Prologue - The Gift
As a kid, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: a shape shifter. I'd use my super powers to spy on people; watch how they lived. If a grown up was mean, I'd become a giant, remove their roof with my big, blue hands and...
"Wait Ana, who decides who the bad guys are?" my father asked in the dim light of our small porch, arranging his hand of cards.
"Ah do," I said, in the Southern accent I'd adopted to sound more like my mother.
Dad chuckled and moved his bench back from the picnic table.
"No… really, I can hear the difference." I gulped chocolate milk.
"Bad people sound different?" He laid down a run of hearts— 2, 3, 4.
"Sure. It's like when you're flipping channels and you hit one with nothing on."
"Like static," he said, matter-of-fact.
"Bad people move different too, real slow, like they're under water."
Dad went quiet. I wouldn't know until later that Mother's side of the family came with an assortment of "Gifts," which revealed themselves in a child's ninth year. I had turned nine that March.
"Then what happens… in your fantasy, I mean?" He picked up replacement cards.
"The bad guys get sucked out of the house and the whole neighborhood comes out to watch them float past the moon. Sometimes I'll do a bunch of houses at once. When all the people float up, it's like watching rain in reverse." I laid down three kings.
He pushed his dinner plate aside. "That's a lot of bad guys."
"Yep. Then they get sucked into a black hole and disappear forever."
My father, a police chief, taught me a lot of things, but astronomy was my favorite. I thought outer space was a more humane dumping ground than the hell they preached about in my mother's church.
I used to go with her— the year she tried being Baptist— but all I liked was the pie they served in the church basement after the preacher talked me to sleep. Maybe if I'd paid more attention, Mother wouldn't have left for good to try and "find herself."
By the time I received my Gift, we hadn't seen her in years. That was just fine by me (she could be all kinds of crazy), but I missed her when it came time to getting tucked in. I liked the way she used to sing me to sleep. Her voice was taffy— sweet and rich.
After my mom left, Lynette started coming over. She was one of the McCollum clan that lived next door.
To me, they were one Irish lump, too big for individual recognition. Each one of the kids' names started with an "L": Liam, Lochlan, Leith, Lee, and Luxovious were the five boys. Lyonesse, Lesley, Lynette, and baby Lavena, were the girls. They all called me Mowgli— from The Jungle Book— 'cause I dressed like a boy, had toasty-tan skin, and wore my hair moppy-brown.
I never could tell one red-haired McCollum from another, until Lynette separated from the pack. Four years older than me, she'd started getting boobs and said she didn't like being around all those boys. Really, I think she felt bad about my mom leaving. She'd get ready at our house in the morning: put her hair in rollers, sit on the side of the tub, and ask me about my innermost thoughts.
I liked how she took an interest, made me feel special. Later, I even told her about my Gift.
Back then, our post-war house was painted brick-red with clean, white trim and sat on the outskirts of Baltimore. Grass pushed green veins of color down cracked sidewalks that passed a hundred houses, on countless blocks, with the same modest floor plan. But Dad made ours different— he put a porch on the front and planted lots of flowers. He liked to watch people walk by, play cards in the rain, and tell stories about our neighbors.
The way Dad described them: One woman ran the five-and-dime and had lost her husband to a heart attack. The man up the street was a mechanic at the gas station in town who took care of his ailing mother. Another owned a hardware store and was a devoted family man.
I liked the way Dad saw people; they were all decent and hard working in his eyes. But I knew better. The woman stole money from the till, the man took cans of gasoline to set his neighbor's lawn on fire, and Mr. Carl— the hardware store owner— beat his kids senseless. Having "the Gift" made the bad stuff people did as clear as cells under a microscope. Most things didn't bother me much… until it came to hurting kids.
When my mind saw how Mr. Carl treated his own, I arranged a "Come to Jesus." Standing on his concrete stoop, I told him I would kill him if he kept it up.
Mr. Carl snorted and told me he was "real scared." But when I described the exact details of how he whipped his kids like they were slow horses, he got real quiet. Then I started to talk like I was possessed— using Bible words and calling on Lucifer to take his "Evil spirit to the fiery gates of Hell."
I even rolled my eyes back in my head for effect and hissed like I'd swallowed a snake. I told him he had two choices: stop beating his kids, or sleep with one eye open.
He took his fist-fighting to the bar.
Some things never change, like Lynette and me. She'd grow up and listen for a living. I'd keep protecting kids.
