It is Wednesday and I am making
my way through the cafeteria when
Tessa Landau hurls herself across
the length of several tables to
put herself in my path.
“I hope this won’t freak you out,” she says,
“but I think I was one of the last few people to
see your father alive.”
I stare, which is all the encouragement
she needs. Her face puts on a display
of sadness and she says,
“I saw the accident. Your dad was
alive then. I heard he died on his
way to the hospital.”
“You heard wrong,” I tell her.
“My father died later.
From complications.
I was there.”
I want to be sure that she knows
I saw him after she did.
“I’m glad you got to see him,” Tessa says.
Then she adds, “And I’m glad your mom
wasn’t hurt too badly.”
“If you were really there,” I say,
“you would know that my
mother wasn’t even in the accident.”
“Of course she was,” Tessa insists.
“I saw her with my own eyes. I saw them
get her out of the car and put her
on a stretcher.”
This careless lie disgusts me.
She is turning my father’s
death into a bid for attention
I walk away because I am too
furious to trust my mouth.