but boy, did it feel good once it was off her.

I-love-mashed-potatoes. She chuckled at the thought of shedding it, knowing how much she disliked it and how often she lied to others, pretending to love it just so she would blend in.

Does-anyone-care-about-me, followed Do-they-still-love-me, leaving beside her a trail of sticky patches.

My-name-is-Lisa. She yanked hard at it. A part of it came off, but deep down, its siblings were still lurking in her being. The more she tried to pull it off, the messier it got, breaking down into tiny pieces.

By this time, sans labels, she was a fraction of her usual size. It felt strange to be so diminutive and yet there was an ease with having just the basics.

She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. She liked the quiet darkness. Maybe it was all a dream. Something stirred in that puddle of silence, a tiny luminous flicker. 'Hi, it's me, your true self. Call me selfie.'

Taken aback, she sat up. What the hell are you doing here? Go away! She tried to wave it off like it was an annoying gnat.

Selfie looked straight at her. 'Now that you've let go of all those labels, you get to face me – and just me. This is who you are.' It took a deep breath. 'Damn, it feels good to not have those sticky rotten labels on me. What's this glorious space that's allowing me to breathe freely?'

She smiled, thinking of the fastidiousness with which she always cleaned her bedroom every couple of weeks, as if that was the only cleansing that needed to be done.

She picked it up cautiously and placed it in her palms. Selfie winced as she peeled off the last remaining crumbs of some of the labels. 'Hold me in your hands, would you?' It had been years since she last had an honest look at it. It was beautiful and it was messy, but it was her beauty and it was her mess.

It felt odd to be so intimate all of a sudden, like someone had hooked her up with the love of her life and flew away and now it was just the two of them, alone on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. There was no escaping, she knew it.

She was reminded of that day, several years ago, spent in the arid Chihuahuan desert when it had started pouring. Later, the locals would tell her, it had been years since it last rained. An old man told her stories about how grateful the thirsty land was for finally being granted what everyone was praying for: drops of life-affirming water. He said the earth whispered thanks to the clouds by adorning herself with a million desert flowers.

Hold on one second, she said as she put selfie down on the ground. I need to take care of something. She stood up and walked towards the My-name-is-Lisa label in the dirt. With her finger, she drew a huge U between the L and the I.

Ok, thanks for waiting, she said as she walked back and laid down, cupping selfie again in her hands.

'Did you just put U back into yourself?' selfie asked.

Yup. Not much to ask for, right? Also, that loner label? Now that we're finally reunited, see if I care about it. A strong smile took roots upon her face. She knew it was time to stand up.

She started walking towards the car, but abruptly turned around and picked up the Do-I-fit-in-label. She stuck it on her arm before realizing who she was with.

'It's ok,' selfie said. 'This was a search-and-rescue mission; it wasn't an everything-is-fixed-forever moment. Be kind to me – to your self, to Luisa – and move on. I know we can do it.'

~

Jacob sat in the car, massaging his fingers, stretching and squeezing them to warm up. He was on a late-afternoon break. He scrolled through his post on Freeedom14 from yesterday:

"Hey brothers, what's up? Staying dry and warm, right? I met up with a friend a couple of days ago and we got to talking about our childhoods. He and I came from such different families, it's hard to picture us coming together and uniting for a purpose like we do now. Growing up, my parents were tie-dye-sporting hippies. I didn't understand why our neighbors hated them, but now I do. Damn misfits, they tried to get me into that stuff. The last thing I needed was to flash peace signs and eat granola all day. My mom fancied herself to be some kind of misunderstood genius poet...yeah, it was that surreal.

"Now, after all these years working on our site, every day brings for me a renewed sense of purpose. I don't go to work to make money; I find myself doing small purposeful acts every chance I get, starting with safeguarding our jobs. Look, I'll say it out loud: I'm just a dumb guitarist at a nursing home full of demented old folks. Nothing fancy, but I feel proud that I – a white patriot – am doing that job and not some crappy immigrant from a third world country. Every job that we own is one less job that they screw up. We've got to stand up for our dying race. We're getting to be a minority and we can't sit back and watch it happen.

"They complain they're being treated unfairly, that they don't get hired for jobs because employers discriminate. They want affirmative action to get into colleges that we work so hard to get into. They want handouts all the time. They raise the race flag every time they get pulled over by a cop. I mean, get over it, you little pussies! The only racism in this country is what's swirling in their minds.

"By the way, I recently took down another Hispanic 'nurse'. It's a small victory, but every step counts, right? I can't tell you how happy it made me to see her down. Oh yeah baby, we're coming for you! What do you guys think?"

Not surprisingly, BowlGuy had replied: "Remember, I'm just a bowl. Pour your story into me. I promise there will be no judgement. You might have multiple stories. That's ok. The bowl's deep enough to take it in."

Chris, not one to stay quiet, had replied to BowlGuy: "As always, it's awesome to have a new-agey crud in our midst. Everyone forgives everyone else and we're all healed by his sacred energy. Just what we need right now."

Jacob was disappointed that neither Chris nor Billy had thanked him for confronting Lisa. He was tempted to start writing to BowlGuy, but instead scrolled down to TheOthers' reply: "You know that this country was founded on racism and slavery, right? What gives you the right to complain about other people doing their job? Besides, it's not like they walk up to your boss and ask for your job to be given to them. They earn it; this is meritocracy, remember? ps: it would be fun if we could walk up to your bosses and walk out with your jobs.

"And speaking of cops pulling some people over for no reason other than the color of their skin...guess what? If you don't believe it, change your color to black or brown and get in a car. Let's talk after that. I'll bail you out of jail. You got jailed because you refused to provide proof when the officer asked if the car was truly yours or if it was stolen. Deal?

"You say there's no place for immigrants in this country. I say there's no place for racists in this world.

"ps: Ever noticed how often you use the word 'They'? Just saying."

Jacob checked his watch; he had about ten more minutes before his break ended. His fingers still ached. He rubbed his palms together and had a sip of espresso. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a fitting response to TheOthers, but he was pissed off that no one had congratulated him for what he viewed as an act of service. His thoughts were interrupted by a car parking next to him. It was Luisa. She got out of her car, scowled at him and hurried inside.

He started speaking his reply: "Live in the here and now. I had nothing to do with the crap that happened four-hundred years ago, so get over it. What's happening now is that we got caravan-loads of immigrants coming here and polluting our race, our country and our culture. I don't care if it's legal or illegal; I don't want those invaders here. A weed is a weed – doesn't matter how it got here.

