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I cross and uncross my legs. Smooth my dress. If I lean forward just enough I can see her house. I don’t want to, but sometimes it’s an itch I have to scratch. I scratch hard this time, allowing myself a good, hard look. It’s so different now, so empty without her, even though it isn’t empty at all. So much has changed, and yet nothing has. Kate was my best friend. I make myself look away. I thumb through Instalook, see what the Chick Tribe is up to. This helps.
I don’t like to think about how good it used to be. That’s why I don’t look often, not anymore. It hurts too much, even after all this time. But sometimes on occasion, if I’m antsy, the way I am now, I allow myself just a peek, a tiny glimpse into the past. I’m careful though. I don’t venture too far down that path or there are consequences. Friends like Kate don’t come around often, and in fact, and I know it sounds cliché, but I’ve never met anyone like her since. I don’t think I ever will. The closest I’ve come is June, and our friendship is based solely on our positions within the church, so that isn’t saying much. Still, I like June. Which is more than I can say for the rest of them.
I pick up my phone again. Not today, I tell myself. I won’t go there today. I feel antsy, so I open Instalook again. I close it quickly; I have things to do. But not before checking the number of likes I’ve received on my roses. Ninety-seven so far. In thirty-eight seconds. I know it shouldn't matter— but those likes make me feel good.
I shoot a text to Grant, thanking him for the flowers. They're beautiful, I write. I mean it, but also, I know how much my husband appreciates reciprocation. While I wait for him to text back, my phone rings. It's Jun
e. I already know why she’s calling. She’s scared. I saw it this morning. She told me as much, when Grant stepped out to take a call. She thinks someone is out to get her. Grant assures me this can happen when the body is fighting an infection, when a person is really sick. But he’s wrong about part of it. June was like this before he performed the breast enhancement on her. She was paranoid before the infection. He didn’t say anything when I mentioned that. He doesn’t like it when I worry.
“I have to pick up Avery first,” I tell her.
“Can’t she ride the bus?” She scoffs. “My kids always rode the bus…”
“She hates the bus, June.” I don’t mean to sound annoyed but maybe Grant is right. Maybe I shouldn’t let her depend on me so much. It’s just that she reminds me a little of Kate and Kate depended on me a lot. I guess it’s good to feel needed. “No one rides the bus these days.”
“Sure they do,” she says. “Why else would they have them?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut.
“And, you know, it might make her appreciate you a little more if she had to face a little bit of hardship. Speaking of hardship,” she says lowering her voice. “I have to tell you, I think it’s going to happen today. I don’t care what it takes Josie—you have to do something. You have to get me out of here.”
“June, please.”
“Please, what?”
“We’ve discussed this.”
She starts in on me again, and I listen for a few moments until my head throbs, and my phone buzzes.
“Avery is beeping in,” I tell her. “I have to go.”
“What? Who?”
“I’ve got to go,” I repeat. “I’ll be there at 5:30,” I promise, and I press the button to switch calls.
“Avery—”
“Mom,” I hear my daughter say on the other end of the line. She’s breathless, but then that’s the norm these days. Everything is urgent and everything is a disaster. This is fourteen. “I need you to pick me up,” she huffs. “ASAP—we have a semester test in biology, and I have a massive headache…I can't possibly take that test today.”
“Avery…”
“What? If I do, I'll seriously flunk out of school!”
“Avery, I can’t pick you up right now,” I sigh. “I have a long list of things to do. Can’t you just stick it out?”
“Mommmmm. NO.” She’s annoyed with me, every bit her father’s daughter. “I can’t just stick it out,” she swears. “Do you even realize what you’re asking me?”
Of course I realize what I’m asking.
“Avery—”
“You know what?” she huffs. “Never mind. I’ll just start walking home.”
“Fine,” I relent. I shake my head at what I’m about to say. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Be ready and waiting on the bench.”
She knows I won't let her walk home. It's an empty threat. At this age, she's still all arms and legs, outgoing and headstrong, everything that I wasn’t. She's moody and impossible— all the things no one tells you about when they place that little bundle of joy in your arms.
Avery didn’t speak until she was almost two and a half, and I remember practically willing her to talk. Grant swore up and down that it was that one glass of wine I had before I knew I was pregnant. A woman should be reserved in all things. But we both knew that wasn’t it. He, more so than me, given that he’s an actual doctor. I begged him to let me take her to a speech therapist, but he refused. Until one day I took her anyway. I’ll never forget how I paid for that. Interestingly enough, it was a few short days after that Avery graced us with her first word. It wasn’t Mama and it wasn’t Dada. It was no.
