Homesick
“If you’re stuck in the past should you force others to live there with you?”
- Sabella Damani
Monday 01.01
Today is my one year anniversary in the new apartment. As if to mark the occasion, I arrive home from work to find a mysterious package at my door.
Inside the package is a dark wood, collage-style picture frame floating in the biodegradable embrace of fluffy white packing material. The collage contains thirteen images, snapshots of my family and friends, almost everyone I know. There’s a card attached.
The card reads: “Don’t lose sight of what’s important.”
Sounds nice. Wish it were. It’s from my sister.
I gear up for the appreciative phone call I’m obligated to make by cracking open a pack of generic unfiltered. My sister makes me smoke.
Cig devoured, I brace for the conversation. She picks right up but before I can get in-and-out with a quick “thanks for the gift” she stops me cold.
“Can I call you back in ten minutes,” she asks, her TV in the background, the laugh track of a show I’m certain she’s watched a thousand times.
“No problem,” I answer and light another cigarette.
Tossing the packing peanuts into the sink I watch with mild interest as tap water transforms them into a froth of wet white dust. A shard of light momentarily blanks out my sight, the low hanging sun slicing through my kitchen window.
After the squirrely circles in my vision dissipate, I sit in the living room, plop my phone onto Sister’s gift and finish my cigarette. This collage of happy reminiscence would be warm sentiment in any other family.
The phone vibrates. Her television program must be over.
“Thanks for your present,” I say. Right to the point.
“Does it make you miss home,” she asks. Also to the point.
“Sis, I am home. New home, new job, new life. I’ve explained this a thousand times already.”
She hums softly, oddly.
“How did you get my address,” I ask and reach for another cig.
“I have my methods.”
“Yes you do. Remember my flight, when I first came out here? When my “wife” almost convinced the airline to cancel my ticket?”
“I was trying to stop you from making a big mistake. We miss you so much.”
“You haven’t missed me in years, Sis. You miss the memory of me.” Fuck. Too harsh. I drag deep on the cigarette, try to ease up. “Look, I know you didn’t want me leaving. I get it. But I worry how fixated you get. Living to prevent change is not living, Sis.” This is met with silence.
I add: “Personally, I like change.”
“Change isn’t always good,” she says.
There it is. Our folks divorce has now been officially mentioned — without mentioning it directly. Huzzah.
“Change is unavoidable,” I say. “Can’t get past the past if you’re afraid of the present. That’s like being possessed by the devil you know.”
“The devil?”
“It’s an expression. It means — ”
“You reminded me of something! When I was buying your gift, the salesman told me something interesting. He said native cultures refuse to have their photos taken because — ”
“That would be bad for the photo business, huh?”
“But did you know about this? They believe a photo can steal your soul, like it’s satanic or something. Can you… then imagine…I … photos… everything… they…more real…than in…real life… ”
“Sis, you’re breaking up. We have a bad connection.”
Beep.
She’ll call back. I finish my cigarette and wipe a smudge from the collage’s glass covering, a smear across my sister’s wide, smiling face. No fear in her eyes back then. Might be the last time I saw her really smile like that, with a pure kind of happiness.
The divorce really did her head in. Yet it didn’t stop me. I was able to move all the way out here; she can’t even move an inch forward.
The phone rings. “Are you there,” she asks.
“I am. Listen. This photo collage, all these smiley, happy pictures. Be honest, Sis. This isn’t about cherishing old memories. It’s more a plea, right, to stop creating new ones?”
“When are you coming home,” she asks again.
Sigh. “I need to go. I have to get into the office early tomorrow.”
“There are jobs here. With better hours. Dad knows people.”
“I like long hours. It distracts me from obsessing over things I can’t change. You should try it.”
“You’ll come home soon,” she says. “I just know it.”
She hangs up without a goodbye.
Leaving home didn’t just change my life. It changed hers as well. Against her will, change. Which is making her crazy.
Which is making me crazy.
Tuesday 01.02
After work, out of a familial sense of responsibility, I hang my sister’s gift in the living room facing the couch.
Now that I’m really looking at it, inspecting all the photographs so closely, I must admit it’s a pretty heady trip down Memory Lane. The clarity and color of these images are remarkably vivid; more like windows revealing various moments in time than reproductions of the real. It’s uncanny.
There’s my baby portrait; Mom putting me on the bus for first grade; spooked silly with Sis on a haunted hayride; that shore trip with the gang; the rainy camping weekend with Dad; Gamma’s last birthday; that old Black Lab forever chewing on a bone; our parents together, embracing, before everything went up in flames.
I feel like I’m reliving the precise second each image was captured. This is something else. This is your life, bro.
Bravo, Sis. You manipulative bitch.
