LITMIR.BIZ

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occasionally eating a piece of bread from my mother’s lips, as I struggled not to dry heave or mention bird-borne pathogens, I’d ask Poe if she wanted to play Scrabble or Apples to Apples or Monopoly. Shockingly, she did not and would go upstairs to listen to more screamo music. I’d take a Vicodin in lieu of a glass of wine, put an ice pack on my knee and watch Wheel of Fortune with my mother. Chatting was not allowed, though shouting out the answer was. Mom beat me every time.

      On the eighth night of my exciting new life, Boomer and I were on the couch, and Bernard from Duluth, Georgia, had finally managed to figure out CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS four letters after my mother had, winning a vacation to Hawaii. Mom clicked off the TV and went into the den, Tweety swooping in from somewhere to land on her head. Gah.

      Fun was over. I decided to seek out company and distraction in cyberspace.

      Shit. My laptop was upstairs. “Poe?” I called over the music. “Would you mind bringing me my computer, honey?”

      Nothing. I waited ten seconds.

      “Poe?”

      “I’m coming! I answered you already. Jesus.” Eight angry thuds shook the house as she came down the stairs. She practically threw the computer at me.

      “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

      She stomped back upstairs.

      Was it wrong to want to kick one’s niece? It probably was. I forced myself to smile, stroked Boomer’s ears, took a cleansing breath and reminded myself that Poe was going through a hard time. Her whole life had been hard. Maybe. I didn’t really know, did I?

      But my sister was in jail, Poe was far, far away from her friends, and last night, I’d forgotten to bring a towel into the bathroom, so she had to see me lying in the tub with only a washcloth for cover, which is pretty much every teenager’s most horrible nightmare.

      One of these days, though, I’d win her over (pause for laughter).

      I opened my email. Ah, there was a funny note from Roseline asking me about hot lobstermen (none), my mother, Boomer, my niece. She’d also attached a picture of herself with a huge smile on her face, holding up a little voodoo doll of Bobby—I could tell, because he was wearing scrubs and a mask, and Roseline had written Bobby on his shirt. Adorably, he was stuck full of pins.

      My ancestors have your back! read Roseline’s note. Bobby should be coming down with explosive diarrhea any second.

      I snorted. Aw! You’re the best, I typed. Also, Harvard wants their degree back. Everything is fine here. I heart Vicodin! My mother’s bird is trying to kill me. Send help.

      I started to type more, then realized I didn’t have a lot to say. The truth about my mom and Poe would concern her—We barely talk, but they’re tolerating me! Besides, I had a stiff upper lip now. I didn’t whine or complain, because I wasn’t a smear on the pavement with a bouquet of flowers marking the spot I’d died. I was alive! Yay. Besides, it was only my first week (plus one day). So I just asked her questions about Amir and married life and if she’d had any fun baby deliveries lately.

      My computer pinged. Another email...this one from Bobby.

      Hey there. Missing you. The place seems too big without you and Boomer. Are you doing okay? Doing your PT? Sleeping all right? Maybe we can talk tomorrow.

      Bobby

      Damn. I wanted to hear his voice, and I absolutely didn’t want to hear his voice. Was he dating Jabrielle already? Why was he saying he missed me? I hoped he missed me. I was so glad he missed me. I hoped he was suffering and had explosive diarrhea.

      But no. I was a bigger person now. Near-death experience, et cetera, et cetera.

      Doing fine here! I typed. Boomer loves the island and finds something dead to bring home almost every day. I’m feeling much better and really love getting to know my niece again. She’s fantastic!—Lies, all lies—Boomer misses you, too—Truth—Mom sends her best—Lie—Sure, give me a call tomorrow. I have plans for dinner—to eat survival food with Mom and Poe—but am mostly free in the afternoon.

      I hit Send.

      It seemed so long ago that Bobby and I had been that couple. That couple in neck braces I’d seen in the ER—okay, fine, not the most romantic image, but you know what I mean. That couple who’s connected by a shimmer of energy. Whose love made other people disappear so that they were the only two people in the world.

      He dumped you after you were hit by a car, Nora, said my smarter half.

      Chances were pretty high that he’d blow off tomorrow’s call. If history was an indicator, he’d have a patient or coworker who needed him.

      I sighed. Then I glanced in the den, where my mother was still working, opened Google and typed in the same words I’d typed a hundred times before.

      William Stuart, Maine, obituary. From the little den, Tweety screeched, channeling Edgar Allen Poe’s raven. Boomer whined. Tweety had pecked him on the head the other day, and now he was terrified of the bird. Like owner, like dog.

      For some strange reason, my father didn’t have a middle name, something Lily and I had tried to remedy, everything from Toad, as in Frog and Toad Are Friends, to Denzel, as in Washington. It would’ve been helpful in tracking him down, that was for sure.

      There were plenty of dead William Stuarts out there and Bills and Wills. But the ones who had the same birth year as my father never seemed to fit.

      This time was no different. If my father was dead, I had no way of knowing.

      Sitting here, in the house where I had once felt so loved and safe, it was hard to believe that my father had never come back at all.

      Never even called.

      But maybe, now that I was back on the island, I could find out what happened.

       6

      On the ninth night of my convalescence, my mother told Poe and me to get out of the house. “I have something going on here,” she said. “Can you two go out for ice cream or something?”

      “I’m injured,” I said. “And I just took a Vicodin, so I can’t drive.” Also, Game of Thrones was on, and like any good viewer, I was in love with Jon Snow.

      “Then go upstairs and close your door,” she said.

      “I’m a little old to be sent to my room.”

      “Believe me, you’ll want to go,” Poe said.

      “Why?”

      “It’s work,” my mother said. But her cheeks flushed.

      Now that was odd. My mother never blushed. Ever. Nothing embarrassed her. Once, when I was in high school and Mom was in the throes of a particularly gruesome menopause (or meno-go, as the case was), she’d bled so much at the grocery store that she left a red trail in her wake. She’d opened a package of paper towels, cleaned up and added an economy-size box of adult diapers to our cart. Didn’t so much as flinch.

      So her blushing now... Was this one of those sex-toy parties? “What kind of work?” I asked.

      “It’s a new venture,” she said, putting Tweety in the cage. At least there was that.

      “What kind of new venture?”

      “Nora, just get upstairs,” she growled.

      “It’s hug therapy,” Poe said.

      I snorted. No one else cracked a smile. “Seriously?” No answer. “Mom, if you need a hug, I’m right here.” I tried to remember our last hug. Failed.

      “I give the hugs, Nora. I don’t get them.”

      “Really?”

      “People pay for it,” Poe said.

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