The Last Time We Met

32

Mom found me awake in the middle of the night watching CNN footage of the riots. Most of the footage was from Minneapolis, the epicenter of it all. The streets teemed with people – most masked, and somewhat socially distanced, but many others not – and once night set in, the fires and looting began.

"This is all pretty scary, isn't it." Mom settled onto the couch beside me and pulled an afghan over both of our laps.

CNN wasn't showing any footage of the protest in San Jose, but they did show many of the other cities where protests were ongoing. It looked like anarchy. The president called the protestors "thugs" on Twitter. The mayor of Minneapolis was pleading with people to stay home. Even though the footage was looped to show the same crowd of people walking, the same fire, the same broken storefront, I couldn't stop watching it and imagining Cedric there, amid the chaos. Alone.

"I just don't understand." My voice was a hoarse whisper. "There's a pandemic going on. Why are people doing this?"

Mom didn't say anything for a while. "I suppose they believe this is worth it."

Cedric believed this was worth risking his life. I thought about Chris and Brent, marching in the Pride Parade, despite the people protesting their right to exist. Despite Brent's health deteriorating. Brent thought it was worth risking exhaustion to celebrate the ongoing fight for his freedoms and to demand that he was worth saving. Chris believed it, too. Henry had believed that she could save Theodore from dying, and she had. Theodore had tried to do the same for her. He had stayed by her side.

Those were different times. If Cedric got COVID, I wouldn't be allowed to see him in the hospital or hold his hand as he died. I rubbed my eyes. How could it be worth it if he died?

I had woken feeling so empty. All those past lives had deserted me. They were over and gone already. A sharp thought had made me sit up in bed: if I had decided that Cedric and I were over, and not soulmates, would that change the pattern of all those past lives? Would our breakup save his life?

Another thought had hit me: what if it didn't change anything? What if all it meant was that he died alone and I lived in heartache the rest of my life, knowing that together we might have enjoyed a few moments of happiness that would carry over?

Mom stayed with me on the couch for a while before telling me she was going to bed. I nodded and shut off the television, followed her up the stairs. In my bedroom, however, I pulled out my cigar box and took up each thing that had helped me remember. I inhaled the postcard, the candle. I pulled Henrietta's photograph from the frame and held it, closing my eyes.

The memories were gone.

I still had them written down, of course. But whatever magical essence these talismans had contained had evanesced. There was none left, and without Cedric, I couldn't hope to remember much more. Cedric had brought these powerful memories to the forefront. Before him, I'd only had the faintest idea of those previous selves.

Without the memories, I slept restlessly, imagining every outcome of talking to Cedric the next day. If he would even answer my calls. If he really did want to talk.

The following morning my eyes were scratchy and I brewed myself a cup of espresso. Eleven a.m. felt too early to try to call Cedric. One o'clock, I decided. I carried my mug up to my room and opened my laptop.

Facebook told me what I needed to know about the protest tomorrow in Brentwood. A peaceful protest, planned for a few hours in the afternoon. I tried not to look at the comments, but I couldn't help it: I needed to see what kind of waves this protest would cause. The protestors at the Pride parade hadn't scared Chris and Brent.