has already imagined this moment or one so similar that one thought, one sentence, one echo on the phone could be mistaken for another.
“Stop,” she finally tells Katherine. “Isn’t this just like Annie? We should have seen this coming. It made sense that she didn’t want to have a formal funeral. She hated that shit. I imagine she wanted the boys to spread her ashes around the backyard of that house she loved so damn much. But this? This is classic. It’s perfect. It’s . . .”
Laura stops. She has already spread out the traveling funeral in her mind. She’s already formed pieces of the trip that stretch like banners into the lives of the other women, the people they meet, their conversations after midnight, the way they fall into each other without hesitation, the way some of them don’t like each other at first or wrestle for attention, the way they manage to finally fit the curves of their personalities into each other so the puzzle is complete, the way they will change. She feels the emotional water of the traveling funeral washing over her and she knows, she thinks she knows, why Annie wanted them to do this. But she stops herself. She doesn’t want to know everything and she has that power also. She can let it ride.
“Hey . . .” Katherine says, a little puzzled by Laura’s silence.
“I’m okay. Just thinking about what this is going to be like.”
There is another pause and Laura thinks that there are so many things that she doesn’t know for sure. She doesn’t know when she will see her daughter again. She doesn’t know if she can save every woman at the shelter. She doesn’t know how she can afford to take a short leave of unpaid absence, because she and her husband live on such a tight budget that one unplanned trip, one traveling funeral, one real funeral, and the whole budget is shot to hell. But she also doesn’t know how she could not go. It is an impossible possibility, but possibility to Laura is everything.
“Let me finish reading first,” Katherine says. “Then we’ll discuss the rest of the details.”
Laura listens and then, right after Katherine begins speaking again, she remembers the spiral notebook that Annie kept with her the last time they saw each other. It was not so long ago, just four weeks before Annie died, weeks ago—just weeks ago when she saw her last.
The notebook never left Annie’s hands. She placed it on her lap the few times she managed to sit outside on the deck, set her fingers on top of it, resting her palms on the metal spiral edges when it rested on her chest while she lay in bed, moved it under her elbow when she managed just once or twice to shift to her side, pushed it under her pillow each and every time she fell asleep.
“What is it?” Laura had asked Annie. “Are you working on something?”
Annie looked at Laura as if she were trying to see right through her. She moved her hand so two fingers rested on the side of her leg.
“I’m always working on something, you know that. Right now I’m trying to figure out a way to forge a gentle exit but I’m having a hell of a time, sweetheart. This wasn’t part of the plan. Not at all.”
“Can I do something?”
“If I could laugh I would,” Annie had said, smiling just a little. “You’ve already done enough and when the time comes you will know if there is one more thing that you can do. You’ll know. Just having you here now for this time is good. It’s good, sweetheart.”
Laura had looked hard at Annie then. She saw how her dark eyes were rimmed with even darker circles. She reached over and brushed Annie’s brown hair, laced with occasional loops of silver, away from her weary eyes. She noticed how the lines across the top of Annie’s mouth and under her eyes and descending from her lower lip had suddenly grown longer, wider, deeper. She saw how the arms and hands and fingers and legs and every inch of her beloved Annie had melted away so that her bones had become
“Stop,” she finally tells Katherine. “Isn’t this just like Annie? We should have seen this coming. It made sense that she didn’t want to have a formal funeral. She hated that shit. I imagine she wanted the boys to spread her ashes around the backyard of that house she loved so damn much. But this? This is classic. It’s perfect. It’s . . .”
Laura stops. She has already spread out the traveling funeral in her mind. She’s already formed pieces of the trip that stretch like banners into the lives of the other women, the people they meet, their conversations after midnight, the way they fall into each other without hesitation, the way some of them don’t like each other at first or wrestle for attention, the way they manage to finally fit the curves of their personalities into each other so the puzzle is complete, the way they will change. She feels the emotional water of the traveling funeral washing over her and she knows, she thinks she knows, why Annie wanted them to do this. But she stops herself. She doesn’t want to know everything and she has that power also. She can let it ride.
“Hey . . .” Katherine says, a little puzzled by Laura’s silence.
“I’m okay. Just thinking about what this is going to be like.”
There is another pause and Laura thinks that there are so many things that she doesn’t know for sure. She doesn’t know when she will see her daughter again. She doesn’t know if she can save every woman at the shelter. She doesn’t know how she can afford to take a short leave of unpaid absence, because she and her husband live on such a tight budget that one unplanned trip, one traveling funeral, one real funeral, and the whole budget is shot to hell. But she also doesn’t know how she could not go. It is an impossible possibility, but possibility to Laura is everything.
“Let me finish reading first,” Katherine says. “Then we’ll discuss the rest of the details.”
Laura listens and then, right after Katherine begins speaking again, she remembers the spiral notebook that Annie kept with her the last time they saw each other. It was not so long ago, just four weeks before Annie died, weeks ago—just weeks ago when she saw her last.
The notebook never left Annie’s hands. She placed it on her lap the few times she managed to sit outside on the deck, set her fingers on top of it, resting her palms on the metal spiral edges when it rested on her chest while she lay in bed, moved it under her elbow when she managed just once or twice to shift to her side, pushed it under her pillow each and every time she fell asleep.
“What is it?” Laura had asked Annie. “Are you working on something?”
Annie looked at Laura as if she were trying to see right through her. She moved her hand so two fingers rested on the side of her leg.
“I’m always working on something, you know that. Right now I’m trying to figure out a way to forge a gentle exit but I’m having a hell of a time, sweetheart. This wasn’t part of the plan. Not at all.”
“Can I do something?”
“If I could laugh I would,” Annie had said, smiling just a little. “You’ve already done enough and when the time comes you will know if there is one more thing that you can do. You’ll know. Just having you here now for this time is good. It’s good, sweetheart.”
Laura had looked hard at Annie then. She saw how her dark eyes were rimmed with even darker circles. She reached over and brushed Annie’s brown hair, laced with occasional loops of silver, away from her weary eyes. She noticed how the lines across the top of Annie’s mouth and under her eyes and descending from her lower lip had suddenly grown longer, wider, deeper. She saw how the arms and hands and fingers and legs and every inch of her beloved Annie had melted away so that her bones had become
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