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Mom has made us a lavish dinner with a perfectly tender steak, homemade fries, a salad.
“Did you know there are less flowers in the world now than only a few decades ago?” Dad swallows some wine, wipes his mouth and looks expectantly at me.
“I’ve read that, yeah.”
“The implications on the lives of nectar collecting animals are catastrophic. Butterflies, bees. Without bees we will perish. We won’t need a full-scale nuclear war to wipe us out as a human race.”
“All it takes is fewer bees?”
“Yes. They’re admirable. They work hard, live in an organized society, no wars, no crime. If a bee dies, his mates will carry him home and then go back out to keep collecting nectar.”
I smile. “I like the thought of being a queen, and having thousands of men serving me.”
“Doing nothing but eating and giving birth to thousands of children,” says my mom.
I turn to her. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She grimaces. “I think thousands of grandchildren would be a bit overwhelming. One or two would do. When are you going to settle down and—”
“Mom—”
“Margaret!”
Dad and I have our outburst at the same time, making me laugh.
“I’m only twenty-six.”
“Give the kid a break. I, for one, am overjoyed that she got rid of that rodent and has started studying. You should be proud we have such a dedicated child.”
Mom throws up her hands. “Always ganging up on me. Evan was a fine young man.”
“Emphasis on ‘was’,” I mutter.
Dad and I exchange a glance of understanding. He never liked Evan much. My psychologist father saw right through him from the very beginning. I should have listened, but I was so happy for the attention from the opposite sex, and so terribly naive. We were seventeen when we met. We got married at nineteen.
I thought I had met the love of my life. My judgement sucked.
Honestly, I’m afraid my judgement still sucks, and I’m a little afraid to get back out there. I haven’t dated since our divorce. No one-night stand, no nothing.
At eleven, I hug my parents good night with a promise to visit more often, that I know I won’t honor, and head home. I don’t dislike them, not at all, especially not my dad whom I adore, but I live my own life and time flies.
The next day,David doesn’t show. He should have been with us according to the schedule. And not a word from home, that he’s ill. Just nothing. Filled with trepidation, I call the number that was given to us. A woman answers.
“Carmen speaking.”She has a hint of an accent, a smooth, delicate sounding voice.
“Is this David’s mother, by any chance?”
“Who is this?”
I present myself and why I’m calling.
“David has been relocated. His father thought it was for the better.”
I’m stunned. An ache spreads in my chest and I struggle to find my voice. “Why?”
“He said there was an incident at the center.”Her voice is slightly accusatory, making my stomach clench. I know exactly what incident we’re talking about. And I no longer believe a word Salvatore said about the ‘accident with the cousin’. Why would he remove David from our care if what I heard was something innocent? A shudder runs through me, a chill I can’t seem to shake.
“Thank you very much for letting me know.”
