I'd Give Anything(27)

When I’d drunk, small sip after small sip, and cleaned the press and my bowl, and put everything away, I called Kirsten. Just weeks ago, I would’ve called Harris, not instinctively, but because he was my husband, the person you call when something happens. But I decided, right then and there, that one of the privileges of having a husband who had lost his mind over a teenager was not calling him when you didn’t feel like it. I didn’t even know where he was. Although he was technically still camping out in the room above the garage, his car hadn’t been in the driveway when I’d gotten home from my mother’s. In fact, his car hadn’t been in the driveway all that much lately, and my near lack of curiosity about where he’d been spending his days surprised even me.

“Tell me you’re calling because you just threw Harris out on his wide ass and you want to celebrate” is how Kirsten answered her phone.

“Could you dial back on the empathy?” I said. “I mean, jeez, compassion is great and all, but this is getting to be too much. And it’s not that wide. I’d say wide is the wrong adjective altogether.”

“Wrong. Harris has man hips. When those big, muscular Big Foot types age, they get man hips, and Harris is no exception.”

“Again with the empathy.”

“Your voice sounds weird. What’s the story, morning glory?”

I shut my eyes for a moment the way I used to do before I opened them and jumped off the ridge into the quarry. Because my mother’s death was about to become real. Even though Agnes and about eight million Fire and Rescue workers and hospital workers and a gaggle of ogling neighbors with coats thrown over their pajamas knew that Adela was dead, it wouldn’t become really real until I told someone I loved. Such was the way of my world.

“My mom died this morning. Or maybe last night.”

“Oh, honey. That’s big.”

And as soon as Kirsten spoke those words, I realized that’s exactly what it was. Maybe not sad. Or painful. Or a relief. Although it might eventually strike me as all of those things. But it was big because, whatever else she’d been or failed to be, Adela had been big.

“Yes.”

I heard bumping and rustling on the other end of the line and knew that Kirsten was putting on shoes, tugging on her coat, probably searching for her keys, which she was always losing. Pretty soon, she’d start rooting around in myriad bags and pockets and drawers for her phone before she realized she was talking to me on it.

“First Harris, now Adela. That’s a shit-ton of change for you at once. Spectacularly bad timing.”

I smiled. “So inconsiderate.”

“Okay, okay, so maybe the timing was outside of Adela’s control,” said Kirsten, in a funny, grudging voice. “Although it’s strange to think of anything being outside of Adela’s control. You’d think she’d be like, ‘Death, bend to my will.’”

“Actually, she was like that.”

Silence as this sank in, then: “You know what? Go, Adela!” And then: “Wait. I’m sorry. I should be more sensitive.”

“Why start now?”

“I actually wasn’t being glib, though. For once.”

“I know you weren’t.”

“What did she have? Weeks? Days?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m heading out to my car.”

“Yeah, but where’s your damn phone?”

“Oh crap. Hold on.”

“Kirsten.”

All the rustling paused. I could picture Kirsten coming to a dead stop in her kitchen, her free hand going instantly to her hair. Kirsten always smoothed her hair when she got serious, as if whatever there was to face, she would face it better without flyaways.

“What?”

“When I went over to my mom’s this morning, Avery was still asleep. I left a vague note, giving her permission to ride with a neighbor kid to school. But she’ll be home soon.”

“I’ll help you tell her.”

“She wasn’t that close to my mom, but this is her first death.”

“What about that goldfish?”

“She was four, and I bought a replacement and dropped it into the bowl before she got home from school.”

“Can’t do that with Adela. She was one of a kind.”

“She was.”

“Whoever made her broke the mold.”

“Probably smashed it to smithereens,” I said. “And stomped on the pieces.”

“That’s my girl! See you in ten, Zin Zin.”



When Avery rushed into the house, her cheeks rosy from the cold, she didn’t even take off her coat before she plopped down into Kirsten’s lap.

“You weigh ten tons and are rupturing my internal organs,” said Kirsten, “but, God, you’re gorgeous.”

“All of your organs?” said Avery.

“Every last one. Except my spleen. That seems to be intact.”

Avery bounced. Kirsten yelped.

“Whoop, there it went,” she said.

Avery laughed, stood up, then flopped down onto the rug so the dogs could climb on her. Dobbsey and Walt were so small that when they were overjoyed, their bodies became one big wag.

“Seriously,” said Kirsten to me. “What do people do who have ugly kids?”