Chapter One- The Black Box
It's no surprise that Lynette is here today— on the worst of all days— to comfort me. She was also there after my husband died seven years ago; one minute Christian and I were packing for a romantic weekend, and the next he collapsed on the bathroom floor. Aneurism, they said. Just like that, I was a single mother of two young children picking out burial clothes for my high school sweetheart. I bawled for months. At night, after the kids went to bed, I'd lock myself in the bathroom and cry until I fell asleep on ceramic. Sometimes I'd curl into the tub with a blanket and pretend Christian was holding me, ling me Doll, only to find myself waking on cold porcelain. On the worst of nights, Lynette found me in my husband's closet, weeping amongst his shoes, his favorite Oriole shirt wadded for a pillow.
With tireless counsel she brought me back to the land of the living, promising that I would love again. I had to love again; my husband would want that for me.
Now, Lynette and I stand before a commemorative wall at my father's cremation service in a small V.A. building. He was proud of being a veteran and wanted to be remembered here. A banner hangs above the entrance to his memorial service, reading: Jack Stewart— Father, Friend, Force. Black-and-white pictures from his youth in Williamsburg, his days in the army, the years he spent with Mother, plus decades of color photos with friends, officers, and his life with me, are pinned to corkboard, alive with years well-lived.
A black box— the size of a half-gallon of ice cream— sits on a small table, holding all that remains of my father.
Lynette stands next to me, pointing out smiles and laughter captured for all eternity.
"Look at how handsome he was in uniform," she says, leaning in. Strawberry hair falls in front of her shoulder.
"Like a young Gregory Peck," I add.
She moves down the photo line. "He and your mother made a handsome couple." Her voice is August.
A huff escapes from my core. "I guess this makes me a widow and an orphan." I flash back to a newspaper article Dad brought home when I was thirteen: Coastline Crash Claims Three. It was a California newspaper, and one of the women in the car was my mom.
I touch a picture of my dad and Christian together in their uniforms. It was taken the day Christian became a police officer.
Lynette rubs my back, brushes dark hair from my face. "You still have your kids… and us."
As if on cue, the doors to the V.A. fly open and all eight of her siblings, their wives, husbands, and kids burst in. The McCollum's have come to pay their respects. They are an undulating sea of ivory skin and red hair.
"It looks like the church just caught fire," I whisper to her.
Lynette looks at me over her glasses, raises a red eyebrow.
Somber notes drift into the hall from a piano placed next to a podium at the front of a multi-purpose room.
"We should go in. Everyone is waiting on you." Lynette loops her arm into mine and we walk through the double doors together.
Countless rows of people have come to mourn the loss. Men from the Baltimore Police Department— one of several government agencies that I work with for Child Protective Services (CPS)— are dressed in uniform, and lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along the front wall. Friends from the neighborhood, other people from the station, the one army buddy who still lives nearby, and others fill the seats to overflowing, then stand where space allows.
It seems fitting that Dad's heart gave out slowly, having used it so well.
None of us know it now, but in a few days, we will all return to another gathering room to mourn. Some people will stand at attention, others will sit mute in disbelief, and I will be the one in the black box… the size of a half-gallon of ice cream.
Lynette and I walk to the front and take seats between my kids and her family. My daughter Kate, sixteen now, squeezes my hand when I sit down. Mac, my thirteen-year-old, forces a tight smile. It strikes me that he looks younger than his age; like some of the runaways I've been looking into. I can't imagine him out there all alone.
My mind checks out during the rest of the service. I remember standing up to "say a few words," but I don't know what they were— only that they lacked the ability to capture the depth of my father's character, and my love for him. I wish I could spare my children another loss— spare them all suffering— but life doesn't seem to work that way, despite my greatest efforts.
After everyone has headed to a social gathering in honor of my father, I find my kids sitting at the piano. Kate's playing Christmas songs, odd considering the month— September.
Mac watches her hands and sings every word. He was born with an eidetic memory— seems to feel the world on a higher vibration than the rest of us.
"What's going on?" I sit on the small piano bench with them.
"Grandpa thought the service was depressing," Kate says. Her features are a carbon copy of mine, only she's a green-eyed redhead. Christian used to say that Lynette and I were so close our eggs got scrambled.
"He wanted us to liven it up." Mac gets up, does a spin. His messy blond hair— cut long, surfer style— dances with the light. He looks like a bleached version of us, sometimes gets mistaken for a girl.