"And that whole cop thing? People of all colors get stopped by cops. It has nothing to do with race. I'm an honest kinda guy and I'll be the first to admit that I've been stopped a bunch of times for speeding and broken tail lights and what not. I've yet to meet a cop who wasn't polite.

"Of course, it's convenient for you to use the race card because it lets you get away with all the shitty stuff you're doing as a person. Much easier to blame it on racism rather than look at yourself and fix your crap. Get those drugs out of your car and then see if you get pulled over.

"Just to make it clear: my having a different opinion on immigration doesn't make me racist. It makes me proud and smart, alright? What the hell is this country coming to if a guy can't even speak his mind without being called racist?

"And I'll say it again: I don't have a problem with immigrants themselves. I know several in real life. I just want them to stay where they are and not mess up our country. The key word here is our. You don't need me to clarify what our means, do you?"

~

As he was walking towards Peter's room, Jacob was hoping he wouldn't have to hear the same old spiel about how much Peter missed his son. Just because he has dementia doesn't mean I need to listen to the same boring story every visit, he thought. He had chosen a song that he hoped would keep Peter engaged enough to avoid bringing up his son again.

When he went in, Peter was working on a puzzle. Jacob put his guitar down and pulled a chair closer to him.

"How's it going?" he asked.

Peter continued working on the puzzle. "They gave me this 1950s malt shop jigsaw puzzle. Loving it."

"Neat. Which color are you sorting?" Jacob asked as he hovered over the puzzle.

"I was working on the reds for these bar stools but got distracted and now I've moved on to the white countertop for the bar. Those were the good old days, you know. My wife and I had our third date in one of those shops. They were playing 'A Teenager in Love.' A couple of drinks and we were on our way to my home."

Peter pushed away from the table and wheeled himself towards the bed. "That was before you were born. You don't find these kinds of shops anymore."

"That's right. Those are a thing of the past. We now have taco stands blaring mariachi music."

Peter shook his head. "Things change. Ok, you ready?"

"For what?"

"For our daily walk outside. My bones need sunshine."

"Let me play you a song first. You ready for some fun music?"

Peter seemed indifferent to Jacob's presence. Something heavy was weighing on him but he couldn't figure out what it was.

"You know one song that comes to my mind often? 'Are you lonesome tonight?' That song's been stuck in my head for years now."

"Let me play a song that'll perk you up." Jacob started tuning his guitar.

Peter waved his hand at Jacob. "Nah, not in the mood for songs today. I'll tell you one thing though. My old man told me this when I was your age. He said our lives are like fireflies: we have this light within us. It shines on and off for a while and then we're done. We're back into that darkness from which we came. Now I don't believe any of that new-agey stuff, but that stuck with me. Don't know how long I have left to live before I disappear into that darkness. Look at me. The Lord could take me any day.

"While I'm on a roll, I'll tell you one more thing: I've had my share of time to shine on and I can see where I'm headed now. And I ain't happy with my life. No son, I'm not. And don't you make the same mistakes I did."

Jacob's phone beeped. It was his mom. "How's the weather where you're at? This is long overdue, but I feel sorry for always putting you down, even when you were already down...like down wasn't bad enough and I wanted to see you double-down.

"Yesterday, Steppy confessed he cheated on me once. I emptied a jug of bleach on him. The van stinks of chemicals. Few hours later, we laughed about it and had a beer. Our couch is dripping wet. Steppy and I love each other."

"Oops...sorry," Jacob said as he put the phone back in his pocket. "Umm...I think you've done well, Peter. You raised a good son and you're a proud patriot who stands up for our country. I don't see what's wrong with that. If only we had more people like you, this country wouldn't be the messy melting pot that it is today."

"What in the world are you saying? Anyway, it doesn't matter. Let's go for a walk now." Peter started to get up from his chair.

Jacob stopped him and made him sit down. "We'll go out in just a few minutes. Now you said you're not happy with your life. I'm saying you have every right to be."

Peter settled into the chair again. He picked up his phone from the nightstand and pressed his thumb all over the screen.

"Your phone's switched off, Peter. You want me to turn it on for you?"

Peter placed it back on the nightstand. "Let me ask you one thing. And I want an honest-to-God answer. You close to either of your parents?"

Caught unaware, Jacob fumbled a bit before replying. "Yeah, sure. My mom and I talk often. We get along well. Why?"

"And your dad?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Well, good. Good. Glad you got those relationships figured out. Because Lord knows that I haven't been able to do that with my boy. And I'm old enough to know when I've messed up. Sometimes your mistakes stare at you loud and huge, refusing to go away." Peter looked towards the window. "Could you close those blinds?"

He turned the blinds down a bit. "Is that better?"

"No, I want them shut completely."

Surprised, Jacob closed them and walked back to the bed.

"Messed up? What are you saying Peter?"

Peter looked Jacob in the eyes. "Ever made a mistake that you regret with all your heart and yet can't figure out how to fix it?"

Jacob shuffled uneasily in his chair. "I never think about stuff like that."

"You ought to. I'll tell you what I did. Years ago, I disowned my son. I kicked him out of my life. He's got every right to ignore me now. Maybe I even deserve it."

"You disowned your son?"

"You know how things are with my memory, but I'll tell you...there are some things that just get glued in your mind. And that includes the day when he came home and told me, 'Dad, I just proposed to this girl'.

"I was reading the weekend newspaper. I took off my glasses. I didn't even know he was dating someone. 'Congratulations! Who is she? Do I know her?'

"He got a bit uncomfortable. 'Yes, you do. It's Jazmine.'

"Now, of course, I knew her. She lived on the other side of town, the crappy east side, the one with all the drugs and gangs. That's where those blacks had been settling in for decades, raising their families. I couldn't believe he was dating her, let alone that he wanted to marry her. 'You're not marrying a black woman. You crazy?' I screamed. It all started to go downhill after that. Now that was a long time ago. They're still married and have two kids. I've never met the kids. Never even saw their photos."

Peter stared at the window. Jacob had closed the blinds, but a few slivers of light still managed to sneak in. Jacob, uncomfortable with this revelation, anxiously ran his fingers back and forth across the frets on his guitar. "Do you want me to play you a song?" he asked.

"Sure, play me something that'll fix my life. You're a smart guy."

"Ha. Smart...if only. On good days, I can make myself a cup of coffee."

"I just can't bring myself to accept that he married that black woman...you'd think I would have learnt a thing or two after all these years."

