The Other Way Around by Sashi Kaufman Page A

about how much she even likes her so-called family; about what even makes us family anymore. But I’m not going to get into it now. “I know it’sfamily time, Mom. That’s why I left.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to Mima’s. I’m on the bus,” I improvise.
    â€œYou’re on a bus?” she says quietly. This is surprising. I’m expecting more of a freak-out.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow did you get on a bus?”
    â€œI walked to the bus station and got on a bus.”
    â€œTo Bloomington?”
    â€œTo Cleveland, actually. But I’ll get the first bus to Bloomington in the morning.”
    There is a long silence before she speaks. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You can’t go to Mima’s”
    â€œI’m going, Mom. I’m already on my way.”
    â€œOh shit, Andrew, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this, sweetie. Mima’s dead.”

THE REFUND
    No one close to me has ever died before, so I’m not sure how to react. When people in the movies die, their loved ones always cry and scream and roll around on the floor. But the only thing I’m aware of is that my feet start to sweat, like really sweat. In fact, my whole body seems to go up about a hundred degrees. Holding the cell phone in one hand, I wriggle out of my jacket and toss it on the chairs in back of me.
    â€œShe’s
what?
” I finally say.
    â€œAndrew, please tell me where you are. I don’t want to explain this over the phone.”
    â€œWell maybe you should have thought about that earlier? Besides, I told you, Mom. I’m on a bus to Cleveland. I can’t see any road signs because it’s dark outside. If I had to guess I would say we’re somewhere outside Utica. Now please tell me what happened to Mima?” My voice breaks a little.
    â€œShe had a stroke, Andrew. She died peacefully in her sleep.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œTuesday.”
    â€œYou’ve known since Tuesday, and you didn’t tell me? I don’t understand. What were you waiting for?”
    â€œAndrew, I screwed up here and I’m so sorry,” Mom begins. “It was the day before vacation, and you know how that is at school—”
    I cut her off. “You were busy? You couldn’t tell me about Mima because you were busy?” My voice is getting higher and louder, but I don’t care. “And what about Wednesday? Or sometime today perhaps? You were just too damn busy to tell me that my grandmother died?”
    â€œI know, Andrew. You’re right, you have every right to be upset. But honestly, I was hoping your father was going to call you. I thought you should really hear it from him. I loved Mima very much, but she wasn’t my mother. Part of me didn’t think it was my place to tell you.”
    Her voice is sad and small. But whatever honesty is coming through is eclipsed by my rage that she is bringing her beef with Dad into this. “That’s just perfect,” I hiss. “Blame him for this—and everything else—why don’t you? His mother just died. He’s probably making funeral arrangements and calling people, and he’s grieving. He’s probably in shock or something.”
    â€œHe’s in the Bahamas.” Her voice is flat. “He called me from Nassau, from the hotel. He asked me to tell you. He asked me to tell you that the funeral will be postponed until he gets back from his vacation.”
    I hear the words. I hear “Nassau” and “Bahamas” and “hotel.” Each one stacked up on the other. Stacked up on my eyelids like cinderblocks trying to squeeze the hot tears out of my head. Mima is lying cold and alone on a tray in some morgue somewhere while her only son cavorts on a beach with his girlfriend.
    â€œReally shitty,” I finally say, when I think I can speak without crying.
    â€œI know, sweetie. I really thought