Remember My Name (9 page)

I grit my teeth. “Sorry to
hear about your sister.” We’re almost back to the store.

“Oh, it’s all right. We
spent all the best years of our lives together, which of course was college and
divorcing our husbands together, so I don’t have any regrets.” Her attention
redirecting to the raised threshold of the store’s rear entrance, she winds her
leg up like a pitcher to get her foot high enough to step over it. How old
is
this woman?

Following her in, I point
across the room at Jackson. “He’ll help you.” At the moment, my brother is
ringing up a young woman’s purchase at the register. He smiles as he gives her
the change and slips a plastic bag around her plant. What a nice guy, that Jackson.

“Won’t you stick around?”
Cherie asks. “I understand you’re still learning your way around, but I do love
to chat, even if you’re unable to provide any botanical direction.”

“Sorry, I have work to do,”
I say, dropping my gaze. Her hand falls from my back as I walk away, but the
warmth lingers for several moments longer.

The second I’m outside, I
kick at the ground and a shower of woodchips explodes into the air. I walk all
the way back to Jeff’s truck, trying to get a handle on myself. Leaning against
the hood, I fight to keep my breathing even. Now that I’ve finally flown out
here to Minnesota, it’s impossible to ignore that I have a brother – a
twin brother – and I don’t even know him. After living half a country
apart for nearly a decade, why does it bother me so much now that we’ve grown
apart?

Mom and Jeff’s divorce was
messy, although I didn’t learn that until three years ago on Mom’s birthday
when she decided to finish a bottle of wine by herself. A divorce that was kept
almost entirely from Jackson and me. Our parents tried so hard to insulate us
from the consequences of it, and it almost worked, except when it came to the
worst one of all – splitting us apart. Even though she didn’t explain
much, it was enough for me to understand that beneath all of her strength, she
was honestly afraid in those last days before she left. Except being here now,
I don’t know why. Dad isn’t some raging drunk or anything.

Anyway, for as hard as they
worked to avoid any contact with each other, they never made any attempt to
actually keep us from seeing each other. It just sort of happened.

Jackson seems to have
changed so much with the passing time. He even knows how to a ride a motorcycle
now. When the hell did he learn to do that?

When I return to the front,
Jackson locks eyes with me the moment I step inside the store. “Where did you
go?”

“Just took a break for a
bit,” I mumble.

“Oh. I see you met Cherie.
She’s a hoot.”

I shrug, glancing away. “She
seems crazy.”

“You should be nice to her,
she doesn’t have an ounce of meanness in that wrinkled old body.”

Sliding my shoe back and
forth on the slippery concrete floor, I ask, “So what should I do next?”

“Did you water outside yet?”

“Just the stuff inside the
greenhouse.”

“Water the little pots
outside, and if there’s time before lunch, might as well do the potted trees
too.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

He gives me an impassive
look, but I ignore him and walk away.

After lunch, Jackson tells
me not to water anymore since it’s getting too hot. Instead I’m supposed to be squeezing
together the rows of potted tomatoes so we can clear up outdoor space. He
doesn’t say why, and I don’t really care. I just want today to be done.

I’m dragging my third tomato
plant to its new home when I see her step out from the end of the greenhouse.
Lifting a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, I can’t stop myself from
staring. Thin and tall with golden brown hair down to her shoulders, she’s got
on a pair of jean shorts and a blue t-shirt just like mine. She really works
here?

When she turns in my
direction, I drop my hand and look away, leaving my row of tomatoes half moved
as I practically run to the storefront.

Jackson is leaned over the
register, counting out the pennies in the take-a-penny, leave-a-penny tray. He
glances up when I approach. “Hey Ben, I was just–”

“Yeah I know, you weren’t
doing anything,” I interrupt. “I don’t care, but just tell me who that girl
is.”

“Going after the help, huh?”

“Shut up. What’s her name?”

Rolling a penny between his
fingers, he gives me a playful look. “Maybe you should just ask her yourself.”

“Screw you,” I snap, leaving
him at the counter staring after me.

*     *     *    
*

By the time five o’clock
finally arrives, I’ve never been so ready to head home. It took me half the
afternoon to move all the rows of outdoor pots. I saw the girl a few more times
but only from a distance. Jeff came out of his office about an hour ago to
check on my work before sending me with a shovel to rotate the compost heap at
the very back of the property. Blisters formed across both my palms after that
particular task, and in addition to my headache, it feels like a desert in my
mouth.

I collapse into the chair
behind the counter with a bottle of water while Jackson finishes sweeping the
floor. I wipe the sweat from my forehead using the side of my hand, even though
it’s pointless to still be fighting to keep the dirt away. I’m covered in it.

“You did a good job today,
Ben,” Jeff says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

I risk a glance at him, a
touch of bitterness sneaking into my voice. “How could you even know? You
barely left your office.”

“I was watching, and you
worked really hard. I’m impressed with your work ethic.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Now if only Jackson worked
that hard, we could really get some things done around here.” Jeff grins.

Broom still in hand, Jackson
raises his arms in a
bring-it
gesture. “I work plenty hard.”

“Whatever,” I scoff. “You
were inside all day.”

“I’m not the guy on the
bottom anymore,” he says. Seeing my expression, he adds, “Kidding. We’ll switch
off, don’t worry.”

“All right boys,” Jeff
clears his throat. “Let’s get locked up and get home.”

“Sure thing,” Jackson says,
stowing the broom in the corner and pulling the keys out of his pocket.

Jeff gestures to me. “Ben,
let’s head out. Jackson can finish up here.”

“I thought we were riding
back home on the dirt bike?”