"It's not your fault that things are changing so fast. What you see today is so different from how things were when you were growing up. And you got zero control over it. Control means the world to me. Once you have that, you can really start making big changes."

"I wish he would accept me for who I am – an old bigot, really – and love me for being his dad. But I'm asking for too much."

"Aww...come on, Peter. Standing up for your country doesn't make you racist. It makes you a patriot. Your son needs to get his act together."

Peter gestured towards the nightstand. "Could you open the top drawer? I'd like you to hand me the teddy bear that's been sleeping in there."

Jacob pulled out a brown teddy bear and handed it to Peter. A smile spread across his face as he put it on his chest and cuddled it.

"You like pets?" Jacob asked.

"We used to have a Pomeranian when my son was growing up. He used to call her Tessie. Or maybe Harley. Damned if I remember. She was the smallest dog you'd ever seen. Sometimes we'd go for walks and he'd stuff her in his coat pocket."

Jacob petted the bear. His hand rested briefly on Peter's chest; he could feel the tides of breath move inside his body, pushing his hand up and down.

"I can't figure out what's in the way of me accepting my son's decision. You know me – I don't spend hours brooding over my feelings and all that counseling crap," Peter said, as he made air quotes around the word 'counseling'. "But when it comes to this...there's a solid wall between me and them folks and I can't get over it. When Tim married that woman, I didn't even want to acknowledge that wall, let alone cross it. Now, all these years down the road, I can tell it's there, but damned if I know how to get past it. I still love Tim. A dad's love for his kids never changes. But that woman..."

"Hmm...that wall." Jacob sighed as he looked down at the floor. He was silent for a few seconds. "I envy you. I'll never learn what it's like to be a dad. Heck, I'll never know what it's like to be loved by anyone."

Peter smiled. "Let me tell you what being a dad is like – it's like having two full-time jobs for eighteen years. I would do it again though. No doubting that. Would you open those blinds? Looks like the sun's out again."

The sun had poked out from behind the clouds and was about to set. They could feel a whiff of winter's faint warmth seep into the room. "Now I'm going to ask you to do something loopy, ok?" Peter said, turning to face Jacob. "I'd like you to hold my hand."

"What the hell...you want me to hold your hand? Why?"

"Just hold it, would you?"

"I guess. I don't remember when I last held someone's hand."

"Jesus. I'm not asking you to fly a plane. Place my hand in yours," Peter commanded.

Jacob pulled his chair closer towards the recliner as Peter extended his arm out. Jacob looked out towards the open door and hesitantly offered his hand. Peter smiled as he slid his left hand into Jacob's open palm.

The low December sun had dipped below the horizon, but traces of its afterglow lingered on. The sound of Peter's breaths filled the room. In a few minutes, Peter was asleep, his tired arms lying limp on either side of his body.

Jacob closed the door and took Peter's hand. He let its weight sink into his palm. It was nourishing, that sensation of skin greeting skin. Goosebumps made their home across his arm.

He couldn't help but stare at the wrinkles, each crease marking a day, a week, a year – time spent alive on this earth, time raising his son, time losing touch with him, time loving and hating.

He placed his hand lightly on Peter's chest, feeling the swaying of his old heart in his fingers. Jacob thought of the love that welled up in that faithful heart as Peter held his son close to him in the barn that summer afternoon. He thought of that same heart disowning that same son, years later. What had changed and why could it not change again?

He felt tempted to put a finger on Peter's veins. They almost seemed ready to pop out, to want to say something. What was inside those seventy-four-year-old faithful ducts, circulating that life-sustaining blood every day? The love for his son was still the same as when he was a kid, but something else had creeped in silently and started to wage war with that love.

He stared at his own hands, the same ones that had let his own blood out all these years. A few seconds in, he couldn't bear to keep looking at them and had to close his eyes. He softly held Peter's hand again, nestling it in his palms.

It was pitch dark outside. The wind had picked up and he could hear the trees swaying in the breeze.

"Your hand's warm, Tim," Peter uttered from the recesses of his slumber.

~

Jacob felt a burst of nausea in his chest as he read a text from his mom.

"OMG, Steppy just got laid off from Wendy's. I'm never eating there again. Would you be up for sending me a couple hundred dollars?

"Did I tell you that last night, our 'neighbor' refused to have a drink with us? I got pissed off and threw an unopened bottle of beer at their car. It broke their windshield. What a waste of beer.

"I was remembering how, when I was gardening one day and happened to pull out a dandelion, you started wailing: 'you're hurting that flower, mommy!' is what your little six-year-old self cried out. I'm weeping buckets now."

~

As Khalid was expecting, Margaret was lying in her bed watching the news. The remote lay sleepily on her chest as if it too was enjoying the show.

"Hi Ms. Margaret. How are you?" he asked as he sat down next to her. He started unpacking his toolkit.

Margaret turned to look at him, pointing her remote at the television. She was watching 'Law & Order'. "If this isn't hell, I don't know what is". A suspect was being handcuffed in front of a Macy's store for shoplifting. "Look at these slobs from those shithole countries. Why the heck are they coming here to rob our stores? They need to stay where they were born."

"Say what, Ms. Margaret?"

"This! This is what I'm talking about...all these foreign criminals coming here and stinking it up."

Khalid faked a cough. "Excuse me, I need to step out. I don't want you to catch an infection."

He rushed out the door and stood in the hallway, trying to steady his breath. He placed his hands on his heart. 'One deep breath at a time, Khalid,' he thought. 'Don't panic. You've got to keep your cool.'

When he walked in, Margaret was surprised to see him. The news segment was still playing on the television, but it was muted.

"Oh, look who's here," she exclaimed. "What brings you in today?"

Khalid picked up the pressure monitor and started unwrapping it. "I need to take your blood pressure."

She seemed disinterested in what he was doing and switched channels.

"You have an arm preference for the monitor?"

Without looking at him, she rolled up her sweater, exposing her thin wrinkled arm.

Khalid wrapped the monitor around her arm, placed the stethoscope reader under the cuff and started squeezing the rubber bulb as the pressure started to build up.

Suddenly, Margaret threw the remote down and screamed at him: "What are you doing to me? Get that squeezy thing off my arm, you crazy Muslim."

Khalid let go of the bulb and stood up. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard what I said. Take that thing away from me or I'm going to start shouting," Margaret replied, unwrapping the monitor and throwing it down on the floor. "Get away from me!"

