Authors: Amy Hatvany
“Did she have a heart ’ttack?” Max asked, sounding much younger than seven. He only talked like a baby when he was really upset.
“I don’t know, Maximilian. I wish I did.”
We were quiet a moment, then Max spoke again in a tiny voice. “What’s going to happen to us now? Where will we go?”
Dad visibly tensed for a second, then relaxed. “You’ll stay here, of course. I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”
“What about the rest of my stuff?” Max asked.
“Who cares about your stuff, dummy,” I snapped, pulling away from him, and my dad put his hand on my forearm, squeezing lightly. “Ava,” he said.
I wouldn’t look at him. If I did, I might cry again. I didn’t want to be like her. I didn’t want to cry too much. I gave him what I knew he wanted. “Sorry, Max. I didn’t mean it.” My dad offered me a grateful look, then turned to my brother.
“We’ll get the rest of your stuff, kiddo. Maybe not all of it at once, but the important things, okay?”
“Okay,” Max said, easily satisfied.
I swallowed. “What about Mom’s stuff?”
Dad paused again, considering this. “I’ll probably box most of it up and keep it in storage for you two, when you’re older. Does that sound like a good idea?”
Both Max and I nodded, even though I couldn’t imagine putting away all of Mama’s things in a cold, dark storage room. I wanted to have them with me. I wanted to smell her perfume and wear her clothes; I wanted to wrap myself in the blanket she used to cuddle with me under on the living room couch.
I want her not to be dead.
Dad smiled. “Okay then. That’s what we’ll do.”
I stood up. “I’m going to my room.” My dad stood up, too, and Max turned the TV back on and picked up the controller for the Xbox. Dad and I walked together through the kitchen, where he pulled me into a long hug and kissed the top of my head, just
like Mama used to. I felt my body tensing, wanting to pull away, but I wasn’t sure why. I wasn’t sure of anything.
In my bedroom, I picked up my cell phone and checked the text messages. There were six from Bree, asking why I had to leave class. I didn’t know how I could say the words out loud.
My mother is dead.
I tried it once, whispering the words, and immediately felt like I was going to throw up, even though I hadn’t eaten anything since the candy bar I’d sneaked from my closet yesterday afternoon.
I thought about what Dad had said—about how she might have died. There was no way she had a heart attack. She was only thirty-three. She didn’t smoke cigarettes or eat too much fat, which is what our health teacher, Mrs. Goldberg, said were two of the big reasons people’s hearts stopped working. She didn’t go to the gym, but she said she ran around at the restaurant so much and didn’t need to. She was skinny, but she always told us she was healthy.
But she was sad.
She cried almost every day. She was losing too much weight. Last month Mrs. Goldberg had talked with us about how to look out for signs of depression in our friends and when to tell an adult if we thought that person might be in serious trouble.
Who do we tell when it’s an adult who’s in trouble?
I longed to ask.
Who do we tell when it’s our mother?
I should have found someone. I should have done something to help her. I thought if I just did everything to keep her happy—if I helped clean the house and take care of Max and write out the checks for the bills—she would be okay. I didn’t know there was something really wrong with her. Something bad enough to take her away.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand and my breath caught in my throat. I grabbed it and saw Bree’s name on the caller ID. I let
it ring two more times, almost letting it go to voice mail, before I decided to answer.
“Where the h-e-double-hockey-sticks have you
been
?” Bree demanded. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” My mouth was so dry, I had to swallow a couple of times to see if I could speak. “Ava? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“My mom . . .” I began, and then the tears came again. I only used the name “Mama” at home; it was what she liked us to call her. I called her “Mom” to everyone else. Unlike Max, I wasn’t a baby. I swallowed, sniffed, and spoke again, barely a whisper. “My mom died.”
“
What?!
” Bree said. “You’re kidding, right?” I didn’t say anything. “Oh, shit,” she continued. “Oh shit, shit, shit. Of course you’re not kidding. I’m sorry. That’s like, the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” She paused. “What
happened
?”
