In This Moment. Karma Brown
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if that’s actually the best thing for anyone. When Audrey asks again if she can stay with Sam, this time a bit louder, I wish I could use the old “Three...two...one...” trick I used to when she was a preschooler. Audrey would usually concede when I got to “one,” and I never had to follow through on whatever consequence would happen after the countdown. But she’s a teenager now, on the cusp of being a woman who can make her own decisions, and my influence over her is diminishing. Which scares the hell out of me.
Andrew glances at us. “She’s welcome to stay, Meg,” he says. “Suzie can drive them back to our place in a bit.” Suzanne, who with her short blond bob and long limbs looks like the female version of Andrew, nods in response and rubs Sam’s back. I open my mouth to insist Audrey come with me, then see her face and Sam’s, and pause. He needs her right now.
“As long as you’re sure,” I say to Andrew. He murmurs again that it’s fine, and I nod. “Audrey, Dad or I will come get you at Sam’s place a bit later. Text me, okay?”
She hugs me and assures me she will, and after a quick goodbye to Andrew and his family, I head home.
* * *
I sit at the kitchen table in my bloodstained dress, too tired to do all the things I need to: get changed, bury the dead bird, deal with work stuff. My mind is both racing too fast and moving too slow, and I still feel like I can’t draw a full breath.
With shaking hands I pick up my phone and dial Julie, who answers on the first ring.
“Meg! Are you okay? What happened? I heard about Jack Beckett. Oh, my God. Where are you?”
I’m crying too hard to speak.
“Are you at home? Meg?”
“Yes,” I manage to say.
“I’m coming over. Give me ten minutes.”
Nine minutes later Julie lets herself in the front door, and seconds after that she’s got me in a tight hug. “Oh, Maggie. You’re okay.” Though she’s shorter than me, no one would ever call Julie petite. She’s solid and fit, yet still has a soft layer over top of her muscles. She does not subscribe to potions, surgical interventions or negative body image, saying her girls need to see the way “God made her” and understand what a real woman’s body looks like. Her halo of dark curls, that never seem to lay flat no matter what she does, tickle my face, making me sneeze.
“Sorry,” I say, sniffling, but she doesn’t let me go.
“What’s a little snot between friends?” she asks, finally pulling back and holding either side of my face in her hands. “Mags, you look like hell.”
I sniffle again, take the tissue she hands me and honk my nose into it. “I know. I feel like hell, too.”
“Why don’t you go get changed and I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She gently nudges me toward the stairs. “After that you can tell me what happened. Okay?”
I nod. “Thanks. Also, there’s a dead bird upstairs. I need to bury it before Audrey gets home.”
Julie doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I’ll meet you upstairs with tea, and rubber gloves. Off you go.”
Once I’ve stripped out of the bloodstained dress, balling it up with the pashmina and stuffing both into a plastic bag in my closet that I’ll throw in the trash bin later, I pull on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt and swallow two more ibuprofen. I’m standing at the balcony door staring at the tiny brown bird, lying exactly where it fell this morning, when Julie comes in my bedroom.
“Here,” she says, putting the hot tea in my hands. I take a tentative sip, and my eyes widen, the honey and lemon mingling with a hit of whiskey. She shrugs. “I brought the booze with me. Figured this was the time for something stronger than chamomile.” She’s wearing the pink rubber gloves I keep under the kitchen sink and has her hands on her hips. “So that’s the little guy, huh?”
I nod, staring back at the bird. In a flash I see Jack on the road, feel the pills I just swallowed trying to make their way back up.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, and I know she doesn’t mean the bird.
“Not even a little bit.”
Julie nods. “Okay, so about this bird.” She crouches down and gives it a long look. “What do you want to do with it?”
“We could just put it in the trash,” I say. “Audrey doesn’t know what happened.” Making the effort to bury it does seem pointless.
But Julie shakes her head. “I think it needs a proper burial.” She looks pointedly at me. “I think you need this as much as the bird.”
She’s right. I can’t bring myself to put it out with the trash, like its life didn’t matter at all—not today. Frowning, I take a deep breath and hold out my hands. “Give me the gloves.”
“I don’t mind,” Julie says but then, seeing my face, pulls the gloves off her hands and gives them to me. I open the sliding glass door to the balcony and gently pick up the bird with some difficulty, thanks to how small its body is and how awkward the gloves are. Its body is stiff, yet so light it’s practically weightless. Julie holds the half-empty tissue box from my nightstand toward me and I set the bird’s body inside, covering it with a few tissues so I don’t have to look at it anymore.
We already have two birds buried in our backyard—a baby robin that was pushed from its nest a few springs ago, and the yellow finch that started Audrey’s save-the-backyard-birds campaign in our house. The graves are marked by two stones, upon which Audrey has painted red hearts with wings, and I start digging with the garden spade about a foot away from the one on the left. The wind blows strong, and Julie, sitting on the grass beside me, holds tightly to the tissue box so it doesn’t get knocked over by a gust.
A half hour later back in the bedroom, Julie and I are meticulously placing Audrey’s gel clings in a pattern on the balcony windows, tiny semicircles of dirt still stuck under my fingernails from the bird’s burial, when my phone rings.
“Hey, sorry. I’ve been in the meeting. Everything all right? I just saw your missed calls.” He sounds like he’s had a couple drinks, his words soft around the edges, and I wonder exactly where this afternoon’s meeting is taking place.
“Ryan.” I sit hard on the side of the bed, the gel cling in my hand wilting against my fingers. “Just a second,” I say to him, pressing the phone to my chest and looking at Julie. “I’m good. You don’t need to finish that.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I still have—” she glances at her watch “—thirty minutes before the kids go ballistic wondering where their dinner is.” She smiles, and I return it.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Thank you, Jules.”
She watches me for a beat, then blows me a kiss. “Always, my friend. Okay, call me later?”
“I will.” I wave as she leaves my bedroom, then put the phone back to my ear.
“Sorry, just saying bye to Julie.”
Ryan gives a low whistle. “You sound rough. Guess you’re not feeling bet—”
“There was a car accident.”
A pause, heavy between us. Then the rush of questions. “What happened? Are you okay? Is Audrey okay? What kind of accident?” His tone now sharp, worried, impatient.
“It wasn’t us. We’re okay.” My tone weak and weary. “But Jack Beckett got hit by a car. Right in—” My throat catches as I try to hold things in, control the flood of emotions. I shake my head and close my eyes against the images of Jack, his jagged shinbone, the nausea bubbling inside my stomach. “Right in front of us.”
“Sam’s brother? Shit. Is he okay? Was Audrey in the car with you? What the hell happened?”
Yes. No. Yes.