Khalid felt his heart racing. He started to say something but felt a choking sensation in his throat. He sat down and took a few deep breaths. Two silent minutes passed. Margaret had gone back to watching the news. He doubted if she remembered what had happened.

"Ms. Margaret," Khalid said calmly, moving closer to her. "You, Ms. Margaret, can scream all you want. I will take your pressure today. You know why?"

She stared at him wordlessly.

"Because I've had enough of giving in to people like you. I've had enough of hiding my fear behind a mask of cheerfulness. I'm tired of worrying whether my daughter will make it home safe after school, that someone won't yell 'terrorist – you're fired!' at her as she walks into the classroom."

Khalid walked away from her and looked out the window. It was raining and he could see traces of his grimaced face reflected in the wet windowpane. A few seconds later, he came back. "I can't take it anymore. I've had enough of people staring at my family as we sit down for dinner at a restaurant downtown. Try as I might, I can't get out of my mind the memory of that damned white teen in a pickup truck yelling at me to go back to my country."

Margaret pulled her sweater down and sank into the bed, pulling the blanket over her. She was shivering and looked confused.

"Oh yeah, you feel cold? I didn't think white skin got cold. But what do I know about whiteness? Do you know anything about brownness?"

His voice rose as he continued talking, calmly but ferociously. "You're concerned about a blood pressure monitor. I'm talking skin. You understand what I'm saying?"

He pinched his arm and thrust it in Margaret's face. "This is what I'm saying. Skin. You see this? Brown skin. As brown as it gets. And I'll tell you one more thing: this brown skin is going to stand up not just for itself but for all others like me from now on."

There was a knock on the door; it was Bob. "Khalid – what's going on?"

Khalid didn't answer him. "You don't want your pressure taken, Ms. Margaret? Ok, let's take mine instead."

He wrapped the cuff around his arm. He picked up a fork from the table and smashed it into the pressure monitor's screen. "Oh, crap. It's not even registering any pressure. Maybe it's because my blood lies under brown skin? Let's swap my skin."

He turned to face Bob. "Hey Bob, want to exchange our skins for a few minutes? Maybe it will work then? I promise I'll give yours back as soon as I'm done."

Bob appeared nonplussed. Perhaps, he was expecting this. "Khalid, why don't we wrap up your shift and have you go home. I think you need to get some rest."

Khalid threw the broken monitor on the floor and walked towards the door. "That's right, Bob. I need to shut up and rest. That'll fix everything."

~

Jacob was lying in bed with Zoey. His mom was on a text-rampage. "Our camper van broke down yesterday in the middle of the highway. We parked on the shoulder and slept there last night. I dreamt that I was a perfect mom and that you loved me so much. What a weird dream. Maybe it was all those noisy trucks barreling by on the highway.

"Steppy calls me a stalker. He thinks it's crazy that I'm texting you even though I know you'll never reply.

"Stalky likes to talk about herself in third person. It makes her feel like her troubles are someone else's.

"Steppy also thinks Stalky has a mental health disorder. Stalky laughed and said she has at-least a few."

He put the phone down next to Zoey, who seemed to paw at it curiously. "Should I reply, Zoey?" he asked. He wondered what her van looked like, trying to picture her sleeping by a highway next to a man he'd never met.

He closed his eyes and started dictating a text – "Mom," – when his phone beeped. It was TheOthers, replying to his post from earlier that day: "You know what? All this bullshit about ours and theirs has me thinking that people would be nicer to each other if they didn't think of them as 'others', but instead, as just different. The void that's created by this otherness quickly fills up with hatred and fear. Fear morphs into 'courage' and gives people like you a false sense of power and purpose. You can see where this goes. Instead of UsAndThem, let's go with Us?

"And you mentioned not being able to voice your opinions. You may not accept it, but opinions of people like you translate into violence targeting black and brown people. Did I ever mention getting into someone else's shoes?"

He was tempted to start typing, which was his normal reflex. It had been a long day though and he decided instead of hold off on his reply. He set his phone to silent and turned off the lamp. Cuddling closer to Zoey, he drifted off to sleep.

At some point later in the night, he thought he heard a buzzing sound around him. His eyes blinked open to catch a glowing luminescence drift hazily around his room. Zoey was sleeping soundly. He didn't want to disturb her, so he laid still, awed by this strange yellow speck of light floating above him.

It flew back and forth across the opposing walls of the room. He wasn't sure if the walls were moving in closer, but each trip seemed to get shorter over time, until it was just moving from his head to his toes and back again.

Maybe it was a firefly? As far as he remembered, he had closed all the windows; plus, it was too cold outside for any firefly to survive.

It – whatever it was, firefly or some other being – finally came near his face, skirting his lips and hovering above his breath.

"What are you?" he asked.

"Come along for a ride," it whispered.

"To where?"

"To a place you know well. Hop onto me."

Curious and amused, he got onto its glowing body as they flew up and out. It took them maybe an hour or maybe a few minutes; he couldn't tell.

When they landed, he was surprised to find both Khalid and Luisa in Peter's room. He felt tempted to ask Khalid what he was doing there, but the firefly moved faster than he could speak.

Peter was lying down in his recliner, his eyes closed. It seemed like he had fallen asleep looking out the window. His phone was next to him on the armrest.

The firefly pointed in Peter's direction and asked Jacob. "Ready?"

"For what?"

"To let it shine on."

"Let what shine? Where?"

"Your inner light. On Peter. Do I have to make it clearer?"

"Whatever." He had given up on expecting this to have any semblance to normalcy. "I'm getting away from this new-agey crap." Jacob stood up and walked away from it.

It moved closer to Peter. He was asleep, his chest heaving up and down, the frayed wrinkles on his arms covering his veins like a warm blanket.

It made a few circles around Peter, picking up speed and blazing brighter with each round. "Here we go." It glided over Peter's arm, grazing it with a piercing beam of yellow light. It slid back and forth across his arm until the friction from its runs caused enough heat that patches of skin started to peel off.

Peter started shouting, flailing his arms, trying to hold on to his fleeing skin, which lay in a pile by his recliner.

Once the skin was out of the way, there was nothing that could stop that reservoir of redness from trickling out into the open. A steady stream of Peter's seventy-four-year-old blood made its way to the center of the room.

The firefly moved over to the other arm and then the chest and then the legs and the face.

Peter had stopped resisting. He slouched down into the recliner and gazed blankly at his skin falling down and blood flowing out. Words escaped his mouth but no one could hear them.

"What are you doing? You're going to get me fired!" Jacob shouted. He looked at Khalid and Luisa, hoping he hadn't woken them up. They seemed to be lost deep into the depths of the night.