“I don’t really know,” I said, my voice tight as I tried not to lose it completely. “And my dad is acting all weird, like he isn’t telling us something, and Grace is here and I
hate
her!” I let loose a shuddering sob and Bree remained silent until I spoke again. “I can’t believe she’s dead. I don’t want her to be dead.” Maybe if I kept saying the word, the fact that it was true would sink in.
“What do you think your dad isn’t telling you?” Bree asked. Her voice was quiet, and for some reason, because she was calm, I felt the tiniest bit calmer, too.
I sniffled. “I’m not sure. I just feel it, you know?” It was funny how sometimes, when people talked, you could still hear all the words not being said. Sometimes they were louder than the ones that came out of their mouths.
Bree sighed. “Yeah, I know. Like when my dad was going to leave right after Christmas, and he and my mom pretended to
be all in love in front of me when we opened our presents.” She snorted softly. “Like we couldn’t tell it was a big, stupid act.”
“Right,” I said. But I didn’t feel like hearing about Bree and her family. I reached for a tissue from the box next to my bed so I could blow my nose. I sat on the edge of my bed, concentrating on the dark purple stitching of my comforter, staring at it until the pattern became wavy and I had to blink. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Ava?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up the phone.
As I neared Kelli’s house, and after talking with my mom, I couldn’t help but think more about my father. We’d never been especially close, even before Sam came along. He wasn’t ever the kind of dad to snuggle with me on the couch or read to me, and it was my mom who taught me how to tie my shoes and ride my bike. He was the kind of dad who seemed bewildered that he was married with two kids—that he’d somehow stumbled into a life he never wanted to live. His body was there, but his mind was not; I’d always sensed that he would have preferred to be anywhere but with our family.
But however rocky our parents’ marriage was, the end of it had shocked both my brother and me. I guess we assumed that after so many years of putting up with Dad, Mom had grown too weary and accustomed to his bad behavior to change anything between them. So even when she called me and said, “That’s it. I’m done. Your great-aunt Rowena died and left me enough to retire on, and I’m not going to let your father piss it away on the poker table,” there was a part of me that didn’t believe her. She’d stayed with him through so much. But then she hired a lawyer, and Dad didn’t know what hit him. He left the marriage quietly, as though he had expected the end would happen all along. He used the small payout from the inheritance Mom had received to
immediately move to Las Vegas, where he eventually suffered a stroke and died a few years ago. Since I barely spoke with him, when he died the sense of loss was vague, like the misplacement of a pair of earrings you liked but had rarely pulled out of your jewelry box to wear.
Melody’s car was already parked in front of Kelli’s house when I pulled up. She sat on the front porch, clad in Levi’s, a snug-fitting tie-dyed T-shirt, and running shoes. Her long blond hair was pulled into an
I Dream of Jeannie
ponytail on top of her head. She trotted down the steps and hugged me when I approached, and I found myself tearing up again.
Melody pulled back and searched my face with kindness in her brown eyes. “How
are
you?”
I shrugged. “Sad. Confused. A little pissed off.”
She smiled. “Sounds about right. I was up baking all night,” she said. “I had to do something. I was so worried about you. And the kids. I made two pound cakes and six dozen cookies. Oh, and three lasagnas.”
“Good lord. What are you going to do with all that?”
“Send it home with you so you can put them in your freezer. You’ll need something to feed the kids over the next couple of weeks. Victor’s going to have too much going on and lord knows
you’re
not going to cook.”
I stuck my tongue out at her, grateful for her ability to make me smile. She glanced down at my left hand and immediately squealed. “Oh my god, let me see!” She snatched my hand and pulled it close to her face so she could admire the ring. I’d put it on in the car after talking with my mom, wanting to show it to my best friend. “Wow. Totally impressive rock, Mr. Hansen. I love the baguettes framing the center stone like that. It’s gorgeous.”
I allowed myself to feel a moment of giddiness in seeing my friend’s reaction to my engagement. “It
is
gorgeous, isn’t it? I love it.”
