The bride steps away just long enough to hand off my key ring and hug me goodbye. We make a vague plan to grab dinner this week or next, and Chrissy squeezes me even tighter than she did earlier. Then she and Gin are back to their photo line, leaving me and Renee to exchange half-hearted waves.
What I try to say isGood to see you!But that’s a lie. It hasn’t been good. What comes out instead is just “See you,” and even that earns me an eye roll.
“I guess so,” Renee grumbles loud enough for only me to hear, but she traps me in her stare a second longer, freezing me in place with two vicious slivers of blue. “Quick tip for next time? Maybe don’t wear white if you’re not the bride.”
A chill shoots up from my feet, but I’m not allowed the benefit of explaining myself before Renee boxes me out again. After all these years, she hasn’t changed a bit.
I knewofRenee Roberts long before we ever met. Before Gin became a music teacher, she worked at an arts nonprofit, and Renee was her favorite coworker. They both studied theater in undergrad, and on top of her career in event management, Renee still hit the audition circuit and occasionally performed around the city. When Gin described the vision board hanging in Renee’s cubicle—the clipped-out pictures of lit up theater marquees behind words likeambitionandgoal-getter—I knew for certain this person was not for me.
There has never been a shortage of things that arenot for me. An office job like the one where Gin and Renee met, for example, isnot for me. Neither is theater. Anything that could broadly be described aswoo-woo, vision boards included, is definitely not for me, and neither was college, although I still snuck out of Dunlap with a diploma. Renee, on the other hand, earned her MBA from one of the country’s most prestigious programs. She had a five-year plan to land a job at one of Chicago’s major theaters, and I had an alt-country band and no real direction. By the time I finally met Renee Roberts in person, I already knew what to expect: my opposite. The sun to my moon, a grounded earth sign versus myflighty Gemini sensibilities. Gin always said that Renee was the best; from the moment we met, Renee acted like sheknewit. Clearly she still does.
A different version of me—the version Renee used to know—wouldn’t let her have the last word with that “don’t wear white” comment. A different Alice would dig in her heels and order another round, throwing insults and drinks until she knew for certain that Renee had lost and she herself had won. But I’m not that Alice anymore. Not even close. Instead, I box up my tumbler, reminding myself that this stupid cup alone and the fact that it’s not a wineglass are proof positive that I’m not who I used to be. If I stooped to the level of making a vision board, the only thing on it would be to prove Renee wrong.
Two
A pickup truck isn’t the most practical choice for a city driver, but it’s easy to spot in the parking lot. The storm-blue double cab was one of Dad’s last splurges, and his scent still clings to the leather interior—dive bars and Parliaments. I try to trap it in my lungs as I start up the truck, flinching at the time glowing back at me. Mom is likely staplingLOST DAUGHTERposters around the neighborhood by now, but our visit feels suddenly impossible given the emotional bullet train I’ve just stumbled off. I’m still deciding on my destination when another text from Mom sinks my stomach like an enemy ship. She’s asking for my ETA.Shit.
I give myself until the first red light to make up my mind and give Mom a call. It goes to voicemail, and as instructed, I leave a message after the beep.
“Hey, Mom, it’s me, I was jus—oh wait, hang on, you’re calling me back, bye.” I switch the line over. “Hello?”
“Hi, sorry, I was dealing with the pharmacy. They’ve been threatening me over your father’s prescriptions.”
My heart skips. “What? The pharmacy is threatening you?”
“Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration,” Mom admits, and mynerves dial back. “The automated texts just keep getting more aggressive, and…these aren’t the things they warn you about, Alice.”
This has become Mom’s catch phrase—not just since Dad died, but since his health took a turn.These aren’t the things they warn you about, she’s said again and again, from when Dad first stopped being able to brush his own teeth to when they asked us how many death certificates we wanted, and now, battling the autorefills of the deceased—Mom has always insisted that, when they teach you about death, they never mention these strange little miseries. If she weren’t still mourning her dead husband, I might ask who “they” are and what “they”didteach her that prepared her for this mess.
A car horn blares, and I swerve back into the lane I didn’t realize I’d drifted out of. A close call, compliments of my recurring daydream about a world where we all receive copies ofWhat to Expect When You’re Expecting Your Dad to Die.
“Are you driving?” Mom sounds worried but chirpier when she asks, “You’re headed over then?”
My stomach feels wadded up, just like the last three or four times I’ve had to cancel on Mom. “I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I know you don’t want to hear excuses, but Gin went missing for an hour at this party, and it was a whole thing that kept me late, and I have work tomorrow, and—”
“I gotcha,” Mom interrupts, and I can hear the effort she’s putting into sounding unbothered, but the tremor in her voice gives her away. She’s sad. Of course she’s sad, and I feel like an asshole for being the reason.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. Not that it means much anymore. We’re well into May, and I haven’t visited since Christmas.
Mom is quick to change topics, and it’s a relief. She peppers me with questions about the engagement party, then about the wedding once I tell her I’m a bridesmaid. It’s not long before what’s left of my social battery flashes red.
“I should let you go,” I tell her. “I’m just about home.” It’s as true as I need it to be.
“All right, well, text me when you get there so I know you’re safe,” Mom says. “And please come see us soon, okay?”
“For sure,” I choke out, my voice as thin and flimsy as a wet party streamer.Come see us, she said.Us.As in her and Dad. There is nousanymore, but I don’t correct her. It’s not like she could ever forget.
I’m about to say goodbye when Mom tacks on, “And when you have a minute, we need to carve out some time to get out to Galena.”
It takes all my self-control not to slam on the brakes. “So there’s an update on the house?”
“Sort of.” Mom coughs.
“Well?”
“Well, I was going to tell you this over dinner, but The Handful is planning a memorial concert at the Galena Playhouse for your father’s Gone Day.”
That’s the term Mom and I went with for our new least favorite holiday. I personally likeddeathiversary, and I think Dad would have, too. I can almost hear his gruff, booming voice, arguing,I’m not just gone, you idiots! I’m dead!
