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It’s like losing one of my lungs, she once told me. I don’t think I’ll ever breathe right again.
“No one is going to care that you’re at a community college once they see your work.” Community college?
I think about clarifying things, but why bother? If a random stranger on a plane wants to see me as a college freshman instead of a sick-to-death-of-high-school senior, who cares?
“Honestly, if we’re going to crash, let’s do it so we can all be done with the theatrics.”
Finally, I give up and call my stepfather, Daniel. Daniel, a soft-spoken, steady accountant who is the antithesis of my compact, high-energy father in every way, answers on the second ring. Because he always answers on the second ring. “Mira,” he says after the slightest hesitation.
“Meet my friends, the fellow castaways from Flight 3694.”
but hey, enough about that, Mom; tell me about your supersecret divorce!
Most of those years, we shared what felt like an endless conversation—a rapid-fire back-and-forth with no need for hello or goodbye or small talk. We’d just pick up at whatever random place we’d left off the last time we talked.
I said the things that mattered to me were bigger than cello concerts and finding the right New Years’ dress.
We were probably both a little bitchy and a little right. But that’s what distance does.
“They let you rent this?” Kayla asks Harper. Brecken has her frayed floral duffel bag now, too. Harper—texting furiously on her phone—doesn’t look up. “For enough money, they’ll let you rent anything.”
He explains how to put them on the tires and then points out a shovel and flares. Where the heck does this guy think we’re going? Northern Siberia? Wherever it is, the dude is quite determined to get us there safely.
A dozen snowflakes hit the road and all common sense pours directly out of drivers’ brains.
Half of the people drive fifteen miles an hour and the other half weave in and out of lanes doing seventy-five. The weavers are often the ones that end up like this, but Dad always told me the slowpokes cause it.
I have that same feeling I had in the car, but I don’t think anyone could walk into this room and not worry about a serial killer lurking in one of the stalls. Still, who knows when I’ll have another chance to pee?
We’re the only ones here. Which means I don’t know where that man came from.
Did some amateur think pinching them was how you tighten them on the tire?
“Maybe we all know each other in another life or some shit.”
“Do you always collect strangers at airports?”
“Right,” I grumble. “I forgot our two resident meteorologists think we should head into the mountains in the snowstorm.”
“Maybe bubonic plague sick,” I say. “She looks terrible. And she’s slept most of this trip. Do you think she has something?”
Ugh, this is exactly what I need. I’m stuck in a car on Christmas Eve, and I’m riding shoulder to shoulder with Typhoid Mary.
At the least, we could sit and watch the Thanksgiving Day parade. Mom always records it, and it feels a little silly watching it on Christmas Eve, but since I usually spend Thanksgiving out with Dad, she keeps it every year for me.
“We have five people in this car and twenty dollars among us?”
“We watch holiday shit,” Brecken says. “Old ones. National Lampoons, Elf. If it’s got jingle bells or Yule logs or anything like that, Dad will force us to sit through it. Which is ridiculous.” “Why is it ridiculous?” Harper asks. “We’re Jewish.”
I take a sharp breath and look at my fellow travelers with new wariness. Someone in this car is lying.
“You can pee in a bottle if shit gets desperate,” Brecken says. “That doesn’t exactly work for all of us,” I grumble. Brecken thumps the steering wheel. “Can we not make this another feminist argument.” “What are you talking about?” Harper asks. “Women make everything about gender, and it’s bullshit.”
It’s damn hard to fall apart when you’re busy being steady for somebody else.
“I’m fine,” I say. I learned after Phoebe that if you say it enough, people believe you. Say it even more, and you’ll believe it yourself.
Losing Phoebe taught me that when your world falls to pieces, your brain will not keep you moving. Your brain will shut down to a low static hum. Your heart will tear itself in half and ache until you’re sure you’ll die. Until some part of you wishes you could. It’s your instincts that will keep you alive.
“Because sometimes it is easier to force strength for others than to allow ourselves to feel weak and hurt.”
“I think that’s what grief does. It reminds us that we are small. That we are not in control.”