The Passing Storm(9)

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“The stroke happened the same month we got your grandfather’s diagnosis. Colon cancer, too far advanced for medical intervention. I didn’t understand loss—the genuine article that drops you to your knees—until my parents died. Two deaths in one season. The point being, I was middle-aged when they passed. I was strong enough to take it.”

Rae shut her eyes. Two deaths. Her losses, marked by different seasons. The last, too great to bear.

“I’m strong too,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You’re my child, Rae. I’d protect you from life’s hardships if I could. Don’t let grief make you old before you really start living.”



At two o’clock, Yuna sent a text. She was on her way over.

Rae had just hung up with her aunt. After she declined the invitation to visit Miami, Gracie didn’t press. She did extract Rae’s promise to call if she needed to talk.

The well-meaning overture left Rae more unsettled. Mostly because she didn’t know what to make of her father’s impassioned speech. Joining him in the living room, she stared unseeing at the TV. His advice had rattled her. Growing old quickly didn’t appeal. Who wanted that? Most days, Rae focused on staying numb. Or she let her temper at life’s irritations mask the unpredictable waves of acute sorrow.

Hope and expectation were absent from her life. Did the loss of those virtuous emotions mean she was growing old? Not in a measurable, physical way, but on a deeper level? There was no simple way to regain the verve for life.

A rap sounded at the door.

Yuna appeared in the foyer with her daughter. Shaking the snow from her hair, she shrugged out of her coat. Kameko slipped past, trailing snow into the living room. The five-year-old plopped to the ground and tugged off her boots.

Yuna hung up her coat. “This is pathetic.” Approaching, she glanced at the TV. “You’re both in front of the tube on a beautiful Saturday? Go outside and build a snowman!”

Connor popped a potato chip into his mouth. “Kameko, take your mother home. She wants to build a snowman.” After his speech in the kitchen, he’d made off with the bag of chips.

“Mommy can’t play outside. She has to go to work.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. We can’t stay long.” Yuna snatched the bag. “Pop quiz, Connor. What were your cholesterol numbers on your last blood test?”

“None of your business.”

“His numbers weren’t great,” Rae supplied. She began rising from the couch. Kameko stepped before her, thwarting the movement.

“I’m hot, Auntie Rae.”

A puffy snowsuit encased the pipsqueak. She resembled a helium balloon. Unzipping the garment, Rae helped her take a dainty step out.

Connor glared at Yuna. “Mind handing back my chips?”

Rae chuckled. “Give it up, Dad. You know she won’t.”

With a petulant shake of his head, Connor returned his attention to the TV.

Rae tossed the snowsuit aside. “This is a nice surprise. What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing major. I must ask you something.”

“What?”

“It’s silly, really. This could’ve waited until next week.”

“Well, you’re here. What’s up?”

Yuna lowered her gaze. Frowning, she noticed the clumps of white melting into the carpet. Retracing her steps, she pulled her boots off in the foyer.

Kameko tugged on Rae’s sleeve. “Did you kill them?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Rae assured her.

The precocious child blinked suspicious eyes. “Show me.”

A trap, and Rae warily sought escape. Yuna’s judgments she could take—sometimes. Kameko was a more severe taskmaster.

“Can we schedule a tour with an appointment?” she asked the child. “They aren’t receiving guests today.”

“I’m a friend.”

“Yes, you are. A better friend than me, actually. But they’ve had a busy morning. You know—soaking up the sun in between snow showers. It’s best for everyone involved if you schedule an appointment.”

Imagination powered even the most skeptical child. Finally, Kameko accepted the ruse. “What’s an ‘appointment’?” she asked.

“Like when Mommy takes you to ballet class. You go when the teacher asks to see you. Not whenever you like.”

“They aren’t busy, like my teacher. Call them.” Kameko patted Rae’s bottom, searching for her phone. Small children also shunned the personal-boundary rule. “Tell them I’m visiting right away.”

Yuna flapped her arms. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Rae. They’re plants, not socialites. Take her to the studio!”

Outside the A-frame pyramid of glass, snow fell in whirling sheets. The oak flooring gleamed from a recent mopping. Unlike the attached greenhouse, which was neglected like the barn, the studio held a hint of recent activity.

Rae paused in the center of the generous space. Memories swept through her—some quite recent, too precious and poignant to bear contemplating. She latched on to the older memories from childhood, how she’d hopped up and down to glimpse the collages taking shape as her mother bent over the long art tables; how the damp, verdant scents from the smaller greenhouse were overtaken by the studio’s heavy pulse of metallic paints and bitter glue. The drafting table and the art supplies had been sold off long ago. The studio now felt empty and cold. Only a long wooden desk remained, shoved up against the wall.