In an Instant(56)

She began the day she returned to our empty home after my funeral, the silence and stillness so haunting her muscles coiled and twitched until she couldn’t take it a moment longer and she bolted like a madwoman into the street and kept on going.

On the weekends, she runs in the morning. During the week, she runs after work. All day at her job, she holds herself tight as a Victorian corset, but as soon as she returns home, she ties on her sneakers and explodes onto the street.

Tonight, it is on her stagger home, her head bent to the sidewalk, that she crosses paths with Karen. Karen’s back is turned as she stands beside her mailbox leafing through the mail. They notice each other at the same time, when they’re nearly upon each other, their faces registering equal surprise before closing into mirrored expressions of scorn.

Karen does not retreat as I expect her to. Instead she pulls her shoulders back and holds her ground.

My mom’s chin slides forward as she continues past without a word.

“You chose first,” hits her from behind. “Maybe I didn’t do right by Oz, but you chose first.”

My mom stops, her fists balled at her side as she whirls around. “What the hell are you talking about? Oz is dead. Your precious Natalie didn’t even catch a cold. Only you, Karen, could somehow twist this around and put it back on me.”

“I was protecting my family,” Karen says. “You made it clear where your loyalties stood when you chose Mo over my daughter. So yeah, when the choice came for me to protect my family or Oz, I chose us.”

My mom squints in confusion, trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about.

“Finn’s boots,” Karen clarifies. “You gave them to Mo.”

My mom’s eyes flick back and forth as she processes the words—Finn’s boots. I can tell she doesn’t remember.

I remember, but what I remember most is Mo giving them back.

A pair of ratty, worn-out UGGs saved my mother’s life. They probably saved the lives of everyone who lived that day. When I pulled them on that morning, I had no idea I was making such an important decision; neither did my mom when she pulled them off my dead body and gave them to Mo instead of Natalie.

“You’re no better than me,” Karen continues. “We all made choices that day, but you chose first.”

My mom falls back a step as the memory registers. She did. She chose Mo. Her face twists in wonder; then, without a word, she turns and continues on to our house.

When she is safely inside, she slides down the door to sit on the floor, her head resting on her knees as the fingers on her right hand absently clench and unclench, as they do so often these days.

Was the decision as simple as her liking Mo more; or more complicated, based on the platitudes of reassurance she had offered Mrs. Kaminski; or worse, based on resentment of Karen and her life with Bob?

My mom pushes her legs out straight and stares at her feet, and I know she is thinking of Chloe as she reconsiders her priorities in hindsight: Chloe, Oz, my dad . . . Mo or Natalie? I still don’t know who she would choose.

Her eyes slide to a photo on the mantel of her and Karen holding Natalie and me when we were babies, and her shoulders slump. I know by the sadness in her face that she would still choose Mo. No matter how much time she had to decide, the choice would be the same.

I feel bad for my mom and for me. I’d have chosen Mo as well. Not out of spite or because of Mrs. Kaminski, but because of exactly what happened. My mom chose Mo, and when the time came, Mo gave the boots back. Natalie wouldn’t have done that.

This does nothing to alleviate the guilt. If Mo had done to me what my mom did to Karen, I’d feel as betrayed as Karen does, a dagger of disloyalty straight through the heart.

The toll of that day grows. Karen and my mom had one of those remarkable friendships—a sisterhood that anyone who knew them believed would persist into old age. And now, over a pair of old boots, it is gone.





69

Mo lies on my bed, her chin propped on her hands. The bed has new sheets and a new comforter.

Chloe lies on her own bed in a similar pose. Both stare at the four fur balls on the floor below them, which stumble around like drunken sailors.

“Are you going to keep them?” Mo says.

“My mom says I can keep one. I’m keeping Finn.”

“Is your mom okay with you calling her that?”

Chloe shrugs.

I’m okay with Chloe calling her that. As a matter of fact, I’m honored. Finn is super cute and quite a scrapper.

“I wish I could keep one,” Mo says.

“No chance?”

“My dad’s super allergic, remember?”

Since the kitten-Chloe rescue four nights ago, Mo has made a habit of spending the afternoons with Chloe. Every day, she comes straight after school. At first I thought it was out of concern for Chloe, but now I know it’s more. Mo is lonely.

Mo has always been mature, but since the accident, it’s like she has zipped right past everyone her age, as if what happened was some sort of time warp. Adults love to yak about how someday all the petty high school stuff won’t matter—what people think, the cliques, the gossip—and it’s like Mo has leaped to “someday” in an instant.

“How was formal?” Chloe asks, just to have something to say. Chloe never went to any of the high school dances, the scene and the music way too lame.