Just that one word.
“Elena, don’t make this a big thing.”
“I’m not making it a big thing.”
She picked up her purse, set it down, and picked it up again. “I’m just saying that my son would be so glad to know that his wife is choosing to live. David would be so pleased. That’s all I’m saying.”
She kissed Nina’s cheek, smelling like cold cream, garlic, and that Jean Naté body splash that she’d been wearing since 1987, at least according to David.
She was out the back door before Nina could respond, her Honda rattling down the driveway like a one-car noisy parade.
Nina stood there in the kitchen again. The casserole still sat on the counter, warm. The napkin photo still hung on the fridge.
And through the window, the marsh was fully flooded now, the water catching the late morning sun, and a pelican diving for fish.
David used to watch the pelicans for hours. He said they were proof that you did not have to be graceful to be effective.
“Would you look at that,” he would say, pointing at a pelican crashing into the water beak-first. “Absolutely no style at all, but gets that fish every darn time.”
Nina watched the pelican surface with a fish in its pouch, triumphant and ridiculous, and she felt something.
It was small. It was so small she almost missed it. Just a flicker, like a muscle she had forgotten even existed.
It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t happiness. It was the precursor to those things. The ingredients.
She picked up her phone and opened the group chat. Claire had sent a photo that morning of the napkin on her fridge, slightly crooked.
Harper had replied with a single emoji, a pair of eyes, which was Harper’s version of enthusiasm.
Nina typed:
I know what the first adventure is.
Three dots from Claire immediately.
Then Harper:
If it’s bungee jumping, I’m invoking a veto I just invented.
Nina typed:
Karaoke.
A long pause.
Then Claire:
Oh no.
Harper:
Absolutely not.
Nina:
You said no backing out. Rule three. It’s on the napkin.
Harper:
