There are many things I resent about that sentiment; not the least is the implication that I’m a helpless creature that she’s coddled for years. I’d say I raised myself, but that would be unfair to the Garcias. When I got strep throat, it was Sue who noticed the gook on my tonsils and took me to the pediatrician for antibiotics. When I got my period, it was Sue who bought me pads. Tricia had just waved to the tampons in the medicine cabinet “for when the time comes,” not seeming to understand how terrifying the thought of inserting anything supersize absorbency might be to a twelve-year-old. As for the fifty hours of driving practice I needed to get my driver’s license, Tricia logged all of three of them. Joe did the remaining forty-seven, spending countless Sunday afternoons in the car with me and Meg.
“I might be here a few more days,” I say. “Can you cover me at Ms. Mason’s on Monday? There’s forty bucks in it for you.”
“Sure.” Tricia jumps at the money. She doesn’t ask me why I’m delayed or when I’ll be home.
I call the Garcias next. It’s a little trickier with them because if I mention the kittens, they’ll offer to take them in, even though the way Samson is around cats, it would be a disaster. I tell Sue I need a day or two longer to tie up a few of Meg’s loose ends. She sounds relieved, doesn’t ask any more questions. Just tells me to take as much time as I need. I’m about to hang up. Then she says:
“And, Cody . . .”
I hate those And, Codys. It’s like a gun being cocked. Like they’re about to tell me they know everything. “Yeah?”
There’s a long pause on the phone. My heart starts to pound.
“Thank you,” is all Sue says.
x x x
Inside, I ask Alice about the best way to find homes for the kittens. Good homes. “You could put an ad on Craigslist, but I heard sometimes those animals wind up in research labs.”
“Not helpful.”
“Well, we could put up flyers. Everyone likes pictures of kittens.”
I sigh. “Fine. How should we do that?”
“Easiest to take a picture of the cats, maybe email it to yourself, add some text, and print them out. . . .” she begins. “It might be simpler to use Meg’s laptop; it has a built-in camera.”
The eighteen-hundred-dollar computer her parents got her when she left for college. They’re still paying off the credit card bill for that.
I go up to her room and find the computer in one of the boxes. I turn it on. It’s password protected, but I put in Runtmeyer, and her desktop pops up. I bring the computer downstairs while Alice poses the cats together, which is harder than you’d think, and I understand where the expression “herding kittens” comes from. Finally, I snap a picture. Alice quickly uses the desktop publishing function to make up a flyer, and I take the thing back to Meg’s printer to print out a test copy.
I’m about to shut down her computer when I stop. Her email program is right there, right at the toolbar on the bottom, and without even thinking about it, I click it open. Immediately, a bunch of new mail downloads—junk, mostly, crap from anonymous people who don’t know she’s dead, though there are one or two Meg, We Miss You emails and one telling her she’s going to rot in hell because suicide is a sin. I delete that one.
I’m curious to know what the last email Meg sent was. Who was it to? Was it the suicide note? As I click over to the sent mail folder, I look around as if someone is watching me. But of course, no one is.