"Are you saying Grandpa Jack is here?" I tuck Kate's hair behind her ear.
"Can't you sense him?" she asks. I wonder if the pain is too big for her, or if Dad is really present.
I remember when Kate received "The Gift." It was May of her ninth year— her birthday month, just after Christian died. Late on a Sunday morning, she walked into the kitchen in a pink Ariel nightshirt, her hair a cascade of strawberry curls. Mac— at six— was playing chess on the computer.
Making pancakes, I felt the energy change in the room. I turned, spatula in hand, and saw my daughter. Somehow I knew she wasn't just nine anymore. The Gift, or the curse as some see it, are twin images of one another. It's all in how the receiver bears the weight.
Kate said when she woke up, her dad spoke to her in a language she couldn't understand. I knew instantly what she'd inherited: hearing souls who'd crossed over. She could speak to the dead. I wept with unexpected force— like someone took hold of my throat— fearing she would go crazy and snap off from "real" people, as my mother had. A tear dropped on the skillet and a minute plume of smoke faded into nothing.
But Kate was an older soul than my mother. She could handle it. As we sat on the floor, I told them about our heritage in terms they could understand: "You know how some animals can hear or sense things that humans can't? That's kind of how the women in our family are. Sometimes we know things before they happen, the way animals can sense a storm or danger. Or sometimes we can see pictures in our minds of something that's going to happen. And Kate's gift is extra special because she can hear people that don't live on earth anymore." I took their hands into mine. "But our gifts are like super-secrets. Don't tell anybody unless you really, really trust them… as much as you trust Lynette, or me, or each other."
I suggested that Kate ask her dad to speak to her in English. On that day, it seemed that Kate became spirit. Mac was the brain.
Back in the small V.A. I close my eyes and try to sense my father. Nothing comes. That's the thing about my gift, I don't control it. Scenes present themselves like a silent-movie clip. I can see what has— or will— happen, but not in its entirety. Or I may experience an intuitive "knowing" that something is about to happen— good and bad. And some "bad" people still warp time, slow it down and move like they're under water. Dead people, however, are not my forte.
"Our gifts are different, Sweetie. I wish I could sense what you do." Pausing, I realize the question I can ask to validate my father's presence. "Ask Grandpa about his favorite Christmas song."
Kate and Mac confer. "He likes the song about the ostracized Arctic deer who becomes the hero because of his unique gift." Mac's messing with me.
I laugh. "He wants us to sing Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer." That's the right answer. "How does he seem?" I ask Kate, still not convinced Dad is here.
"Happy." She runs lovely fingers over piano keys. "Younger than I ever knew him."
Not wanting to push, I suggest we sing the chosen song, and every other Christmas tune we can remember, until the janitor asks to sweep up the room.
Before we leave he says, "You know what you guys look like together?"
I think he going to say some like: a nice little family.
Instead he responds, "Neopolitan ice cream."
Proud of her new license, Kate drives us back to Glen Burnie— a neighborhood in Baltimore— for my father's social gathering.
I hold the "Oh Shit!" handle and give too many driving tips. Foliage whips past at unnatural speed, mailboxes come within inches of my side, the middle line is straddled.
"Am I the only person braced for impact?" Mac quips.
Kate adjusts the mirror. "Don't distract me. You'll just make it worse." She grips the steering wheel at 9 and 3— thumbs straight up, leans forward.
I send a prayer to the driving Gods; hoping for safe passage.
The gathering is held at Dad's house, where people feel most comfortable. The blueprint of our neighborhood remains unchanged: small houses, cracked concrete, and over run chain-link fences. But an explosion of rose verbena, yellow buckeye, and Appalachian bugbane distinguishes Dad's house from a landscape of beige and grey. His yard is nirvana in the middle of the hood. We park in the driveway and open doors to a breath of border phlox, which glows white at dusk, creating an eerie air.
Inside, Lynette is standing in as hostess. Mourners file in and load their plates with the southern fare I cooked: country ham, red-eyed potatoes with gravy, collard greens, cornbread with honey, and rice pudding, and tea cakes for dessert. That's the first meal I prepared. I also made an alternate supper: Maryland blue crabs, clams, mussels, jambalaya, biscuits, cabbage with vinegar, dirty rice, and lemon bars, and cheesecake for dessert. I like to cook, especially when I can't sleep… which is often.
