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  Thomas asks, “Do you love your father now?” I tell Thomas I don’t think so because I am still afraid of him.

  Thomas nods and says, “I know what you mean.”

  I started working at Camelot’s Books two years ago. It’s the only job I’ve ever enjoyed. I don’t make a lot of money, but I never have to pay for books. If anything interesting ever happens to me, I am going to write a book myself. I tell this to Thomas, and he says, “My sister loved books too. You remind me of her.” Thomas tells me that I don’t owe my family anything. Not even a eulogy. He says, “But sometimes you have to be the bigger person.”

  Thomas asks what my mom did for a living and I tell him that she was a photography teacher. He nods and says, “My mom liked to take pictures too.” Then he frowns and says, “Photography was different back then. Everyone used darkrooms.”

  I say, “I used to hide in those darkrooms.” I explain about how whenever I met one of her students they would always tell me how lucky I was to be my mother’s daughter.

  My boyfriend calls, but I don’t answer.

  I find a pen in the glove compartment. It has the word create written all over it. My mother sent it to me last winter. She sent me packages once or twice a year. They were always filled with cheap, ordinary things I could have bought at the drug store. It used to drive me crazy that she spent more on the shipping of a package, than on the items inside.

  I make a list of facts I know about my mother:

  She was smart enough to go to Berkeley. Her father loved her.

  She was weak, but I am stronger.

  I pull into a rest area. My legs are numb and my shoulders ache. I reach into the back of the car where there is an old water bottle. The water tastes like plastic. I pour some of the water onto a sweatshirt, a gift from my sister. It is three sizes too big for me. I use the sweatshirt to wipe the blood from Thomas’ mouth. I tell him that his arms already look better. Thomas is drunk. He says that I should get some sleep. He says, “I am going to walk ‘round, find some pot,” and it all comes out as one long word.

  Even though it is late, I call my boyfriend. He answers, “Where are you? I’ve been calling you.” I explain that Thomas and I are in Colorado. Then my boyfriend asks, “Who the fuck is Thomas?” Thomas reappears. He is rolling a blunt on the dashboard; he says, “Tell lover- boy I say ‘howdy’.”

  I confess to my boyfriend that I am not very good at dealing with death. He tells me everything will be ok. I want him to offer to meet me in California. I ask, “Will you meet me in California?” He says that he has school and work and that plane tickets are expensive. He reminds me that he has never even been outside of New York. He asks, “Isn’t it like a thousand dollars to fly to Cali?”

  I cover the phone and asks Thomas, “Don’t you hate it when New Yorkers say ‘Cali’?” I remember that I already have a plane ticket. I say, “You can try to redeem my ticket, change the date.”

  He says, “You aren’t allowed to do that.” “You could try,” I say.

  “It won’t work–”

  “Ok,” I say. “Forget it.” I hang up and silence my phone when he calls back.

  I need air. Outside, I pace. I say, “He’s not dead, she’s not dead.” Thomas joins in. We say, “He’s not dead, she’s not dead.”

  Once we are back in the car, Thomas says, “That guy seems like a dick.” Then he lights up a joint and we merge onto a different highway. As the sun rises, I think only of the Pacific Ocean, of the light on the water, of the sound of waves crashing over my feet. I remember kayaking on the ocean with my father and his friend. I was young, nine or ten. On top of the waves, my father told me that we were going to roll the kayak. He said that while we were under the water, I couldn’t let go of him. He said that I had to make him proud, that I would be in trouble if I embarrassed him in front of his friend. He said that my sister was too afraid to roll the kayak, but I was different, I was brave. Once we got under the water, Dad kept flailing around.

  He tried to push me off of him, but my legs were locked around his chest. He was testing me, and I wouldn’t let go. My lungs burned. I told myself that I just needed to hang on ten more seconds, ten more seconds. I thought I could hear Dad’s voice under the waves. Then someone was under the waves with us, and even though I fought them, arms pulled me away. The arms were too strong; they pulled me into the air and held me above the water. I thought that Dad would be furious that I had let go, but once he rolled the kayak back up, Dad looked afraid. His friend asked him what had happened. Dad said he wasn’t strong enough to roll us up, that he couldn’t breathe, that he didn’t know how I could hold my breath so long. I told him that I was only doing what he said to do, that I didn’t have a choice, that I knew he was testing me.

  Thomas and I pull into an empty parking lot. We sleep and sleep and sleep. When I wake, the sun is low and bright in a New Mexico sky.

