Two of a Kind by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page B

Damn. He really wished his dad had not been here.
    â€œYes. Could you come in, please?”
    Oliver tugged on a coil of hair as he shuffled into the office. It was neater than neat, with nothing on the long desk other than a high-powered lamp and a stainless-steel cup that held several weapon-sharp pencils. The shelf unit opposite the desk held his perfectly lined-up books, and a few framed family photos. His mom was front and center; around her were pictures of Oliver on a tricycle, Oliver in a stroller, Oliver in a wading pool, clutching a rubber shark. It was like his dad wanted to freeze their family in time; nothing on display was even remotely current.
    â€œOllie, this is Christina Connelly,” said his father. “You met at the wedding, remember? You were sitting next to her daughter, Jordan.” Oliver swiveled around. He felt like he was moving in slow motion; it seemed to take him a half hour before he was actually facing her.
    She stood up, this Christina person, and extended her hand. For a second, Oliver’s weed-clouded brain could not make sense of this gesture, but he recovered and took it. Definitely not his dad’s type: drab dress, hair pulled up and away from her face, no makeup.
    â€œOh, right.” Jordan was the one who cut her food into teeny, tiny pieces, pushed it around on her plate, and called it eating.
    â€œI’m interviewing Christina about a job,” his father explained.
    â€œA job?” What could this woman possibly do that his father would want?
    â€œI’m planning to redecorate the apartment.”
    â€œRedecorate?” said Oliver. “Why? Everything looks okay around here. Everything looks
fine
.” Oliver’s head felt like it had come loose from his body and was floating somewhere up in the vicinity of the ceiling. He needed to sit down, and lowered himself onto his father’s beige and cream tweed sofa, where he perched, tensely, at its edge; if you got, like, even one little spot on that sofa, Andy would pitch a fit. Was this one of the things in need of redecoration? Oliver could totally get down with that but not with anything else.
    â€œOliver, you’re being rude,” his father said. “What’s the matter with you?”
    â€œHe doesn’t want the home where his mother lived to be changed,” said Christina.
    â€œYou get that?” Oliver was surprised. He would have guessed she’d say just the opposite.
    â€œOf course. My husband died a number of years ago. For a long time, I wouldn’t change anything in our house. I kept thinking that if he came back, he’d want things to be just the way he’d left them.”
    â€œThen you thought that too?” Oliver couldn’t believe she was saying these words; this was
exactly
the way he felt about his mom.
    â€œThought what?” his father asked. Oliver ignored him.
    â€œThat the person who died is not really dead. That she’s coming back, and it’s your job to preserve everything so that she’ll be able to find her way home,” said Christina.
    â€œThat’s it!” Oliver burst out, not caring how stoned he sounded. Christina Connelly was all right.
    â€œWhat are you two talking about?” Andy seemed genuinely confused, and at another moment, Oliver might have relished this, but right now he was too busy looking at Christina.
    â€œThe dead,” she replied. “And the way they won’t move on.” She turned to Oliver. “I just want you to know that if your father decides to hire me, it won’t be my goal to eradicate your mother’s presence from the apartment. It will be to honor it.”
    Oliver looked at her, seeing, as if for the first time, the way her hair—light brown and very smooth—was swept off her face, the tiny earrings that pierced her lobes, the kind of retro summer dress she wore, which was not drab at all, but instead way cool, with a pattern of little