“Jackson is, but he’s not
technically allowed to have passengers on a provisional motorcycle license, so
I’d rather you come with me. Besides, as you pointed out, I haven’t seen you
all day.”

As we pull out of the lot, I
can just see Jackson in the side mirror locking the last door at the end of the
greenhouse.

“So what did you think of
your first day?” Jeff asks.

I shrug, then groan as
soreness bites into my shoulders. “I wasn’t really planning on working this
summer. Especially not manual labor.”

Jeff nods. “I can understand
that. This summer was a bit unexpected for all of us.” He waves with two
fingers out the window as we pass a black Chevy truck. “But I’m really glad we
get you for the summer.”

My attention wanders to the
greenery flying past. “Free labor, right?”

He sends a disapproving
glance my way. “Not what I meant, Ben.”

“Sorry.”

For a minute, no sound but
the hum of the engine fills the cab. “No need to apologize. This is a big
change that got thrown at you.”

“It’s not fair.” The moment
the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It makes me sound like a little
kid, but it’s also the truth.

“No, it’s not, but that’s
just the way things are sometimes.” He hesitates, then adds, “I expect you boys
to be ready to walk out the door at seven a.m. tomorrow. We’re not going to be
driving separately every day, am I clear?”

I swallow, running my
fingers along the armrest. “Okay.” Outside, green fields of wheat and corn sail
past just like the minutes. Everything here is so different than back home, and
the only comfort is that for every field and every minute that passes, I’m a
little bit closer to the fall semester at Stanford.

We’ve been home about ten
minutes when Jackson turns into the driveway and steers the dirt bike into the
garage. From the window in his room, I watch him hop off the bike, first
setting the safety glasses across the handlebar and then his helmet on a shelf.
He strides across the yard, the sun at his back casting his shadow in front of
him.

“I’m home,” his words carry
up the stairs. “Ready to work on the bike, Dad?”

“Sure am,” Jeff’s distant
voice replies.

I sit down on the edge of
Jackson’s bed. It’s strange to listen in on them like this, to hear how they
interact. What would it have been like if Jackson had ended up with Mom, and I
had lived with Jeff? Would we be the ones having the conversation right now
about fixing up the dirt bike? I don’t even know how to
ride
one, much
less fix the damn thing.

The sound of rapid movement
up the stairs precedes Jackson’s entrance to the room and his eyes sweeping
over me. “Want to help us out with the bike?”

I’m dirty and sore, and
there’s no way I’m going to willingly play mechanic now too.

“Look,” he says. “I know
today probably sucked, but it would be more fun if you helped.” His voice
lowering, he admits, “Just me and Dad all the time can get a little boring.”

Despite all the work I’ve
done today, I almost say yes. Then I remember that he was the one who all but
cut off the communication between us, and a swell of resentment rises inside
me, drowning out any interest in being around him more than I already have been
today. What makes him suddenly want to spend time together? Where was that
sentiment all the times I called?

“Sorry, Jackson, maybe next
time.”

 Unease permeates his
expression, stabbing lines of worry through his forehead like he’s just had a
bad acupuncture session. I probably could have made more of an effort to sound
sincere.

“No worries.” He gives me a
weak smile, waiting just a moment before retreating down the hall.

I feel like hell, but before
I shower and give up on movement for the rest of the night, I need to go for a
run. It’s the one thing that has always kept me sane. It’s my safe place.

Digging through my bag until
I find my gym shorts, I change and patter down the stairs in my socks. I forgot
my running shoes back in L.A., so I pick out a pair of Jackson’s by the door.
These stink just like his sneakers I wore today, but they fit pretty well.

Just inside the garage,
Jackson and Jeff are crowded around the dirt bike. Jeff is pointing at a part
of the engine and saying something to Jackson, who’s bent over, hands on his
knees and holding a wrench. It’s all very blue-collar, and it takes all of my
restraint not to roll my eyes.

When I’m just a few feet
away, they both look up. Jackson zeroes in on my shoes. “Aren’t those mine?”

“No.” I give him a deadpan
look.

“Liar,” he says. “Just
because they fit doesn’t mean you can wear them.”

Jeff’s voice cuts me off
before I can react, a warning resonating in his words. “Boys…”

“But Dad,” Jackson whines,
“Ben always breaks shit.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t
break stuff.”

Jeff sighs, playing referee.
“I think that’s a little unfair, considering how long it’s been since you’ve
seen each other.”

Jackson scowls at me but
doesn’t respond. With Jeff in the ring, I bite down on my ready remark of how
much I really care about his piece-of-shit shoes, instead opting for the
diplomatic. “I forgot my running shoes back home,” I explain. “I’ll be nice to
them.”

Jackson gives Jeff a long
look, then shoos me away with a wave of the wrench. “Just go run, klepto.”

“A path follows alongside
the road,” Jeff says. “So you don’t have to run on the gravel if you don’t
want.”

I nod and then I’m off. My
shoulders and back are sore, but my legs are eager for the challenge. Quickly
falling into my usual rhythm, I cross the road and find the path. Footfalls
beating out time like a clock, I let myself take a mental step back from
everything that has happened.

It all moved so quickly. It
was just a week ago that Mom sat me down to talk about the change in our summer
plans. It’s almost surreal, being here now. There are no skyscrapers or planes
overhead here, no pavement or fountains, and hardly any people. Instead I’m
surrounded by a sprawling tapestry of fields and the occasional wooded area,
the lines between them stitched by dirt roads and ditches.

A breeze picks up behind me,
propelling me forward. The air tastes sweet and fresh, lending an extra
lightness to my steps. Like premium high-octane gas, I imagine that the country
oxygen is richer, more prevalent.