  When I was younger, fifteen, sixteen, I told my mother that I wanted to be a writer. I thought she would laugh, but she didn’t. My sister and Dad were out to a movie. It was quiet, peaceful inside the house. Mom said, “You could be good at that.” When I asked her why she felt that way, she smiled. She said, “I know you’re always telling stories in your head.” She surprised me. I asked her if she thought my sister could be a writer and she said, “Not in the same way.” I wanted her to talk more about who she thought I could be, but then my dad and sister came home. Dad was mad that we hadn’t made enough dinner for him, that we hadn’t thought to turn on the porch light, that the pesto had been left on the counter, that he always had to clean up after us.

  When I woke up the next morning, Mom had already left for work. Dad was singing in the kitchen, banging pots around. I got up, tiptoed down the hall, washed my face. A neatly wrapped present lay on the bathroom counter. It was addressed to me. I stuffed it into my robe pocket, and rushed back to bed. Under the covers, I unwrapped a small, leather notebook. There was an inscription that read: to a writer, love your mother. I never wrote anything in it. I could never think of anything good enough.

  A couple of miles before the Arizona border, Thomas tells me to pull to the side of the road. He gets out of the car and winks at me. He says he will meet me on the other side of the border. A customs officer asks me if I am carrying any fruit or illegal substances. I am afraid he will smell the liquor, but he doesn’t say anything but, “You look like you need sleep,” then he explains about how it is dangerous to drive sleep-deprived. He says, “There is a pretty good, cheap motel down the road.” I tell him I am on my way to my mother’s funeral and there isn’t time to stop.

  I call my boyfriend again, but he doesn’t answer. In a voicemail, I tell him I am sorry I lost my temper, that I haven’t been myself since my mother died.

  Before I can merge back onto the freeway, Thomas appears on the side of the road. He has his thumb pointed upwards, like he is hitchhiking. I pick him up. He laughs. I laugh, but I feel empty afterwards.

  My father calls and asks where I am. He says the funeral is in ten hours. I tell him I am in Arizona and I will be there in time. When he asks me how the eulogy is coming, Thomas rolls his eyes.

  I consider several different first lines for my mother’s eulogy: My mother was always seeking out quiet moments.

  My mother never hurt anybody on purpose.

  I wish I could have known my mother better.

  Thomas says that none of those lines are any good, that I might as well begin with, “My mother was a spineless bitch.” Then he asks to hear a story about her. He says, “It might help.”

  I tell Thomas about how Mom loved this Blue Jay that used to come into our yard. “She’d take her coffee out into the backyard and sometimes I’d eat breakfast with her. She trained the Blue Jay to eat out of her hand. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. I named him James, and my mother called him that too.” Thomas is quiet. “Once my dad figured out what she was doing with James, he built a birdhouse, and
a feeder too. But the birdhouse was too big. A couple of crows built a nest inside and James wouldn’t visit Mom anymore. She tried to take the birdhouse down, but Dad wouldn’t let her. James never came back. Even though I kept eating my breakfast outside, Mom ate inside. She said it was too cold, that she’d wait for the birds to return.”

  My mother’s funeral starts in four hours. I will be at the synagogue in three. When I call my sister, I warn Thomas not to say a thing. My sister is laughing when she answers. She says, “Daddy and I are drinking. Have you written the eulogy, or what?” She says that if I want to borrow one of her dresses I have to give her forty dollars as a deposit and because I am always spilling things on myself, this is a reasonable request. Thomas rolls his eyes. Then he throws up both his middle fingers.

  I stop at a mall and look for something to wear. When I ask Thomas if he wants to come in, he says only if I buy him a soda and something to eat. I get out of the car. I feel dizzy. I have to sit back down and stretch my legs out into the cool air.

  I wash my hands and face in a department store bathroom. When an older woman sneers at me, I flip her off. The woman looks hurt. She scurries away before I can apologize. I want to tell her that I haven’t been myself since my mother died.

  I shop at a boutique that smells like lavender. A young girl asks me if I need any help. I tell her I am looking for a black dress to wear to my mother’s funeral. She says she is sorry, since it is spring they don’t have many black dresses. The only one they have costs four hundred dollars. Thomas mouths, “four hundred dollars.” I promise him that I will return it after the funeral. The dress is velour and it feels soft on my skin. I ask the salesgirl if I can wear it out of the store. She looks at me oddly, but she says she doesn’t see why I couldn’t. After we leave, Thomas says I look beautiful. He says I will be the best-dressed girl at the party. “Funeral,” I correct him.

  Note

  Distributed with all rights and permissions required. All rights reserved.

  The End

  A story by Samuel S. Crawford.