"Fired? I'm trying to get you fired up. Didn't you know that transformation is seldom without pain? And remember, I'm just you. I'm that part of you that's been buried deep down, all along; the part that you refuse to act upon. So, we are doing this, not just me."

"Yeah, but what's the point of all this?"

"You tell me."

"Do I look like someone who'd have an answer to most questions?"

"You really think that low of yourself?"

"What...you got another opinion?" Jacob asked, smirking.

"Matter of fact, I do. That's why we're here tonight."

"Oh yeah, what do you have to say, Mr. know-it-all?"

"Not a lot. Just wanted you to know that I'm here. If you need me."

Jacob laughed out loud. "Oh, so now you're showing up, all nice and shiny and kumbaya, huh? Where were you when I've been down in that hole all these years?"

"Right here, inside you, always. Strong, beautiful and muted. At your service, should you ever call out to me."

"Whatever. Too little, too late. Anyway, what are we doing here now?"

"All I'm doing is to get you to look past the skin and feel what it's like under there. You know what it's like, but I'm talking about feeling, not knowing. I'm getting the skin out of the way to make it easy for you. What happens after that is up to you."

Before Jacob could answer, it flew over to Khalid, who was awake now.

Jacob knew what to expect next. He watched the charade with his hands in his pockets, shaking his head.

Khalid tried to swat the firefly down, but he missed it. It was a matter of time before he had his own stream, which ran across towards Peter's and made a puddle at the center of the room.

"Let me guess. Lisa's next?"

"You're smart."

The puddle grew bigger, taking it all in. By now, Peter, Khalid and Luisa seemed oblivious to what was going on, as if they knew it was coming, that it was warranted, that it was a blessing long overdue.

"I'm tired. I need a break from this stuff," Jacob said.

"We've only just begun. The hardest part's yet to come," it said, as it flew towards Jacob.

Jacob started walking away towards the door.

"Where are you going?", the firefly asked.

"To hell with you."

"I'm staying here. Come back and sit down in that chair." It perched on his chest. "Open your eyes so you can see what's going on," it said.

Jacob's heartrate shot up. Deep down, his heart knew what was coming. A bolt of light bit off a chunk of skin from his chest. His eyes were shut and wet, his chest heaving violently.

"Why are you doing this to me? You said this was about getting me to look beyond their skin."

It kept doing circles around him, each round bringing down with it more blood and skin. "We all have skin in the game."

The puddle started expanding, becoming a reservoir of warm redness. The color of love is what they called it. Some called it the soul of life, that universal effervescent redness that travels twelve-thousand miles a day through our bodies, nourishing and sustaining it, flowing underneath that multihued largest organ, the skin.

Jacob stood up and looked down beside his chair. Patches of bandaged skin lay in a white mess. He walked over to that quiet pile of redness and squatted down, squinting his eyes and glaring at what lay before him.

Estranged fathers, falafel, red blood, enchiladas, white pride, apple pie, red blood, third-world-dwellers, illegals, blue-collar men, estranged sons, tortillas, bandages, Johnny Nash-haters, red blood, atheists, music therapists, loner immigrants, red blood, beer, gravy, malt shops, evangelical Christians, guilty sons, red blood, navy-blue-hair, black-inked tattoos, fraying silver hair, messy beards, red blood, spics, shithole-country-citizens, metallic souls, terrorists, kerfa, red blood, mashed potatoes, horchata, Muslims, jigsaw puzzles, red blood. Red Blood. Red Blood.

He put his hand over his mouth, about to throw up. Short of breath and almost choking, he shut his eyes. He couldn't help it. Green puke gushed out of him, dribbling next to the red pond.

Hours went by. He was screaming but couldn't hear a word of what he said. He thought his lips were moving, but who knew? Outside, the rain pelted the roof harder than he thought was possible.

"Alright we need to go home now. Put things back together," the firefly said. "Make sure you return the blood to the right person. Tell me when you're done."

He dipped his clenched hand in the puddle. Its redness felt warm and inviting, asking him to stay longer. He let go and brought his hand closer to his eyes, hoping there might be shades to the redness, hues too subtle for him to be able to discern. But red is all he could tell at that point. Iron molecules reflecting red light. Khalid, Luisa, Peter, Jacob. Molecules.

"Well, UsAndThem? You find the right owner?"

Jacob started walking towards the door. He remembered walking at his normal pace, but it took what seemed like hours to reach the door. The room was blurry and hazy, but he didn't care. Finally, he turned the doorknob and looked down at the firefly. "I hate you. Get me out of here."

Jacob got up suddenly and sat upright in his bed. He looked up at the ceiling. It was quiet and dark. The rain had paused. His comforter was dripping wet from all the sweating.

~

Did Stalky tell you that the wallpaper on her phone is a photo of you riding a bike when you were maybe nine, the wind blowing through your hair? Some mornings, she just looks at the screen until it goes dark and you disappear.

~

Luisa was scheduled to work with Anne in the afternoon. For the past couple of days, she had been dreading that visit, hoping that Margaret would be out on her daily walk while she worked with Anne.

When she entered the room, Anne was in there knitting. Margaret, not to her surprise, was watching TV.

"There you are, Lisa! It's been a few days since I saw you," Anne exclaimed.

"What's that you're working on?" Luisa asked.

"Oh, I'm knitting a sweater for myself. What do you think?" Anne handed her the purple sweater.

"It feels warm," Luisa replied, draping it over her face. "Does it look cute on me?" she asked as she eyed Margaret cautiously through the holes in the sweater.

Anne smiled. "It looks pretty – almost as beautiful as you. Maybe I should make one for you some day."

Luisa was shocked at the unexpected compliment. "Wow...it's so nice of you to say that. Thanks," she stammered as she gave the sweater back. "Can I ask a favor of you?"

"I'm yours, my dear."

"Can you call me Luisa going forward?"

"Luisa? Luisa!" Anne shrieked playfully. "I love it!"

"Oh god, Anne. You have no idea how grateful I am to get a chance to work with you. Well, I think today's visit will be short. I need to collect some info so we can update your chart."

Anne put her knitting kit on the nightstand and laid down in the bed, covering herself with a blanket. "Let's do it."

"It's a scam! I'm telling you, it's a God-awful scam," Margaret shouted out loud.

Luisa felt her heart beating faster at the sound of Margaret yelling.

"Gosh...come on, Margie," Anne sighed. "Give us a break."

"Look at that guy! He's selling timeshares, but it's all a gimmick to get your phone number. And then, I'll tell you." Margaret said, waving the remote in her hand at the TV. "Then, they'll spam you every day with junk calls."

Anne shook her head. "Forget her, Lisa. I mean, Luisa. What were you saying?"

"Umm... I was going to ask you about your medication. Here, let me open your record."

Margaret was glaring angrily at the TV. "I can't believe it. I can't take it anymore. I'm going to call those people and have them shut this show down."

Luisa tried to open Anne's records on the laptop, but the sound of Margaret yelling was making her hands tremble.

"Anne, I'm sorry but I need to step out for a few minutes. We'll send you another nurse to complete today's forms," Luisa said as she stood up.

Anne smiled. "No problem, lovey. See you soon."

Luisa packed her kit and rushed out the door. She went into the staff room and closed the door behind her. She leaned into the corner of the room, her face to the wall and her eyes starting to fill up with tears of trauma. "go home Illegal!" drifted back to her mind. 'Hey spic! dirtbag!' rose up from her memory and gave her goosebumps.

She remembered holding selfie in her hands that night. 'I know you can do it.'

~

Peter was out in the hallway with his walker, waving his phone in the air. "Hey you! I need help," he exclaimed at Bob, who was passing by.

"What's going on Peter? Are you ok?", Bob asked.

"My phone's beeping! My phone's making some sound," he said, excitedly flashing his phone in Bob's face.

"Ok...let's go to your room. I think you'll be more comfortable there," Bob said as he walked him into his room.

He closed the door as Peter sat down in the recliner.

"Maybe it's my son," he said as he handed the phone to Bob.

Bob pulled a chair closer to him. "You want me to check your phone?"

"Yes!", Peter nodded, saliva dribbling down his lips.

Bob read the text message. "It's from someone called Tim. He says 'Hi Dad. Here are some photos of the kids from Thanksgiving.' Do you want to look at these photos, Peter?"

Peter extended his hand out for the phone. His eyes lit up as he saw the photos. "My grandkids! First time! Make these photos bigger, would you?"

"Here, let me do that," Bob said as he zoomed into them. "And you can use your fingers to move the photo around the screen."

Peter's breathing slowed down. He gazed at the screen, slowly moving his fingers across their brown skins. Bob couldn't tell if he was shocked or exuberant.

"Are you ok? Can I get you anything?"

"I'm ok. You can leave now," Peter said as he placed the phone on his lap and closed his eyes.

"You sure?"

Peter nodded, his breath still pacing slowly.

"Ok, take care of yourself and if you need anything, let us know. We're here for you." Bob motioned goodbye as he walked out the door.

Peter choked on his tears as he laid back into the recliner, the phone shaking in his quivering lap.

~

Jacob had called in sick for the earlier part of the day. He was drowsy and nauseated in the morning and didn't want to get out of bed.

He placed his palm over his chest. Maybe the firefly would come out again and this time, fix everything for real. He knew that was a lot to ask for. Clenching his fists, he screamed until his wrists started quivering and he had to let go.

He started scrolling through Freedom14. It was the usual banter.

Chris: "Yeah, screw you. We want to keep our nation great. We can't –". He stopped midway and scrolled on to the next post.

Billy: "Oh yeah, baby. 'Bring it on' is what I say to the protesters. We're more than happy to take them down and you know –".

'Billy, you're a fricking loser!' Jacob swore loudly as he skipped to a note by the BowlGuy: "Just a reminder that I'm here for you. For all of you. All –"

He hurled the phone down on the floor, yelling "Go away! Get away from me!" at it. He ran into the bathroom and looked straight at the mirror.

Red. Red. Red. Red. That damned haunting color. Nowhere to turn. He wanted to run. He had a million miles raging inside his chest, roaring to step out of him and run – run with power, run with faith, run towards healing, run towards vulnerability, run like he had never before. A part of him wanted to say ready, one-two-three and sprint away. Except, there was that soundproof, emotion-proof glass box, that first of many hurdles. Not an inch of budging would it allow.

He ran back into his dark bedroom and started reading the posts again.

NoInvasion45: "It's like pulling out ivy. You've got to get it out by the roots. That's what these people are: they are weeds that –".

He started typing a note to BowlGuy: "I don't know where to start –", but instead, he spat on his phone and called out to Zoey, who came running onto his bed. "Come here, you bitch," he screamed, as he grabbed her leg and started dragging her nails across the tattoo on his chest. "Get that nasty blackness off me. I want it out right now!". Tiny specks of black-inked skin came off. He dumped her on the couch and rushed back to the mirror in the bathroom.

"What the hell are you doing on my face?" he yelled, as he pulled at his ears. "And you? What good are you for? Nothing smart ever came out of you anyway." He bit down hard on his lips until they squirmed their way out from under his teeth. His breaths were shallow and deep, normal and abnormal.

A minute later, his fist greeted broken shiny glass.

~

When he checked his phone later in the parking lot at work, Billy had replied to TheOthers' post.

"Ok, let me get this straight. So, you want all of us to sit down around a fire in a nice large circle, share some kombucha, get stoned, forget our differences and hug each other real tight? Ok, that makes sense. No wonder this country is going to hell right now.

"You want us to listen to you folks and understand your 'perspective'. Tell you what – I'm tired of being asked to do this and do that for you folks. I'm sick and tired of being made to feel guilty for being white. I'm tired of being asked to let go of my white privilege. I'm pissed off that we don't get to have white history month. I'm hurt that I can't say 'white lives matter' without having you folks sneer at me.

"There's a term for what's being done to me and my people: it's called racism. So, look in your mirror and tell me if you don't see a racist. Until then, stay the hell away from our forum."

Jacob wanted to reply to Billy's post. Instead, he threw the phone down, fished out a knife from his pocket and started slashing his glass-ridden fist. "This one's for you Jacob, you fricking loser. You know something? You're actually a smart guy. A pretty damn smart guy. You're smart enough to know when you've screwed up. Too bad that you're not neat enough to fix it."

He picked up a swab of cotton from the car door and smeared it with his blood. "There, go away!" he said as he threw it out the window.

Another slash. "You climbed deep down to the bottom of a treacherous cavern but just realized that you don't know how to find your way out. Yup...you got that cute little spark in you, but there's a ton of crap on top of it. Give yourself a couple hundred years and maybe you might be able to shove that shit away."

A man walked past his car and smiled at him. Jacob threw another red swab out the window.