I find a chair in the corner by the front window— my father's seat— and start to drink my supper: a double Manhattan on the rocks. Chief Lewis, the current head of the Baltimore Police Station, comes over to offer his condolences. I stand to meet him and realize my eyes are level with his chest. The thought of him having nipples nearly breaks the monotony of sorrow.
"Your father will never be forgotten." He puts his enormous hand on my shoulder. Something changes in his eyes. Because I've known him for so long, I can tell that he's shifting into business mode. "I hear that CPS has assigned you to the runaway cases."
He's referring to a increase in the number of kids reported as runaways in Baltimore recently. I shouldn't be surprised that he's all business, all the time, but still his question smacks with insensitivity. "I asked for this assignment. Something feels off about it." I look around the room for my kids; they're filling glasses with spiked punch and lemonade. "When's your next briefing?"
"Tomorrow morning. But you should take some time to be with your family. Just come in when you're ready. Maybe next week." He gives my shoulder a little squeeze.
"I'd rather stay busy. Work is easier than life these days." I knock back my drink; feel the whiskey burn my throat, heat my chest. I like the feeling too much lately. "Besides, I couldn't sit around knowing that those kids might be on the street, or worse."
He nods. "Fine, but stick to facts when you're with my officers. I don't want them wasting any time on one of your 'gut feelings'."
"Yes, Sir." I raise my glass to him as he walks away.
Mike Dupree— a recently reassigned officer— and Kim, the station's new secretary, speak in low tones near me. I think they're screwing. Normally I wouldn't care, but something about Mike sets off alarms. Maybe it's because he looks like a cage fighter— lean and mean. His shaved head doesn't serve to soften his impact.
Mike catches me eyeballing him and saunters over. He shakes my hand. "Hey… I'm sorry to hear about your fatha'. I heard he was a good man." His Jersey accent is so extreme that I find myself watching his mouth to follow along.
His very presence affects my cells; it's loathe at first sight. "You don't know anything about my father."
He reacts like I sucker-punched him. "Jesus. I'm just tryin' to make polite conversation."
I huff. "Don't strain yourself." The whiskey has definitely kicked in.
He looks at me sideways. "Are you mistakin' me for an ex-boyfriend or somethin'?"
I almost smile. At least he knows how to hang tough. "Sorry. I'm just a little wrecked right now. Maybe I'm seeing you wrong."
He leans in and whispers. "My mother used to say I was an angel sent from heaven."
I wasn't expecting him to be charming. "You shouldn't get too close. Your lady-friend might think you're sweet on me."
He glances at my figure. "Nah. You ain't my type."
I look over at Kim, who's fondling the fringe of her sweater the way a baby does when they suckle. "Why… aren't you attracted to women with a spine?"
"It's not that." He leans in close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath mingle with my hair. "I just got a taste for the Chinks."
His charm bubble just popped. "I don't think Kim is Chinese, Mike."
He looks at her and shrugs. "Them Asians all look the same to me. I got what you might call 'yellow fever'." Mike winks, then clenches the muscles of his chiseled jaw and looks around. He lowers his voice. "Hey… I overheard you talkin' to the Chief about the runaways. What's the deal?"
"There's no deal. Something just seems off about it. I can feel it in my gut."
He furrows his brow. "What do you mean, like that 'lady intuition' thing?"
I shake my empty glass. "Something like that… only stronger."
"Oh yeah…" He points his finger at me. "You're into all that 'woo-woo' stuff."
I laugh. "Woo-woo?" Seems funny to hear such a macho guy use such a flowery term.
"You know," he shakes his hands by his head, "that psychic bullshit stuff." A tattoo peeks out from the bottom of his buttoned sleeve.
"Ah… another skeptic. Why should you believe in something that's existed throughout history?" Most of my ice is melted. I drink the water tinged with whiskey, and start to walk away.
Apparently Mike's not done with the conversation. He stops me by the wrist. "You should get your facts straight. Psychics have only been around since the 1800's. You're thinkin' of prophets. Now they knew what they were talkin' about."
His intellect surprises me. I had him pegged as a guy who only reads comic books. "I'll bite. How were prophets better than psychics?"
"Three reasons." Mike puts up a finger with each point. "God spoke to them directly, they were 100% accurate with their predictions, and their prophecies were usually about major societal change. Not personal forecasts. And frankly… most prophets were men."
