think she’s Mormon?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they leave Bibles with you or something?”
“It’s not a Bible,” he says.
She gets into her truck and we watch her drive down the street. My dad waves, but she doesn’t wave back.
“That was kind of odd,” I say. “Did you guys talk much?”
“Sort of,” my dad says.
“What did you talk about?”
He stares out onto the street, arms crossed in front of him, pondering something. My question finally reaches him.
“Uh, let’s see,” he says. “She loves the mountains. She just graduated from college. East Coast. She’s from Bronxville, New York. She isn’t ready to go to med school—her dad wants her to. She had a good cadaver physiology program at her high school. What else? Her name isn’t short for Katherine. She’s named after her grandfather, Christopher Lux. She was ready to go back home. She’s lived here since July, but someone who lived here urged her to stay.”
“Who?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“What else?”
“Hon, I wasn’t taking minutes.”
“Actually, it sounds like you were. You covered a lot.”
“I like to talk,” he says. “These kids all stalling. Figuring out what they want to be. It’s nice to hear about their plans, or lack of.”
Like Cully. I imagine this girl moving here and remember my longing to leave here, to forage for happiness, change, escape, renewal, my own ground. At DU, I’d lug around my huge video camera and tripod. They became a shield in some way, a way to overcome shyness, a way to make my curiosity legitimate.
“Oh, and we talked about soups,” my dad says. “Hearty soups. And I may have mentioned a few things about the ski business—coping with losses, new initiatives—”
“You must have bored her to death.”
“No, I . . . she seemed interested. She held her own.” He puts his hands on his hips. “We made a dent out here,” he says. “That was good.”
“Good,” I say. I try to think of more work, more tasks, things to make him feel useful and strong.
My dad takes her calendar from the railing, flips to today’s date. Blank.
• • •
I WALK BACK downstairs, stopping in the doorway. I wonder if my dad will move into this room, since it’s larger than the one he’s in, or if it would be too strange. Then again, he lived in the room he shared with my mom. There may be something comforting in the reuse. I walk in and put Suzanne’s wine down on the desk.
“Much better,” I say, my voice sounding different in the emptier room. “Where are you?” I hold my elbow with one hand, my glass of wine with the other.
She walks out of the closet, holding his newest ski jacket. “I think you should see this.” Her voice hesitant, almost fearful.
I feel a swell of adrenaline. “See what?”
“Something of Cully’s,” she says.
I wait on edge, as if what Suzanne has found may be able to bring him back.
I look at the coat draped on her arm and in her hand, something small and black along with a wad of bills. Money in a coat pocket. I love finding money in a pocket—it’s like a gift from yourself.
“Score,” I say, and immediately feel guilty about it. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Can’t go a day without it. After Cully died I felt guilty for singing in the car. That’s when I was still counting. Counting the days since he died. I don’t know what’s worse—doing that, or having lost track, to have stopped counting, which I have. I’ve rounded up to months. Three. Guilt came for feeling hungry, for having that sensation. It came from yawning, from putting on makeup, dressing nicely. It came when I felt sexual desire. I remember the first time this happened—some scene in a movie set me off and I nearly wept, feeling so awful that I had a response, that I still felt anything at all. The body just keeps going. It doesn’t care what you’re up to. I remember how guilty I felt for not buying him the most expensive
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they leave Bibles with you or something?”
“It’s not a Bible,” he says.
She gets into her truck and we watch her drive down the street. My dad waves, but she doesn’t wave back.
“That was kind of odd,” I say. “Did you guys talk much?”
“Sort of,” my dad says.
“What did you talk about?”
He stares out onto the street, arms crossed in front of him, pondering something. My question finally reaches him.
“Uh, let’s see,” he says. “She loves the mountains. She just graduated from college. East Coast. She’s from Bronxville, New York. She isn’t ready to go to med school—her dad wants her to. She had a good cadaver physiology program at her high school. What else? Her name isn’t short for Katherine. She’s named after her grandfather, Christopher Lux. She was ready to go back home. She’s lived here since July, but someone who lived here urged her to stay.”
“Who?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“What else?”
“Hon, I wasn’t taking minutes.”
“Actually, it sounds like you were. You covered a lot.”
“I like to talk,” he says. “These kids all stalling. Figuring out what they want to be. It’s nice to hear about their plans, or lack of.”
Like Cully. I imagine this girl moving here and remember my longing to leave here, to forage for happiness, change, escape, renewal, my own ground. At DU, I’d lug around my huge video camera and tripod. They became a shield in some way, a way to overcome shyness, a way to make my curiosity legitimate.
“Oh, and we talked about soups,” my dad says. “Hearty soups. And I may have mentioned a few things about the ski business—coping with losses, new initiatives—”
“You must have bored her to death.”
“No, I . . . she seemed interested. She held her own.” He puts his hands on his hips. “We made a dent out here,” he says. “That was good.”
“Good,” I say. I try to think of more work, more tasks, things to make him feel useful and strong.
My dad takes her calendar from the railing, flips to today’s date. Blank.
• • •
I WALK BACK downstairs, stopping in the doorway. I wonder if my dad will move into this room, since it’s larger than the one he’s in, or if it would be too strange. Then again, he lived in the room he shared with my mom. There may be something comforting in the reuse. I walk in and put Suzanne’s wine down on the desk.
“Much better,” I say, my voice sounding different in the emptier room. “Where are you?” I hold my elbow with one hand, my glass of wine with the other.
She walks out of the closet, holding his newest ski jacket. “I think you should see this.” Her voice hesitant, almost fearful.
I feel a swell of adrenaline. “See what?”
“Something of Cully’s,” she says.
I wait on edge, as if what Suzanne has found may be able to bring him back.
I look at the coat draped on her arm and in her hand, something small and black along with a wad of bills. Money in a coat pocket. I love finding money in a pocket—it’s like a gift from yourself.
“Score,” I say, and immediately feel guilty about it. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Can’t go a day without it. After Cully died I felt guilty for singing in the car. That’s when I was still counting. Counting the days since he died. I don’t know what’s worse—doing that, or having lost track, to have stopped counting, which I have. I’ve rounded up to months. Three. Guilt came for feeling hungry, for having that sensation. It came from yawning, from putting on makeup, dressing nicely. It came when I felt sexual desire. I remember the first time this happened—some scene in a movie set me off and I nearly wept, feeling so awful that I had a response, that I still felt anything at all. The body just keeps going. It doesn’t care what you’re up to. I remember how guilty I felt for not buying him the most expensive
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