The View From Who I Was by Heather Sappenfield Page A

idiot.”
    â€œI don’t think you’re—”
    â€œAdmit it.”
    â€œAsh—”
    â€œYou’re my best friend, Oona. You’ve always been my best friend. Couldn’t you have even texted me?” Ash’s eyes turned glassy.
    â€œI just … I can’t … something about the way life used to be made me do this. I’m afraid to go back. Does that make sense?”
    â€œYou think I—”
    â€œNo! Ash, I just … after something like this, who’s dating whom … It just doesn’t matter.”
    Ash looked down and wiped her nose. “ Whom ? Wouldn’t Ms. Summers be proud. You always were a brainiac.” She looked up, and her cheeks matched her coat. She shut the door. From the window beside it, Corpse watched her climb into her little Audi and zip away.
    Corpse averted her eyes from the mountain where we’d frozen, but she felt the cold on her limbs, the hardness of that rock under her butt. She sensed me then, watching her.
    â€œShe doesn’t get it,” Gabe said from his window.
    Corpse turned at the sound of him putting away the game. She knelt beside him and helped clean up, glancing over her shoulder. Toward me.
    â€œI have that Physics test tomorrow. I really have to go. Are you okay?” He reached out, stroked Corpse’s neck. That touch sent a jolt through her, a heat she’d never felt. In all the time we’d been dating, depression had blocked us from offering Gabe anything more than vacant kisses. She sensed me again—reasoning, doubting, judging. She rolled her shoulders.
    â€œI’m fine. But Ash is right,” Corpse said.
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout Dad.”
    â€œThat he still works all the time?”
    â€œThat he keeps us miles away. Even now, when he’s right here. In the hospital he was different. He said he was ‘a new man,’ that things would be different.”
    Gabe’s face turned grim. “Oona, he … ”
    â€œWhat?”
    Gabe sighed and looked around the room, seeming to relive what had just happened with Ash. “Nothing.”

    Our backyard sloped down to Crystal Creek and the golf course fairway on its far bank. The basement opened through floor-to-ceiling glass doors that folded away onto stone patios with comfy furniture. In summer the whole area became indoor-outdoor. Flowers spilled from copper boxes and pots. Even when the river froze over, the snow drifted high, and people Nordic skied along the golf course on groomed tracks. We liked those glass walls. There were two rooms along that glass: the library and Dad’s office.
    Corpse didn’t loiter in Dad’s office doorway. Just limped straight in with LIFE under her arm, me trailing like a speech bubble in a comic strip. LIFE’s pieces bounced inside, sounding like a tiny marching army.
    â€œHey, Dad.”
    He was typing something into a chart and looked up. “Oona. What a surprise!” He said this like she’d travelled from New York instead of from upstairs. I wished we were up there, that she’d just leave things be.
    Corpse settled into the tufted leather chair that faced his desk. She’d never sat in that comfortable-looking chair before, and its hardness surprised her. Dad sat very straight, watching. She watched him.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she said.
    â€œUpdating a client’s portfolio.” Boundaries surrounded his words.
    Discomfort swelled the air. He clicked off the murmuring TV with the remote.
    â€œDo you like being a financial manager?” Corpse said. I retreated toward the window wall.
    Dad looked as surprised as I was. His chair squeaked as he settled back and considered her question. “It’s lucrative.”
    â€œWhat would you do if money didn’t matter?” Corpse said.
    Dad smiled slyly and his eyes glinted. “Money matters.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt keeps us safe.