Wednesday 01.03
Before leaving the office I reply to an email from HR asking to confirm if my info, a year later, is still up to date. I laugh upon rereading one entry I’d forgotten: Where it asked for an emergency contact, I wrote “911.” Can’t believe HR let that go. But I’m glad they did. No way I’m letting my barely hinged sister get me fired with her antics. Work is clutch right now — the more I work, the less I stress. So far, she’s apparently clueless about where I’m plying my trade. Let’s keep it that way.
When I get home I decompress from the day with Chinese takeout and a black and white doc on the History Channel. After scarfing some wonton soup and becoming mildly disappointed at my fortune cookie’s missing fortune, I head to the fridge for another beer but something about the collage catches my eye.
One of the photos is missing, a white 6” x 4” block of emptiness where an image should be. Guess this thing is not as well-made as it first seemed.
I can’t mentally place which pic is MIA, but it must’ve come unglued and slid down behind the matting. I’ll deal with it later.
Thursday 01.04
Work’s even busier than usual. Works for me.
An idle mind is The Devil’s garden. Plant your evil thoughts elsewhere, Motherfucker, ’cause I’m keeping busy.
Friday 01.05
This alarm clock is weak. Need something substantially louder to get my ass up on time. I’m a heavy sleeper as of late. Must be allergies, seasonal.
While unenthusiastically spooning a bowl of bran flakes, I note another change to the collage. Two more photos have gone bye-bye. I take the frame off the wall, turn it upside down and shake vigorously. Maybe the photos will slide back from behind the matte. Nope. Nothing happens. I place the damned thing on the kitchen table. I’ll fix this later.
An unexpected deadline makes for a hectic evening. I consider having drinks with some co-workers but I’m beat and call it a night.
Saturday 01.06
Another late start. Feeling out of sorts.
After dragging myself to the kitchen I pointlessly search the fridge. It’s empty and just as well since I’m not really hungry. The picture frame is still on the table where I left it. Looks like I’d miscounted. There are four, not three, missing pics. I turn the thing over and pry the back open expecting to find a scatter of dislodged photos hiding behind the others. Nope. Nothing.
I put it back on the table then head out to the store for some smokes. Where the f did these photographs go? Where the f-stop? I laugh to myself, sucker that I am for a bad joke.
Sunday 01.07
While putting the collage back on the wall I count five, not four, missing images.
???
The only thing I can figure is that I’m sleepwalking each evening, removing the pictures during the night and hiding them somewhere in the apartment. Somnambulism, the therapist called it, a little problem I had back in middle school (the divorce). Hadn’t thought about that in awhile.
A thorough search of the apartment proves fruitless. No trace of the missing photos. And I’ve no memory of those that have disappeared. I can’t for the life of me remember a single one. I’m losing the memory of each memory.
On a lark, I buy a cheap indoor security camera and aim it at the bed before hitting the hay. If I get up for a walkabout I’ll know.
Monday 01.08
The next morning I scan the camera footage at 3x speed. Nothing happens, no change at all. In eight hours of video, I never leave the bed. Not a single movement; I’m a corpse. Before heading out, I count the photos in the collage. Seven remain.
A colleague from work theorizes my sister is pranking me with some new-tech novelty gift. The pictures, he suggests, are like disappearing ink or those now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t racy shot glasses from the fifties. Maybe he’s right, maybe this is a bad joke and Sis gave me the equivalent of trick birthday candles that can’t be extinguished and only go out of their own volition. “Like fading memories,” my co-worker says with a smile.
My sister hasn’t a clue about any of this. Or so she says. I call her when I get home.
“Where did you get the gift,” I ask, my voice noticeably scratchy.
“Akalazar Imaging. When are you coming home?”
“Thanks,” I say and hang up.
Akalazar’s website advertises them as a business that originated as a one-hour photo lab but now specializes in photo restoration and related products. They handle the entire gifting process to the recipient of choice, from the customer’s photos (or negatives) to developing and packaging. I find nothing on their site about printed photos made to disappear, novelty or otherwise. No chemically induced timers, no disappearing photo paper. Oddly, there are zero user reviews of the company. I think about calling them but I’m not seeing a number. Their tagline is: “We make your memories last forever.”
Tuesday 01.09
This business with my sister’s gift is making me ill. Literally. Lost my appetite a couple days ago. Living on cigarettes and coffee.
I refuse to look at the collage. I don’t need to see any more ghostly spaces where friends and family should be. It’s a mockery of my sanity.
Wednesday 01.10
Can’t help myself. Have to look. Yep. Eight missing pictures. Gone, just gone. I’m officially freaked out. Who could I even talk to about this? They’d put me in a loony bin.
Thursday 01.11
Woke up late yet again. My new alarm isn’t alarming enough I guess. I get a “talking to” from my manager. Wonderful.
