August and Then Some by David Prete Page B

bites of dinner she’ll slide the salt shaker two inches to the left, then right, then back again like she’s playing one-woman chess. When she’s cooking she flutters around the kitchen from chair to stove to sink, a bird hopping from branch to branch, the whole timeher head twitching in all directions like something’s going to sneak up on her. She’s so busy looking over her shoulder that a Chinese alphabet of burns scores her wrists from pulling pans out of the oven without pot holders.
    Mom says my grandma Terri passed down recycling instincts. Terri taught her to clothes-pin used zip-lock bags to the kitchen faucet to dry out. I wonder if Terri’s foot used to tap against the floor under the table during dinner like my mom’s, like sending out Morse code. When her foot starts going up and down, my sister and I look at each other and smile because we know what’s next. Our dad will hear it too and when he’s had just about enough, he taps his heel really loud, and Mom jumps in embarrassment realizing what she’s been doing. Then she says, “Sorry …” and me and Dani mouth the rest of the sentence with her: “…it just happens without me.”
    So that morning after washing and brushing, I came out of the bathroom and saw Dani’s bed empty and unmade. Dad had gone to one of his construction sites at seven-thirty and Mom was getting cereal bowls out of the cabinet when I made it down to the kitchen.
    1230 WFAS (Westchester’s Talk Radio and Soft Favorites) played on the AM dial from Mom’s old-time wooden kitchen radio—which was also a spice rack. The DJ came through the airwaves with a sing-songy voice so jolly and optimistic he sounded like he was trying to convince listeners—regardless of how much death and inflation he had to report—everything was so friggin dandy that no one in Westchester County ever really took a crap.
    That morning it played to my mom twitching around the kitchen as she put cereal and bowls on the empty table.
    â€œMom, where’s Danielle?”
    She sighed then yelled to the ceiling, “Danielle, hurry up with your teeth, we have to leave in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œShe’s not upstairs.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” She went to the refrigerator for milk.
    â€œRemember how you told me everyone is always somewhere?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell Dani’s somewhere isn’t the bathroom.”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œNo, it’s not.”
    She sighed, put the milk on the table, left the kitchen, and climbed the stairs. I followed her upstairs into the empty bathroom, then into Dani’s room. She stopped when she saw her bed was empty. To me she mouthed the words, is she hiding? and I shrugged my shoulders. “Danielle, come on,” she said, “we have to go.” Then she stayed still listening for rustling sounds. None. “Was she in your room?”
    â€œNo.” We checked my room anyway. Mom called out, “Danielle?” Nothing. This was getting weird. Dani was quiet, but a disappearing act was never in her repertoire. We went into my mom’s room. “Danielle, come on, it’s getting late.” No Dani there either. In the bathroom Mom pulled back the shower curtain. Bathtub was dry. And just as Mom turned away from it she snapped into nurse mode. STAT. Fast as TV jumps to commercials I saw what she was like at work, calling out BP numbers, scrambling for sutures, wiping sweat off brows, keeping cool during life and death.
    She went back into each room and opened the closets saying, “OK, game’s over.”
    â€œYou haven’t seen her since you woke up?”
    â€œNot uh. Maybe she’s in the car.”
    Mom looked at me like I knew something she didn’t. “Why would she be in the car?”
    â€œBecause everyone has to be somewhere. Right?” She had no time for her own piece of completely useless