“Did I say cancer? I meant heart attack. She had a bad heart.”
I’m a little stumped at how detached he sounds about her death, but then assume he wasn’t very close to her. Unless aloofness is his way of coping with loss. “So it’s just you, your dad, and your little sister?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Twelve.” A breath whooshes through the phone. “You ask a lot of questions, Angie.”
My spine jams up tight. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Is that the only reason you’re interested in my home life?”
I bristle, because I wasn’t the only one asking questions. “You think I’m trying to suck up to you because your dad’s an entertainment lawyer? Get over yourself.”
Instead of acting mature, I hang up, feeling a strong urge to toss the phone he gave me at the wall.
So much for trying to be courteous.
9
Defrosting More than Freezers
I spend all of Saturday attempting to come up with lyrics.
I thought it would be easy matching words to my melody, but it’s not. I toss my notebook aside and listen to my Discover Weekly selection from Spotify for inspiration. When that doesn’t help, I put on running shoes and sprint out the front door. I don’t run far or long, just far and long enough to get rid of my writer’s block.
Dad apparently used to go on runs when he was working through his music. It’s one of the few things Mom has told me about him.
When I get home, I forgo a shower and make a beeline to the piano. I play the melody, stopping and starting a hundred times to scribble down new lyrics, and then I rearrange the chords until the little black dots are swimming around on the staffs.
“Angie, I’m home!” Mom yells.
The sky outside has turned an electric shade of blue.
I massage my temples and get up from the bench. Stretching my arms over my head, I walk to the kitchen, where Mom slides two brown paper bags onto the emerald granite island.
As I help her put the groceries away, I ask, “What are we having for dinner?”
“Butternut mac ’n’ cheese. Want to help make it?”
“No. But I’ll watch and play DJ.”
“Why don’t you ever want to cook?”
“Because I suck at it, Mom. I either burn everything or measure things wrong. Remember when you asked me to make glazed carrots for Thanksgiving, and I added a quarter cup of salt instead of sugar?”
She smiles. “Still don’t understand how you could add that much salt without thinking it was too much seasoning.”
“My point exactly.” I scroll through my phone for my current playlist and synchronize it with the kitchen’s wireless speakers. As music spills into the room, I fill a glass with soda water and settle on one of the cowhide barstools tucked underneath the island.
Mom peels the squash, slices it in half, scoops the mushy insides into the InSinkErator, and then dices the hard flesh. As she fills a large pot with water, thyme, and other stuff, I toy with the idea of playing her my song.
Before I can cop out, I say, “I wrote a song today.”
I don’t mention the Mona Stone contest. I’ll have to bring it up soon but don’t feel brave enough today.
She glides the cubed squash into the simmering broth. “Can I hear it?”
