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“Coco has meticulously checked everything with her doctor. And Mom’s good, Levi.”
Good? Maybe better. Sure, no longer in kidney failure. But is shegood?
“I’m heading to the studio. Don’t stress.”
Miles is an optimistic artist—and clearly an idiot. Telling an anxious man:don’t stressis the same as telling a laboring woman:don’t give birth.
I went from always worrying about my mother to everyone telling me she’s fine. I went from taking charge of my younger brothers to them growing up and not needing me anymore. I’m not a switch to be flipped. It doesn’t work like that.
“Aren’t you happy she’s going out? She deserves a life.” Miles is often quiet—crowds and new people, he just clams up. But he’s got a lot to say today.
“Weren’t you leaving?” I say, pulling open the drawer and yanking a milk bone from its bag. Max’s tail wags and his paws prance in anticipation.
Miles smirks, and I laser in on the scar in the center of his chin. He fell from a tree when he was five. I never let that kid play outside by himself again.
“Stop worrying, Levi. She’s okay.” Then as if he’s read my mind. “We’re all okay.”
3
Meredith
Isit on a park bench, cross my legs, and breathe in the fresh air. I’ve only lived in Coeur d’Alene five months, but I like it here. I like the air. It’s nice. It’s…breathable. Do people here realize how wonderful it is to be able to sit outside and just breathe?
An old man and woman on the bench across from me watch the birds hopping around in the grass. The woman laughs and the man smiles at her like she is the sun and moon combined.
I think people here do know how lucky they are. At least these two do.
I grin at the couple and take in another breath, then I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Uncle Bob.
Me:Spending the day in town. Be home before six.
I hit send, then snap my phone case from my cell—like I’ve done a hundred times before. I pull the yellowed paper from the safety of that between spot and unfold it.
My list of twenty-three. Twenty-three years, twenty-three missing experiences. Some small—as small as trying a cup of coffee, and some big—as big as moving out and living on my own.
I peer over my list. My list that tells me not to be afraid. It says:Try living. And do not let something like fear stop you from doing so.
I have an idea of which item I’m picking today—err, whichotheritem I’m going to try out today. But I always feel more sure after I’ve looked the list over, seeing what I’ve checked off and what is left. Once I have a pen handy, I’ll be checking off number six:try coffee.
Before I can read over my list, my phone jingles. I lift it from my lap, holding tight to my list in one hand, while bringing my phone to my ear with the other. “Hello, Bob.” Uncle Bob and Dad are the only ones who call. But seeing how it isn’t Friday night at 8 p.m., this isn’t my dad.
“Meredith, you’re twenty-three years old, you don’t have to tell me when you’ll be home.”
“Okay.” I grin at the old couple across from me. The man has taken a slice of bread from his pocket and the woman is thrilled. She tears a piece from the corner and tosses it to one of the birds.
“Stop doing that,” Bob tells me.
“Okay,” I say. But it seems rude to keep him waiting on me, not knowing where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’ll be home in time for dinner.
“Also, I’m sixty-four years old. I will nottextyou back.”
Plenty of sixty-four-year-olds text. Don’t they? It would be rude to correct him, though. Besides, Uncle Bob isn’t mad. He just likes giving me an independence check every chance he gets. And the fact is, he doesn’t text. But I’m pretty sure that’s by choice—not age.
“Okay,” I say again.
My uncle gives a small huff into his phone. “All right, then. Goodbye.”
I return my phone to my lap and pick up my yellowed list. I skip two and three—skimming over the words I wrote all those months ago.
