Sometimes we make up stories about the animals as we walk, and sometimes we just look at them. I hate that they’re locked up; I really do. But I am also really glad I get to look at animals, because they make me think about what it means to be an animal. I am one. Sometimes I’m all up in my head, which is a very human place to be. Other times, I’m ruled by my body, and that’s okay too, I guess. I stare at the Siberian tiger and think about how powerful he is, and also how powerful I am. I never knew. I always thought I had zero power in this world. But look where I am, and who I’m with. I have to have at least a little power to change things if I got here with these awesome people.
It’s not like my life is perfect. I mean, my dad. That’s not perfect, obviously. Mom still talks like I’m her patient about 50 percent of the time. This morning she told me that it was important to feel my grief about my dad even now, that there’s grief even now. She’s right, but you know? I’d really rather have a hug. The difference is, this time I said that, and she looked a little annoyed, but she did give me a hug. Progress.
Our path diverges, with one sign pointing toward the bighorn sheep to the right and another toward the Canada lynx to the left. We follow Aisha to the left.
“It’s hard with my dad, because I’m just getting to know him, and what if he dies?” I say. “I don’t know if anyone can quite understand what that’s like.”
Turk stops walking. I turn around and realize that of course he knows what that feels like.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Your grandfather was an idiot sometimes too.”
We walk in silence some more. I think about my grandfather. Who might have been an idiot, but Turk loved him anyway. So did my dad. So did my grandmother. That makes me feel happy and relieved, because apparently I have idiot tendencies too. It’s a Smith thing, I guess. And it’s okay. More and more these days, I’m realizing that I might be crazy, but I’m loved too. I don’t think I ever really knew that before, but I do now.
We stop for ice cream at this outdoor stand on Broadwater Avenue that Aisha recommends. I get a chocolate peanut butter cone that starts dripping immediately.
“So when should I break it to my mother that I’m flying back to San Francisco with you?” I say to Aisha between frantic Gomer-like licks. “That you and I will drive back?”
Aisha looks at Turk. Turk looks at Aisha. My stomach drops below my shoes.
“So here’s the deal,” Aisha says. “Can I tell him?”
Turk nods.
“So I’m actually going to stay in San Francisco,” she says.
“You are?”
She smiles, a beautiful, warm, happy smile. “I mean, I have no place to live here. And you’re going to go back to New York at some point.”
“But maybe you can come. With me. With us,” I say. “My mom said —”
She shakes her head. “This makes more sense. I can take care of Turk, and then maybe enroll in community college in the fall. Next year, if my grades are good, who knows?”
I feel like my body is going to cave into itself. I don’t want to feel these feelings.
“No, no,” Aisha says, seeing my expression. “It’s a good thing, Carson. We’re family now. Don’t you get it? I’m staying with your grandfather. We already told your folks. Your mom agrees. You can come visit any time you want. Turk will pay. And when you’re done with high school, if you wanna, you can move to San Francisco too. But for now, you have to be with your dad and your mom. Because you have a dad and a mom. Understand?”
I nod slowly. What two seconds ago felt like a kick in the gut is beginning to feel different. Like I can see how Aisha’s life will unfold, and it’s better, so much better than it was.
“Not to mention I could use the help,” Turk says. “My days of grocery shopping need to be over. If Aisha doesn’t show up, I’m about six months from a nursing home. Seriously.”
I simply can’t speak, because I’m so overcome with the emotion of all that’s happened in less than three weeks. Aisha’s life. Totally changed. My life. Totally changed. My parents. Turk. All the lives impacted, and maybe it’s not perfect. Maybe my dad will die soon. Maybe my mom is not the perfect mom. But despite all that, there’s change. Surprising, messy, wonderful change.
“I’ll call you every day,” Aisha says. “This isn’t good-bye, Carson. I mean, it will be, in a few days. But you will never be without me. I’m gonna be there on your phone and on your Skype ’til you’re sick of my ass.”
“Never,” I say. It’s ironic. I could not have been closer to people physically than I was in New York. Sometimes on the train, you’re pushed up against them. And yet I never really felt connected to people until I came West, where there are so many fewer people to connect with.
I guess in some ways, my grandfather and I took the same trip. Neither of us felt connected at the start, and by the end, we did. To me, that’s a huge thing. Because now that my heart is full, I just want my heart to stay full always. Even if it means losing my dad, I’d rather have him in my heart and then miss him than not ever have him in my heart.
Turk has to run to the bathroom. As we sit there, licking our cones, I try to imagine Billings without Aisha. It’s impossible.
“I’m gonna miss the shit out of you,” I say.
Aisha holds her cone away from her, then leans over and hugs me tight with her other arm. I bury my face in her neck, making sure not to douse her with my own cone.
“I’m gonna miss the shit out of you too,” she says.
I keep on hugging her for what feels like a long time, and what’s funny is that it doesn’t feel like a long time, really. It feels just about right. A long, right hug.
“I’ve never had a friend like you,” I say, finally pulling back.
“Black?” she says, raising an eyebrow, and I laugh.
“Exactly. That’s exactly what I meant.”
She smiles that Aisha smile, the one where her whole face gets involved. “I’ve never had a friend like you either. And we’re family now.”
“Yeah. We’re family.”
“In fact,” she says, rubbing her chin, “now that I’m kind of like your grandfather’s husband’s sort of daughter, I guess I’m like, I don’t know, your mom.”
I crack up, and I feel so much joy when she laughs too. Seeing Aisha laugh is like seeing something you only get to see a couple of times in your life. A waterfall or a meteor shower. Except you get to see it all the time if you’re lucky enough to be with her.
“I’m calling you Mommy from now on,” I say.
“Awesome. Imma hold you to that.”
That night, lying on a brand-new air mattress (thanks, Grandpa Turk!), I stare up at the ceiling that I cannot see and think about things.
I think about God. Is there a God? I prayed for help when we were sleeping in the park in Reno, and help came, in the form of an idea to do improv. But who’s to say I wouldn’t have gotten that idea without praying?
But is it possible that all this just happened randomly in the last few weeks, that I randomly met this girl, and we randomly came across this stuff, and we randomly set out on a quest, and by doing so, all our lives were forever changed?
I really don’t know. I don’t know what to think about God. Part of me wants to believe. Part of me has to believe. Part of me cannot believe.
Maybe that’s God, right there. The thing that lets us believe three different things all at once, three ideas in conflict, and yet it feels rational and normal and okay. Maybe that’s not God. Maybe that’s just my brain.
I remember what the meditation lady said in Wyoming. How prayer is like talking to God, and meditation is like listening.