There is a pair of felt mittens attached to each other by red yarn that Steve made in kindergarten and sprinkled liberally with glitter, and there are the red and green paper chains he loved to make because he got to use the stapler. There is a gingerbread man he made from Play-Doh. You can’t see anything Caroline made because her things hang in the back. I told her to put them there because the tree was stationed in front of a window, and I said if she put them on the back, everyone would see her things first. Everyone outside. Years later, I told someone this, and we both laughed. It seemed funny then, just a little Father Knows Best type of sibling upsmanship. I see it differently now. Which is to say, I see it.
16
“SO HOW ARE YOU, MOM?” I SAID, AS WE PULLED AWAY from the airport.
I hardly needed to ask. She looked awful: puffy bags under her eyes, her hair disheveled, her outfit appropriate for anyone else but alarming for my mother: a lightweight gray sweatsuit and sneakers.
She leaned back in her seat and sighed. Looked out the window. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Such a shock. And you know, Laura, I think I see him everywhere. I mean that literally.”
I looked quickly over at her. “You mean you’re hallucinating?”
“No, it’s . . . well, on the airporter, for example, I saw a man in the front of the bus, and it looked exactly like your father. Exactly. I stared at him the whole way. I thought about going up to him, but what would I have said? Oh, Stan, is it you? I see him walking down the sidewalk, in
stores at the mall, even in the house—I come into a room and see him slip around the corner. Just . . . zip!” She laughed, a small sound.
I nodded, said nothing.
“Is that happening to you too?”
“No, but I’ve heard about it happening to other people. To other widows.”
“Oh? And what else have you heard?”
“About widows?”
“Yes.”
I pulled up at a stop sign, reached over to touch her shoulder. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s normal. That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Well.”
I started driving again, then said in as innocuous a way as I could, “You know, Mom, I was thinking I’d go back to Minnesota. I want to see Caroline again. And Steve, before he goes back home.”
“What? Well, why didn’t—”
“I mean see them alone. Just some brother-and-sister time, without anyone else. Some time to talk. You know? When we were there, we didn’t really get . . . well, you know, Dad died and . . .” It still felt strange to say it. I had an impulse to say, Sorry, Dad, as though this were some tasteless joke we were all playing on one another.
My mother stared straight ahead, eyebrows raised just the slightest bit.
“The truth is, Caroline’s having some trouble, and—”
“Your sister is always having trouble. Always. It is the way she prefers to live.”
I pulled up to a red light, looked over at her. “Yeah. Did you ever wonder about why?”
“She is that type of personality. She just is. You can let it drive you crazy, or you can just let her be. Green light.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a Kleenex. Wiped at her nose. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. Of course. Oh, listen, you’ll love this. Hannah went out to buy some clothes the other day, for school? She came back with—”
“I don’t see why you have to go back there when I just arrived! Why can’t you just stay here while I’m here and then we can go back together?”
I hesitated, then said, “Mom, I’m sorry this is upsetting to you. It’s just something I have to do. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you now, when you just got here. I guess I wanted to get it out of the way. Let’s have a nice dinner tonight.” I smiled over at her. “Okay? I’m glad you’re here, Mom. Everyone’s glad.”
She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. “Maybe I should go back home. I don’t know what to do.”
I signaled for my exit off the freeway. “Almost there,” I said. I meant it to be reassuring, even gay. It was neither.
JUST BEFORE I WAS READY TO PUT DINNER on the table, the phone rang. It was Aunt Fran. “Hey, how are you?” I asked her.
“Oh, the same as always. Rich and famous. And you?”
“Just getting dinner. We’re