Eve and I are ghostly hush, chowing granola the next morning when Dad schleps into the crickets kitchen, says he needed his computer, hasn’t done any paperwork in a week. He gets into poking around our abandoned abode, dumping out expired milk, tossing moldy bread. He finally gets hit to our vibe, giving me a concerned, fatherly glance, but I look away. He says it’s time for him to jet.
Eve shudders slowly to life, her arms wrapping a fortress around her shaky frame. “I’m so sorry to hear ’bout your mum,” she says as Dad is pulling his laptop onto his shoulder, scooping up his keys. He smiles a thin line, deep shadows under his eyes.
“Thanks, Evie,” he says. He looks at me again, then leaves.
Eve and I, we cut a wheel across town, still hush, and I pull up in front of her house. She pushes open the door, but doesn’t get out. She sighs, sits back against her seat.
“After all this,” she says, “I think I’m gonna need some time.”
I wanna throw up. I nod and stare at the taut wrap of leather enveloping the steering wheel.
“Hey,” she says. I lift my heavy head and see her eyes are leaden and pink and her face is flushed and soft around the edges. I smile weak and my eyes are hot and brimming. But I don’t protest. I don’t scream and yell. I don’t get jammed or kiss her or tell her I love her. I just blink away my tears and look up at the ceiling.
“I get it. I really do.”
“Word, Bug,” she says and slides out of my banger.
She’s miles away.
Dad’s home when I get there and he’s sitting on the screen porch, coat still on, laptop in its case on the floor.
“You still here?” I say and he nods, pats the couch beside him.
“Marta and Miles are with the others, they’re grabbing brunch in the city.”
We sit in silence, green-bellied hummingbirds dive-bombing like fighter jets from feeder to flower and back again. Their wings buzz, a tight, hard noise. I close my eyes and flop back my head. Dad lifts an arm over my shoulders and I lean into the solid weight of him. “So,” he says. “Wanna tell me what happened?”
And from deep within me, sobs like a freight train rack clickety-clack through my torso, tears pushing warm springs onto my hotplate cheeks. He pulls me close and kisses the top of my head and I tell him my tale as he holds me light, like the catching of a feather from infinite free fall.
He pulls his fingers through my hair just like Mom used to when I was a wee-Jack and my eyes slide shut and I wonder if she touched him like this, if that’s why he knows how.
As I’m nodding off, Dad pulls a blanket from the back of the couch over me, sighing heavy. And before I know it, I’m startling awake to the ring of his speak. I peel open my lids and he’s yawning, rubbing world-weary eyes. And then he’s talking and his voice goes soft, strained, and I know right away it’s Oma.
We pull into her drive and there are no other cars. They’re on their way, Dad says. He cuts the engine and looks at me.
“Maybe this doesn’t make sense right now, but it sounds to me like Eve needs a friend.”
I shake my skull, clip off my seat belt. “She said she needed time.”
He pushes open his door. “Well, it’s my opinion we don’t always know what we need. If you really like this girl, you’re gonna have to fight.” And he’s climbing out, leaning in through the open window
“But that’s all I’ve been doing, Dad. I’m hacked. Spent.”
He lifts his large, flat palms. “Welcome to love, Jack.” And he heels it inside. I sit for a spell, then flip open my speak to type.
miss u
Dad and I sit vigil, the nurse perched in her chair by the corner, Dad and I each holding one of Oma’s hands. With my other, I run a finger along Bitsy’s stout little fox-like snout. The Beeps are slow, lifetimes elapsing between each. Her breathing, loud under her oxygen mask, sounds gravelly, pinched, labored.
And I always imagined that when this happened, I would be floating, watching from somewhere far, far above. But I’m right here, everything in full focus.
I feel it all. And Oma’s so real, so right now, so painfully real.
Fifteen minutes in, my speak goes off. I slip it out to put it on silent and see it’s Eve. I stare at the screen, watch as I miss her call. She buzzes back.
miss u 2
I slide it back in my pocket and Dad catches my eye. He gives a sad smile, tears rolling gently down his cheeks.
“Eve?” he says.
I look at the floor.
“Go,” he says.
“No way. I can’t leave you now.”
But he just shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says so soft. “Oma loved you kids so much. She always said…” And we’re suspended in a moment, Dad and I. He tilts his head, gestures for the door. “I’d like to say goodbye before everyone arrives. Just me and Mum.”
“Dad, c’mon. This is crazy.” But he shakes his head.
“Go. I’m asking you to leave.”
I watch him, wait for him to change his mind. But I see he won’t. I lean down to Oma and kiss the fuzzy white crown of her head. Take one last look at her face, her hands, the crest of her knees under the blanket, her tiny feet in oversized socks. The gentle, slow rise and fall of her chest.
I stand, give Dad a hug.
And I walk away.