"Hey! What you got under your skin?" Jacob yelled.

The guy stopped with a furrowed look on his face. "Huh?"

"I mean exactly what I said!"

He shook his head and scampered away.

Another deep slash. "Goddamn it...I don't want anything to do with myself. Ever. Got that? I'm fed up."

His breaths were short and hollow but at this point, not much mattered.

The steering wheel could only handle so much head-banging before he had to pull away and close his eyes.

He started typing a text to his mom. "Mom, I need you to hold me. In your arms. Right now. I hate you. I want to shred it all down. I had four tablespoons of sugar for breakfast today. The petals don't want me anymore. Get away from me, you crazy woman! I –". Before he could send the message, he started choking on his breaths, which birthed in a tiny cave in his heart, rose up into his throat, took a brief sojourn in his mouth, roared out through that emotion-proof box and finally showed up outside, as hot tears. It was long overdue, he knew.

He checked his phone. He was late for his shift. He slapped a quick bandage over his fist and got out of the car. When he entered the break room, he was surprised to find Luisa huddled against a corner, sitting in a chair with her eyes closed and breathing hard. He was taken aback and wasn't sure if he should go out.

"You ok, Lisa?" he asked, with his hands in his pockets.

Her hair was ruffled and her voice hoarse. "Hi," she replied. "My name is Luisa."

"Ok...you want me to make you some tea? I know you like peppermint."

"Oh really, now you want to help me? That's awfully nice of you, but it's a little too late, don't you think, you dirtbag?" Luisa shouted, looking straight at him.

She stood up, picked up her bag and slammed the door shut as she walked out.

"Oh sorry, I'm supposed to be polite and not slam doors," she said, walking back in. "That was so rude of me. Here, I'll close it gently. How's that?"

Jacob felt his nausea coming on worse as he slumped down in the chair. He was reminded of that time from when he was around eleven, when his mom had forced him to take an ice bath. He had refused and she had pushed his head into the freezing water and held it there for what seemed like forever.

~

Stalky wishes you had voicemail setup. That way, when she calls and you don't pick up, she could at-least hear your voice on the recording. Now, all she gets is some cold woman from Verizon.

~

It had been three weeks since Khalid was fired. He remembered telling Sharifa about it, the night after his meeting with Bob. He waited till the kids were in bed.

'I have some news, Sharifa,' he told her as she was washing dishes.

She didn't look up from the sink. 'What's up?' she had asked.

'I don't have a job anymore,' he had replied, calmly and with a straight face.

She was washing a plate of china and the first sound he heard from her direction was that of the plate cracking into pieces in the sink.

Some nights, while he was sleeping, he felt like he had lost his job a few minutes ago; other mornings, he'd wake up, thinking it was just a bad nightmare. He'd drop the kids off at school and start driving to work before turning around and realizing he didn't have a job.

He was waiting now in a café for Luisa. They had been talking on the phone over the past few days but hadn't met since he was fired. He was checking his phone when she walked in.

"Oh my god, Khalid, I'm so sorry about your job," she said.

He nodded grimly as they both sat down.

"What? I thought you'd reply back with a joke of some sort. Are you ok?" she asked.

Khalid's face was straight and his gaze unwavering.

"Sorry, that was mean," Luisa apologized.

He smiled. "I'll save my joke for the next time I get fired."

"How is Sharifa doing?" Luisa asked.

"She's in denial. We're trying to figure out where to go from here."

"That must be so hard. I can't even imagine the pressure of having a family to take care of when you don't have a job," Luisa said. She started to say something but stopped herself.

"Did you just stop mid-sentence?" Khalid asked.

"Khalid, why did you push yourself so hard with Margaret? I don't mean to grill you on this. I know the whole thing was hard, but you are a calm and funny guy. You could have let the whole arguing go and kept your job."

Khalid chuckled. "Calm and funny? Funny that everyone thinks I'm funny. I'll keep it short since this meeting isn't about me. Let's just say that in my past, I've done a few things that are...well, let's call them unethical. The guilt from my actions gave me years' worth of suffering – and rightly so. I knew that the only way out from my guilt ditch was to change my behavior and reform myself in whatever ways I can."

Luisa listened tensely to him.

"Sometimes, that meant standing up for others. I couldn't handle the way you were treated by Jacob and Peter. I know you're not a confrontational person and would never raise these issues with Bob. So, while I am angry about getting fired, my heart knows I did the right thing."

He paused, staring into his cup of coffee. "I could have talked to Bob regarding all this racist crap that's been going on for a while. Getting into a fight with little Margaret...I don't know...it wasn't pre-planned. After you told me about that graffiti on your home, I was at my tipping point, so when Margaret insulted me, it all came pouring out. Part of it was standing up for myself, but also, I felt this strong urge to defend you."

"Oh god, Khalid. I had no idea. I'm so sorry my problems led to this," Luisa blurted, unsure what to say or do.

Khalid smiled. "Don't worry, it's not you. I still have a lot to make up for before I can get out of that damned ditch."

"Speaking of Bob...I chatted with him a few days ago. I told him I'm not taking any crap from anyone. I've had enough of it. I'm standing up for who I am, just as I am. You should've seen the look on his face when I told him those exact words: 'who I am, just as I am'".

"What was his reaction?"

"He was shocked. He knew this was coming...but in the end, we agreed that things need to change at work. It's about time."

Khalid paused for a few awkward seconds. "This will seem odd, but I wanted to ask you about Jacob. When was the last you saw him?"

Luisa burst out laughing. "That idiot? I don't know...a few weeks ago? I saw him in the staff room. Last I heard, he went on vacation at pretty short notice. Why do you ask?"

Khalid steadied himself. He took his phone out of his pocket and put it on the table. "This will be hard." He took a deep inhale and closed his eyes. "Jacob is dead. He killed himself last week."

Luisa jumped out of her chair. "What?" The people near them were astounded. She apologized. "Sorry."

Khalid choked on his words as he showed Luisa his phone. "This is a long story, so bear with me. I'm going to tell you like it happened. You remember that night you visited our home and I happened to make a comment to the effect that I'm really good at poking my head into other people's business?"

"Yes, but what the hell does that have to do with Jacob?"

"Well, one afternoon, in the staff room, Jacob had wrapped up his lunch and went out to resume his shift. However, he forgot to take his phone with him. I sat there next to his phone, tempted to check it out. A few minutes later, it beeped and I couldn't help myself."