I can't put my finger on Mike. It's like he's two different people: charming/well-read vs. angry/narrow-minded. "So my intuition is bullshit?"
"Claiming to be psychic is like saying you're the descendant of a prophet and a retard." He laughs at himself.
I guess he skipped all the PC classes. "Did you really just call me partially retarded?" I need a drink.
He shrugs. "Maybe not retarded. Just a little crazy." He sucks his incisor; seems to be ramping up for a doozie of a comment. "Wait… wasn't your mom crazy too?" He laughs. "I guess it is inherited."
I don't question why he knows my personal history; I'm blinded by rage.
Every cell in my body roars up. It's like his comment pulled the ring off of a grenade in my mind. Fury explodes. I lunge at him before I can stop myself, have him backed against the wall. "You ever talk about my mother again… I'll kill you in your sleep."
Mike shoves me off, looks me straight in the eye. "They put you in charge of kids? You're just as mental as every other CPS."
I get in his face. "You wanna see crazy? I'll show you all kinds of crazy."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." The Chief separates us. "Settle down. Both of you."
Mike straightens his shirt and glares at me. "You're way outta line." He turns to Kim. "Come on. Let's get outta here. I can tell we're not welcome."
Maybe Mike was right about my gift. A prophet would have known that he's playing two sides in the runaway game: one as a dedicated cop, and another he doesn't want me— or anyone in the police department— to know about.
I reach for my empty glass. "Kim's welcome anytime."
The Chief turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I feel like a kid who's been pulled aside by the coach. Apparently I need a talking-to.
He looks down at me. The only thing that softens his appearance are freckles atop cream-in-your-coffee skin. "I know Mike is a little rough around the edges, but he's been through a lot in his life. We owe it to him to… "
"I don't owe him anything."
The Chief puts his hands in his pockets. "Then play nice for me. His father was a comrade of mine, back in-the-day."
I'd forgotten that the Chief started out as an officer in Jersey. My father's advice comes to mind: you mess with one police officer, and you mess with them all. "Fine. But it isn't going to be easy."
He pats my shoulder. "If you need a couple of days, I'll make a call to CPS…"
I shrug. "I'll think about it."
As they leave, I head to the kitchen, don't care that everyone is staring at me… except for the kids. They've never seen me this way. I've never seen me this way.
Lynette meets me at the counter. "You okay?"
I fill my glass with ice. "He had the nerve to call me crazy on a day like this. What kind of guy does that?"
"Clearly he's an ass." Lynette pats my hand.
"Is that your professional diagnosis?" I pour whiskey over the ice, watch it pool at the bottom of the glass until it reaches two fingers. Then I pour a little more.
"My professional diagnosis would probably be more along the lines of: sociopathic tendencies and blatant misogyny." She slices a thin piece of orange for my glass, spears it— and a maraschino cherry— with a sword-shaped toothpick.
"I prefer your first diagnoses, makes him easier to despise."
After mixing my drink, I settle back into Dad's chair and try eavesdropping on the crowd.
I hear a large woman speaking to her friend, neither of whom I know. She says, "It really isn't a funeral without a body, now is it?" After both women laugh sufficiently she follows with, "But, my Lord, these lemon bars are delicious."
Sound drifts in and out, like I'm drowning in an ocean of cotton. I'm pulled to the surface when an older woman touches my arm. "I tended to your father in the service… after the plane crash. He was such a gracious man. He'll be sorely missed."
I stand to thank her, hold both of her hands. But that will be the last time I interact with anyone until the crowd clears.
By 8:30 only Lynette, her husband Lou, and my kids are still at my father's house.
They're all cleaning.
I walk toward the kitchen and sit on a bar stool at the counter. Mac slides closer and puts his arm around my shoulder. He senses when I'm far away and brings me back to earth with a touch. I know the affection will cease when his first chin hair sprouts, so I soak up every minute.
"Looks like I have some catching up to do." Lynette nods toward my empty glass.
"That was my third…" I shake the ice. "…and I'm not nearly numb enough."
"We'll have to work on that." She calls to Lou. "Honey…will you take the kids tonight? Em and I have some mourning to do."
He walks over to us and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. I've considered Lou the closest of family, since he married Lynette eighteen years ago. Because they couldn't have kids of their own, they consider mine, theirs. Now, without Dad, they're the only people I trust completely with my children.
"How are you holding up, kid?" He rubs my back, tugs loose his grey tie.
"I've been better." I lick the inside of my glass, looking for a stray drop of alcohol.
"Whatever you need, we're here for you— day or night." He kisses Lynette on the cheek, grabs his keys, and motions to the kids. "We've been kicked out. These lovely ladies need to drown their sorrows."
Kate gives me a big hug, tells me that she loves me, and she'll see me in the morning. I whisper to her, "I love you more than you could ever possibly know"— my usual farewell. She gives me a Bonne Bell kiss on the cheek and gathers her things.
"Mexican food tomorrow night?" Mac slips into Nikes.
"Ole!" I snap my fingers like a salsa dancer.
He laughs just enough.
I give him a hug and say the same goodbye as I did to Kate "…more than you could ever possibly know."
Lou and the kids will probably play board games— which Mac will win— until they beg Lou to sing them to sleep. His voice, trained operatically, resonates on a level that makes people weep.
Later, Lou will fall asleep on the couch after hearing the puppy snores of my children in their twin beds. They share an upstairs room across the short hall from mine. Lou is as fierce a protector as me— a trait that continues to win me over.
Once they're gone, I feel like Atlas after setting down the world. With children comes the great burden of pretending that everything's okay… when most days, it's not. I wonder for a second if I could ever leave my children, as my mother did. My answer is immediate. No. Not under any circumstances.
As if Lynette hears my internal banter, she says, "Good parents don't have the luxury of going insane. You'll get through this, Em. You have to."
"Yeah… with a little help from my friend." I shake my empty glass and fantasize about downing a bottle of sleeping pills with it. If it weren't for the kids, I'd consider it. Sometimes just being alive feels like an accomplishment.
I drift off to a memory of my father tucking me in: "Oh to sleep, perchance to dream," he said every night, as he pulled the blankets up under my chin.He would kiss the tip of my nose, and just before shutting the door, tug on my toes and say, "Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Make me one too." Lynette prepares an appetizer tray for us, and heads to the porch while I get our drinks.
Alone in the kitchen, I'm struck by the silence. It occurs to me that I will never hear my father's voice again. I look around. Nothing's been updated since the 70's: brown, white and gold linoleum, dark wood cabinets, and a laminate countertop— that's supposed to resemble mauve marble, but looks more like what's under our skin— beg to be updated, but I wouldn't change a thing. I pull my father's ashes to my waist like a clutch purse, pick up our drinks, and head for the porch.
"I'm going to look inside." I tip my head toward the box.
"I don't think that's a very good idea." Lynette takes her drink.
"Why not? Aren't I aiming for 'closure,' Doctor?" I sit in one of the two rocking chairs and set my father and my drink on the table between us.
"Closure is down the road a bit. Right now you should be eating, and I should be drinking." She picks up her cocktail.
I remove the lid anyway and open the plastic bag inside. "He looks like sand."
"Ashes to ashes." She touches my wrist. "It's too soon."
I run fingertips through his remains. He feels like ground teeth.
Lynette indulges me with extended silence. We rock until a parade of old memories surface and march onto the screen in my mind.
"Do you remember how bad Miss Anne's house smelled?" I close the bag and box.
"Well, she had all those cats." Lynette smiles, rocking.
"And her son…what was his name… used to wet his pants?" Snapping fingers by my temple, I try to recall.
"Tommy, Tommy Martin," she says and smacks the arm of her rocking chair, as if she could win a prize with quick response. Settling back in, "Isn't it ironic that Miss Anne painted the inside and outside of her house yellow?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, eating the maraschino cherry from my glass.
"You know, yellow… the color of urine."
I howl, like I haven't laughed in years. The feeling reminds me of Truvy's line in Steel Magnolias, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
After a million stories and countless cocktails, Lynette and I end the night.
"Are you going home?" she asks, knowing I live right next to Dad.
"No, I'm too tired. How about you?" I stumble and hop sideways to take off a shoe.
"If you're staying, I'm staying." She lives to the left of Dad's house.
Before I can offer her my old room, Lynette flops on the couch and closes her eyes. I cover her with a blanket and turn out the lights. Heading toward the hall, I opt to sleep in my father's bed. Maybe it'll be easier for him to visit my dreams in there.
Lying down I turn on my side and look toward his closet. Shoes, lined up like soldiers, wait to be selected. It occurs to me that my father will never wear them again because he's not a person anymore. And neither is Cal.
I quietly weep until sleep overtakes me.