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There must have been thirty people in our house. Everyone was trying to clean, organize, cook, or fix something. It was what I imagine the back kitchen in a restaurant is like: everyone yelling orders, chopping onions, and passing plates.
I walked around with the pace and poise of their leader. I’m calm in that kind of pressurized situation. I like the creativity and camaraderie that’s born of a hard deadline.
Amidst the chaos, the landline rang. My aunt answered, but quickly handed it off to me: “I don’t know what to do with this. It’s a neighbor or something.”
“Hello?” I asked.
“Oh hey, Katie,” said a raspy voice from the other end. I knew, based on the raspiness, exactly who it was. Not many people have that cigarette-induced rasp anymore. Plus, she called me Katie, and only people who’ve known me my whole life do that.
“Where’s your mom today?” she asked.
“She died,” I replied matter-of-factly.
She was quiet for a moment and then came out a bunch of jumbled questions and thoughts: “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Whatwhenwherewhohow? I had no idea. It’s just that… I’m in town and wanted to see if she wanted to have lunch. Oh my gosh.”
