In an Instant(79)

In one hand, Chloe still holds Finn. With the other, she helps Eric to his feet. When he is standing, she reaches around his head and pulls his forehead down to touch hers. “Thank you,” she says.

He pulls away, his face dark, and he lifts her chin so she is looking at him. “Don’t do that again,” he says.

“Say thank you?”

“Test me.”

Chloe tries to step back defiantly, but he doesn’t let her. His arm holds her tight as his eyes sear into hers. “I’ll jump in every time,” he says. “But I might not always be so lucky. So don’t do that again.”

She lowers her eyes and nods, then lets him pull her into his arms.



Chloe leaves the shelter, drops Finn the Mighty at the house, then drives downtown. She gets a caramel frappé from Starbucks and carries it toward the beach.

The town is mostly unchanged, yet I notice the differences. There’s a new sandwich shop where Angelino’s Pizzeria used to be, and the Hurley Surf Shop is now an art gallery. The swim trunks displayed in the windows of the stores are a little shorter this year than last, and the bikinis are trending toward neon pinks and blues. Life goes on.

Chloe passes the ice cream shop, and I imagine the smell of fresh-baked waffle cones and the taste of mint ice cream. A teenager holding a chocolate-dipped banana notices Chloe’s deformed hand and stares. Chloe waves at him, causing the boy to blush crimson and hurry away.

It’s as beautiful a day as a day can be. Full spring clouds that make you think of popcorn float across the sky, the sun twinkles off the water, and a warm breeze whispers with the promise of summer. On the ocean a dozen sailboats race south, and on the beach hundreds of tourists slathered in sunscreen lounge on towels and play in the waves.

Chloe walks across the boardwalk, sits on the sand, squints out at the waves, then lifts her face to the sun, letting the brightness and heat soak into her skin.

And that’s when I feel it: the letting go, the bond between us weakening as she gently releases me, a thin smile on her face and a single tear leaking from her eye as she brings her fingers to her lips to blow me a kiss goodbye.





92

She stands just outside the front door, looking distinctly uncomfortable, her eyes on the ground as she shifts foot to foot, her cashmere sweater set and herringbone slacks belonging to another time and place.

“Joyce?” my mom says as she looks at Mrs. Kaminski curiously.

In Mo’s mom’s hands is a manila envelope, the kind with Bubble Wrap on the inside. And the way she grips it makes me believe it is important, and I wonder what is inside.

“Would you like to come in?” my mom says, opening the door wider.

Mrs. Kaminski shakes her head as her clutch tightens, causing the package to bend. “I didn’t realize,” she says as her eyes flick around like a bird, avoiding my mom’s, the words so low my mom needs to lean in to hear them.

My mom straightens and tilts her head, and Mrs. Kaminski pushes the envelope toward her. My mom doesn’t take it. Instead she steps back, leaving the hoodoo suspended awkwardly between them.

“In the hospital,” Mrs. Kaminski goes on. “They asked what I wanted them to do with the clothes Maureen was brought in with.”

I watch as my mom stiffens, but Mrs. Kaminski doesn’t notice, her attention solely on delivering her burden. “I wasn’t paying attention,” she says. “And I didn’t realize,” she repeats.

The envelope is too small to hold any clothes, no bigger than letter size and barely thicker than a finger.

“So I told them to get rid of them,” she says. “To throw them away.” Her voice cracks, and I realize she is close to tears. “I didn’t want anything from those awful days anywhere near Maureen again.”

My mom’s arms are now folded in front of her, her features dark, and I feel her fierce desire for Mrs. Kaminski to leave.

A tear escapes from Mrs. Kaminski’s left eye to roll down her cheek. She reaches up with the hand not holding the envelope and wipes it away. “I only just found this,” she says as she extends the envelope another inch, her eyes still looking everywhere but where my mom is. “My husband, he brought it home from the hospital. It was in his office . . .” Her voice trails off, and her arm trembles.

After a long second, when it is clear my mom is not going to take it, Mrs. Kaminski pulls it back and opens the flap. She pulls out a single sheet of paper along with my cell phone, and I watch as my mom recoils, her eyes seizing on the navy cover and the phosphorescent lettering that says, We are all worms. But I do believe I am a glowworm.

The phone case was a gift from Aubrey from her senior trip to London. The quote is by Winston Churchill. She said it made her think of me, which might have been one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. I loved that case and quoted that line all the time.

My mom shakes her head against it, but Mrs. Kaminski’s eyes are on the paper as she reads out loud, “Inventory of items disposed of for patient Maureen Kaminski.” She takes a deep breath to rein in her emotions, then continues. “Brown leather boots. Black tights. Denim jeans. Red sweater. Maroon Laguna Beach High School soccer sweatshirt. Navy parka with hood. Gray sweatpants. Black socks. Striped wool socks.”

She stops, sniffles, wipes away another tear, then forces her eyes to my mom’s, though only for a second, the reflection of looking at a mother who lost what she was so terrified of losing too much to bear. “Until I found this,” she says, the words wavering, “I didn’t realize what you had done.”