“As well you should. That, my friend, is a ring from a man who obviously adores you. I will
attempt
to not be wickedly jealous.” Melody was single but determined to get married and have at least two kids before she turned forty. She read countless how-to-find-your-soul-mate self-help books and tirelessly revised her online dating profile to try to attract the man who would make her rampant desire for motherhood come true. She scoured
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
and parenting magazines so she would be prepared to immediately launch herself into the job when the right man came along. And yet, she didn’t find him. She prepared for first dates the way athletes train for the Olympics, but those dates rarely blossomed into anything more than a temporary fling. I knew she was happy for me when I met Victor, but a little envious, too, the same way a friend who is trying to lose weight is happy when her best friend drops twenty pounds while still quietly bemoaning the wide span of her own hips. We were good enough friends that we could talk about how she felt and not let it become a problem between us, which was a relief. As a transplant to Seattle and with her parents still living in the small Iowa town where she grew up, I was the closest thing to family Melody had. She often spent the holidays with us and Sam had affectionately dubbed her his “bonus sister.” I would never have done anything to hurt her.
Standing in Kelli’s driveway, she winked at me now, then frowned a little as she watched me slip the ring off and put it back in the safety of my zippered wallet. “It’s not about the ring,” I said, hoping I sounded more convincing than I felt.
“Damn right, it’s not,” she agreed. A moment later, we ascended the front steps, and I was just putting the key Victor had given me into the lock when a woman’s voice called out.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What do you think you’re doing?” I turned my head to see a short, slightly heavy woman with shoulder-length light brown hair chugging her way across the lawn. She wore jeans, a purple University of Washington sweatshirt, and tan slippers edged in faux fur.
I lifted a hand in greeting, realizing instantly who this was from the kids’ description of their mother’s best friend.
The woman who found Kelli.
“You must be Diane,” I said. “I’m Grace, and this is Melody. We’re just here to pick up a few things for the kids.”
She looked me up and down, not even pretending to be subtle about it. “Grace,” she repeated as she came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. I assumed that since she and Kelli were friends, she’d heard my name at least a time or two, perhaps followed by a few choice descriptive expletives. After our first meeting, Kelli and I hadn’t exactly bonded; her distaste for my presence in Victor’s life continued to be an almost palpable thing. I’d done my best to ignore it on the rare occasions when we had to interact, but she hadn’t made it easy.
Diane huffed a little bit now, trying to catch her breath. “Where’s Victor?”
“He’s with his children,” Melody said, and I hoped that only I could hear the touch of annoyance in her words. Melody had a low tolerance for people who had a hard time grasping the obvious. I could almost hear the other—unspoken—sentence in Melody’s head:
Where the hell
else
would he be? The Bahamas?
“Oh. Okay.” The edges of Diane’s face softened, and I noticed that her eyes were red rimmed and swollen.
She’s just lost
her best friend
, I reminded myself.
She’s in pain, too.
She sighed, then continued speaking. “I just saw you sitting out here and then the both of you trying to get into the house and I didn’t know what to think.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “How are they?”
“Pretty much in shock, I think,” I said. “Trying to understand what exactly happened.”
Diane cocked a single eyebrow. “Didn’t the doctors say anything to Victor?”
I wondered if Diane knew something we didn’t. “They told him about the pills by her nightstand—”
“What?” Melody exclaimed, and I realized I hadn’t known this when we’d talked last night, before Victor got home from the hospital.
“She took those for anxiety,” Diane said quickly. “The prescription could have just run out. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re right,” I said, resting my hand on Melody’s arm, hoping she’d realize I didn’t want to get into this particular discussion right now. I’d tell her about my concerns later, not in front of Diane. “It doesn’t. We’re hoping the doctors will figure out exactly what happened, but Victor decided it was better not to mention the bottle or the pills to the kids.”
Diane nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s best.” She paused. “Kelli told me you and Victor got engaged.”
“We did.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That was quick, wasn’t it? You two haven’t even been together a year yet.”
I opened my mouth to respond, feeling my cheeks get hot, but Melody spoke for me. “Um,
actually
they’ve been together
over
a year.
Not
that it’s really your business.” I shot my friend a warning look.