The Last Time We Met

14

All night I waited for another past life memory to hit me. But it didn't. I hovered at Cedric's elbow, suddenly nervous about meeting Cedric's friends. It was late by the time I realized I liked his friends and allowed myself to relax. That night, after I had kissed Cedric good-night and driven home, I lay in bed, and the memory came back to me, softly. Running in my bare feet, moss soft against the soles. The warm sun on my arms, the fabric loose around me. Weaving a crown of flowers for him. For her. She had long dark hair and bright blue eyes. She was tall, taller than me, with long legs. Long and lean. She had been born Antonio, but now she was Antonella.

I wanted to tell Cedric about her, but after our fight, I decided not to. This new memory, it was from a very long time ago. There would be no way to prove any of it.

It wasn't hard not to tell him. The holidays were upon us, and SAT testing, and deadlines for college applications, and things between Cedric and I got even more serious. We spent most every day together. "He's doing better in school with all the studying you two are doing," Cedric's dad told me one day, and Cedric and I shared a smirk. We spent a lot of time not studying. But we did study together, and usually Eli would join us if we were at my house, or one of Cedric's friends might come over if we were at his. The Homecoming Dance was a blast, and took up the whole weekend with the preparations and the recovery.

When the week of Thanksgiving arrived, it came with an unpleasant invitation.

"Your father wants you to spend Thanksgiving with him," Mom told me that Monday when she got home from work.

"Did he call?" I tried to sound casual, but Dad hadn't called me in months. On my birthday he'd sent a text and a card in the mail with a fifty-dollar bill in it.

Mom viciously sprayed lemon on the sheet pan of asparagus and chicken she was about to put on the table. "He texted me this morning while I was in a meeting. I can't even with him. Anyway, he says that since I get you for Christmas, he should get you for Thanksgiving."

"I..." I didn't know what to say. My father had moved to Seattle when I was eight. I'd only been up to see him a handful of times, usually in the summer, when we could go hiking or walk around the city. "I mean, I wish he'd asked sooner."

"Do you have plans?" Mom asked, a little too eagerly, like she wanted me to refuse. "With Cedric?"

"No," I said slowly. I wished I did have plans. I had planned to do what I always did on Thanksgiving, which was have dinner with Mom and my grandparents at my aunt and uncle's house, then go to the movies with Eli. I'd figured I could get Cedric to come out with us.

Mom's shoulders sagged and she sighed. "Well, I suppose you'll have to go, then."

"Why does he even care," I said, snagging a spear of asparagus on my way to the table. "I mean, I haven't seen him in a year. And he has that new girlfriend. I don't know why he'd want me around."

"New girlfriend?" Mom kept her tone carefully between I honestly didn't know he was seeing anyone and who is this bitch.

"Yeah. I mean, I see the pictures he posts on Facebook."

Mom growled, spooning food onto her plate. "Has he changed his relationship status?" Her tone was now decidedly sarcastic.

"I don't know. I don't go on Facebook very often."

It had been so long since my father was a topic of conversation, and I knew I had committed all of the major mistakes in everything I had said. There was a reason I hadn't told Mom about Dad's new girlfriend, or complained about not seeing Dad, like, ever.

"Well?" Mom said after a few excruciating moments of silence. "What does she look like?"

"She has brown hair." That was a good start. Mom had blond hair – or, hair she highlighted so much it looked more blond than brown. "Just, like, normal, I guess. I think she might have some kids. I don't know."

"Ugh," Mom said. I wasn't sure if that was in response to the brown hair or the normal or the kids. I had a feeling it was the kids.

"Maybe they're just friends," I suggested.

"Of course they're not just friends," Mom snapped. "He's dating her, and they're probably engaged, and she wants to know what you're all about. She wants to know how much your father's going to have to shell out for college, and if you'll look good in her wedding photos. Your father..." Mom exhaled with tight lips, then closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and exhaled again. Her face visibly relaxed.

"Do I have to go?" I asked.

Opening her eyes, Mom gave me a sad look. "You're almost eighteen, James. You don't have to go if you don't want to."

I tried to read her expression. "Do you... want me to go?"

My mother brightened. "I just want the dirt, honey. Is that so much to ask?"

So on Wednesday I got on a plane and flew two hours north. Dad picked me up at the airport and it wasn't until we arrived at his house and Courtney came out and I saw the diamond ring on her finger that I knew Mom was right. My future stepmother Courtney introduced me to her three kids Julian, Addison, and Bella. They were all under ten years old and fascinated by me.

"What are these?" Julian asked, snapping my suspenders.

"Can I call you Jimmy?" Addison asked, untying my shoes.

"What is that thing?" Bella asked, pointing at my camera.

On Thanksgiving day I met more of Courtney's family, and they all interrogated me about college. I was more than happy to return home on Saturday. I'd spent most of Friday texting Cedric. On the plane I hauled out my history textbook to do some homework, and when I flipped open to the chapter we were supposed to read for Monday, I found myself faced with a photograph that hit me almost as hard as the Victorian girl's had.

The black and white photograph showed a Japanese child standing behind a barricade of barbed wire, looking at the photographer. Behind him stood hundreds of other Japanese-Americans, who were being incarcerated at internment camps, according to the caption.

I stared at that photo and its caption for a long time, until I had a sudden idea. Flipping to the back of the book, I looked for an index of photography rights. It took a while to find the chapter and page number as the font in this section of the textbook was miniscule, but there it was: "Japanese child," T.S. Shaw, 1942.

Theodore Shaw. It had to be. As I read the chapter, I was horrified by what I read. I could all too easily imagine Theodore just as horrified, taking photographs to document this dark part of American history. Then I read that anyone who was 1/16th Japanese had been taken to these camps.

Cedric's mother was half-Japanese, which meant that if Cedric had lived back then, he would have been put in one of these camps. The idea made me sick.

I closed the textbook and stared out the window for a while, until I had to reopen it to look at that photograph again. The little boy's eyes drew me in. I wondered what his name was. I wondered if he had been Cedric in a past life, although that would have meant that Henrietta had died. I still hadn't had any more memories about them since the earthquake, and that had been nearly a month ago, and though I had been searching for more information, I hadn't found anything about Henrietta after her father's death.

Maybe the photograph was compelling to me, because I had taken it in a past life. I hoped that was the case. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.