“Y’okay?” Luc’s voice sounds close to my ear.
My throat is too tight for words, but I manage a smile and a nod.
He eyes me skeptically, but then the first float turns the corner and snags his attention. “Throw me somethin’!” comes the traditional chant from the crowd, and a barrage of colorful beads are tossed from the float riders to the spectators, who yell and clap when they catch a string.
Signs are lifted to snag the attention of the riders. Some are simply drawings of sunglasses, others have slogans like “Sunglasses, please!” and “Who dat throwin’ dem sunglasses?” And when one of the riders actually tosses out a pair of the coveted, garishly decorated trinkets, there’s a mad scramble to be the one to catch them.
Every krewe has their own signature throw. For the Krewe of Zulu, it’s a glittery coconut. For the Krewe of Muses, it’s a decorated high-heeled shoe. The Krewe of Tucks tosses out bedazzled toilet bowl plungers.
It’s a great honor to catch one of the krewes’ throws, and people come from all over the world—and go to two weeks of parades—to try to collect them all. Only in this city do human beings actuallyenjoyhavingshoes and coconuts and plumbing accessories thrown at their heads.
I’m in the middle of pouring more whiskey into my go-cup when a sharp pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced drills through the top of my skull. My breath wheezes from me. My vision goes bright and crinkly around the edges.
Then it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving me staggering.
Luc’s hand is on my shoulder. “Easy, man.” There’s concern on his face. Or at least I think that’s what I see. My vision is fucked, so it’s hard to tell. “Maybe you should go light on that stuff tonight.” His chin hitches toward my cup.
“Right,” I say with no intention of going light on anything. But neither am I in any shape to put up an argument.
Then I see her.
It’s a fleeting glance. Out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn to look, she’s walking away from me, and all I can make out is the back of her head.
It’s not her. Of course it’s not. I’m imagining things. But my heart is still pounding. Blood roars in my ears to compete with the loud buzzing.
She turns, and for a moment I’m looking at the face of a stranger. Then it morphs, and itisher. There are those same sad gray eyes I remember so well. Those same slashing eyebrows she passed along to me.
It’s crazy. It’s not real.
And yet my feet carry me toward her through the crowd.
“Cash!” Luc calls to my back, his voice barely carrying above the music of the parade. “Where the hell you going, man?”
I don’t turn back. She’s gaining ground. Slipping away. And I have to see her even though it’s not her. It can’t be. I know it can’t be, and yet…
People grunt indignantly when I shove past them. I go up on tiptoe to see above their heads. There. Just past the coffee shop window.
I don’t realize I’m running until I have to skid to a stop or risk plowing into her back. My hand is shaking—not the numb one; theotherone—when I lift my arm to tap her on the shoulder. She turns, and my breath strangles in my lungs. It’s not her. Then it is. Then it’s not.
I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, itisher. Isn’t it? And all those old feelings from childhood rush through me. The helplessness. The sadness. But most of all, thelove.
“Mom?” My voice is a rough, strangled parody of itself.
Then the world is tilting, sliding off its axis.
Or…that’s only me, I guess. Because suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I don’t feel the pain of my landing, although I hear the terrible sound my head makes when it bounces off the concrete. I can’t make out the words Luc is saying when he rolls me over, but I see his lips moving.
I try to sit up, but my muscles won’t cooperate. I try to talk, but my tongue refuses to move, and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a weird grunting sound.
So much for facing death with dignity.
Over Luc’s shoulder, I see the shocked face of the woman I thought was my mother. I see the crowd and the floats and a little boy who’s sitting on his dad’s shoulders, clapping as the parade rolls by. Above it all, high in the black sky, a lazy yellow moon shines down.
That feels right. That the moon is looking down, bearing witness.
When you’re young, you think time doesn’t exist. You think you have forever. But I’m here to tell you, you don’t.
It’s a cliché, but it happens to be true. Life is fleeting. And you only get one, so you better make it count. You better do it right.