Why can’t I figure out what’s going on with this collage? There has to be a reasonable explanation. The whole thing is eating at me. It’s like watching your life wink out of existence one memory at a time.
Despite an impending deadline at work, I burn a little office time researching Akalazar Imaging. You’d think my working for an identity theft monitoring company would be useful in this matter but I find nada on Akalazar. Somehow they’ve managed to steer clear of the information superhighway. I make a mental note to call Sis when I get home and get their contact information.
But by the time I get back to the ranch I’m so done with the day. One glance of my sister’s gift puts me over the edge: four remaining images.
Angrily, I grab the frame off the wall and pull it apart. After composing myself, I pick the photos off the floor then place them in a neat stack on the coffee table under a drinking glass imprinted with the words, “I’m Busy and Must Be Going!”
So damn worn out lately. Even when I’m awake I feel like I’m sleeping.
Friday 01.12
Unsurprisingly, only three photos are under the glass. I look around the table as if there’s a possibility photo number four somehow slipped off of its own accord. The habits of the sane? Pointless.
Saturday 01.13
Two pictures left. One of me, one of Sis. I’m in zombie getup, scowling under a big ole’ harvest moon. The other features my sister facing the sun, her eyes mere black slits in a tight squint.
I pin both photos to a wall in my bedroom and train my security camera on them. If history is any guide, one of these will vanish while I’m sawing wood. At least this time I’ll see what I’m sleeping through.
Sunday 01.13
Sister is gone, into the void. My image remains. I check the camera… nothing. Apparently, I forgot to press ‘record.’
FuckFuckFuck. Fuck.
I remove the pushpin from where my sister’s pic had been; literally no memory of when this remaining photo was taken. Me as a zombie. Where in hell did Sis get this photo?
Time to give her another call. I get the following message in response: “You’ve reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
I redial. No dice. I try Mom. Then Dad. Same message.
Out of desperation, I shoot emails to some old friends but all bounce back immediately.
“Address not found.”
I feel sick, overwhelmed. A wave rolls over me, pushing my face to the floor.
Must have passed out. I get up off the carpet but it’s difficult. How long was I down? It’s almost dark outside.
So fatigued. Haven’t eaten in over a week. On Friday, a co-worker told me I “look like shit.” When I replied with “Thanks a lot,” she said, “I’m being charitable.” Ouch.
I make my way to the bathroom for some aspirin to soften the blows from the flash bulbs popping off in my head. Damn. No food in my stomach to absorb the pills. They come right up in red sick. The pills are red but I’m not sure if this is red dye or blood…
Holy Hell. Is that my face in the mirror? I’m so pale I’m practically greyscale. I guess my co-worker wasn’t lying. It looks like I haven’t slept in a thousand years which is crazy because I sleep like the dead.
After wiping my thin face, I drop the towel on the tub’s edge. I feel ugly and spent like dirty water down a drain.
I shamble to the bedroom. Upon turning on the table lamp to adjust my crap alarm clock, the bulb blows out immediately with a sudden burst. Grabbing my lighter, I have a smoke in the dark and flick at the lighter while trying to calm my nerves, but the continuous sparks of light against this last photo terrify me. It’s the nature of this image, this zombie-me coming in and out of the darkness. Enough. I place the photo to my lighter’s flame. The photo, this final photo, refuses to catch. It will not burn.
The phone rings, causing me to jump. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello,” I say roughly. I’m surprised by the raspy quality of my voice. It’s the sandpaper sound of a man left to die in the desert.
“Hello. This is Akalazar Imaging.” The voice is distant and crackling like a radio transmission from beyond.
I get up off the bed and stand frozen.
“It’s day thirteen,” the voice says. “The last day.”
My mind is a film reel spinning too quickly, out-of-focus. Lost for words.
There’s a short pause of noisy, scratchy pops and then: “Would you be willing to recommend our product or service to a friend,” the voice asks.
Recommend? Seriously?
As if reading the skepticism in my silence the voice says: “We at Akalazar believe some things should never change. Memories, for instance. We make your memories last. Forever.”
“But the photos are gone,” I whisper, although I can feel the remaining picture in my hand.
“Not gone. Gone home,” the voice says.
I’m about to ask what this means but a recorded message stops me: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”
I open the blinds to the dusky blue-black day turning to night, then take a seat on the bed and watch the world outside my window. Street lamps light the junipers, ragged edging hugging the lot. They wave in the breeze like flames in a photo negative.
Hmm.
Tonight I’ll look at this last photo in my shaking hand, and keep looking until there’s nothing left to look at. I won’t get distracted, I won’t look away. I’ll see for myself. Tonight I’ll bear witness.
This could be a long one.
I’ve never missed work before.
I’ll call out sick.
© Lane Zumoff 2021