Khalid looked at the people near him. They had settled down after Luisa's outburst and seemed busy. "Turned out that the beeping on his phone was a notification from a website. I later learnt that it was a hate site called Freedom14. This was all new and shocking to me. I wasn't sure when Jacob might come running for his phone so I just took a photo of his phone, including the site and his username."

Luisa appeared horrified, as if something was stuck in her throat. She wanted to speak up but was at a loss for words.

"It was horrible of me to check his phone, but like I said earlier...I'm good at eavesdropping, as bad as that is. Later that night, I signed up on that site. Since then, he and I had been trading posts back and forth. Things often got contentious, as you might expect on a site like that. Of course, he never knew that TheOthers was me."

Luisa covered her face in her hands. "I can't believe it. I can't believe it. What day is it today? What city are we in?"

Khalid moved his chair closer to her. "I know this is shocking. It's unbelievable for me, so I can imagine how crazy this might sound to you."

"Why didn't you tell me about this all along? And what does this have to do with his suicide?" Luisa grilled him.

"I'm sorry. I'll explain more later, but for now, please just read the last few posts he made."

He gave her his phone. The first post she read was from around a couple of weeks ago. It was from Billy: "Y'all won't believe this. I was driving through Chinatown today afternoon. It was pouring like crazy. Around forty feet ahead of me, I saw this little old Asian woman standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus. There was a puddle of water on the road next to where she was standing. I revved up my Camaro so that by the time I got near her, a nice big chunk of cold dirty water splashed all over her. I looked in the rearview mirror: she was horrified! Her bag of groceries was all over the sidewalk. Awesome."

Below it was Jacob's reply: "That's cool. I worry though if all that cold water made her sick or something. If I was in your town, I'd probably go find her and buy her some groceries. I don't know. What do you think?"

Billy replied almost immediately to Jacob: "You ok, UsAndThem? Worrying about her getting sick? You got hacked or something? Stay safe brother."

The next post by Jacob was from a week ago: "Hey all. Let's just say that the past few days have been rough. I had a crazy dream a few nights ago. Now I know what you're thinking, but this isn't all woo-woo. I'm going to skip the details of the dream – some of you might call it a nightmare – but I woke up next morning feeling...different. I don't know if it was a 'good different' or a 'bad different'. I felt confused – for the first time – about what we're doing here. I just want to ask: are we on the right path?"

His post, as expected, got several replies:

Chris: "Dude, you ok? Your recent posts have got me worried about your mental state."

NoInvasion45: "Why are you even on this site if you don't believe in our values, you race traitor? I got enough liberals like you in my family and don't need to hear any more of that crap."

Luisa looked up at Khalid.

"The next post you'll read is his last one. It's from a couple of days ago. I don't know what to say."

"Hi. This may sound odd, but instead of typing it out, I wrote it on a piece of paper first. I'm attaching a photo I took of that paper."

Luisa zoomed in on the photo. It was hard to read his scribbly handwriting.

"I'm tired. I'm confused and lost. I don't care what Y'all think of me anymore. Putting up a cheerful facade? Screw that. Taking down those 'others'? I'm done with that. There are no 'others' – it's just 'us' and our shitty labels. I'm tired of caring if I feel accepted or not. I've spent most of my life searching for acceptance for who I was, just as I was, and I know it's not gonna happen. You guys gave me some support, but what was the point of that? The devil could have a billion people cheering for him – that doesn't make what he's doing right.

"I'm not saying I woke up feeling enlightened the next day. In fact, it was the opposite: I had seldom felt so disoriented as I did that morning – I couldn't even figure out how to make breakfast. My mouth felt like I had just eaten a piece of metal. What I did realize though was that the shackles of hatred are strong and heavy. After years of being bedraggled by them, you start to feel like it's second nature. You wonder if you can ever make room for love, after being on a diet of hatred and fear all your life. I know I can't. It's a vicious circle that feeds off itself and doesn't let anything else come in. Someone better than me would have gone on to dump those shackles and inspire others to love and forgive. I could have gone on and done good things and all that nice stuff, but guess what? There's only so much goodness I've got in me. That nasty side's gonna rise up again soon. Tear it down, it rises again. Tear it down, rises again. You get what I'm saying. Thanks mom, dad, friends, exes...life.

"This should not come as a surprise to those who know me – I've always been lost, though I seldom admitted it. What are you supposed to do when the flooring has been taken out from under you? Find new ground? Yeah, right. All I know is how to hate others and defend myself. I don't have the skills to change myself and never will. I've been searching all my life for someone who would reassure me that I could overcome my obstacles and my limitations, but haven't found a single person who could do that. (too late mom, if you ever read this). Yeah, it's that screwed up. I'm just so special.

"It's a heavy burden to live knowing that you're full of hatred but will never find a way to get it out of your body. It's a cancer of the soul. It's like being stuck in a running car in your garage: you know it's bad and that it will eventually get you, but you can't get out of the car or turn it off. Ever got trapped in a hole full of stones that kept piling on and on to a point where you couldn't even see a single crack of light from up outside? Yup, been there, done that.

"The toxicity of what we brew within ourselves and unleash on others, hurts us the most. We may not realize it – it took me all these years to even recognize it, let alone accept it – but it's the truth. And once you know the truth, it will either strangle you or, if you're smart and lucky (not me), set you free.

"My life has been relatively short, but I need to close that garage door now and start the car. There aren't a lot of people who'll miss me...maybe a handful. Perhaps double-digits if I count you online folks. Goodbye and hope you find your way out.

"ps: The reason I wrote this on a piece of paper is that my fingers hurt when I write. And that's why I had to write it out: I had to go through at-least a fraction of the pain I have caused others. Speaking of others...TheOthers – I'm sorry, whoever you are.

"pps: My fingers have been hurting for years. I didn't know why, until a few weeks ago. All that hatred of myself and of others had slowly been killing me. Every word I typed here was making it worse. My hands kept trying to tell me to stop, but of course, I didn't listen. Well, there's only so much oppression our bodies can handle before they will revolt."

Luisa's hands were shaking. She dropped the phone on the floor.

"One more thing," Khalid said, as he picked it up. "His avatar used to be a photo of him standing next to his car, his right arm straight and raised, with his hand flat. After his last post, he changed it to this."

It was a photo of hands – his hands, they guessed – cupped together. A couple of rose petals rested amidst their whiteness.

~

Yesterday, lying on the couch, Stalky looked up out of the sunroof of her van. The roof was rusty and moldy, but way out there, was the clear blue sky. A wispy little cloud drifted by and she missed you.

