Still Breathing

FBI Anti-Piracy Warning:

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Copyright © 2018 by Eugene A. Fournier

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author,

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-947392-30-4 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-947392-31-1 (hardcover)

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Cover Design by Damonza

Digital Formatting and Interior Design by Damonza

First Edition, November 2018

Table of Contents

Also by E. A. Fournier

ONE: Leaving Hospice

TWO: Back to Normal

THREE: A Guest Speaker

FOUR: Seeking Advice

FIVE: Getting Ready

SIX: Setting Out

SEVEN: Change of Plan

EIGHT: First Impressions

NINE: A New World

TEN: Finding Safe Haven

ELEVEN: Nothing as It Seems

TWELVE: Something Missing

THIRTEEN: Starting Over

FOURTEEN: Owino Market

FIFTEEN: The Muyaye

SIXTEEN: Learning to Cook

SEVENTEEN: Something Old, Something New

EIGHTEEN: Doctors without Borders

NINETEEN: A Question of Copper

TWENTY: Library Fees

TWENTY-ONE: Work like Americans

TWENTY-TWO: Transfer of Funds

TWENTY-THREE: Bribes for Books

TWENTY-FOUR: Church is Church

TWENTY-FIVE: Lunch at the Boys’ House

TWENTY-SIX: A Load of Books

TWENTY-SEVEN: Following Clues

TWENTY-EIGHT: Boarding Student

TWENTY-NINE: Uncle Swoosh Hat

THIRTY: Looking Deeper

THIRTY-ONE: On The Run

THIRTY-TWO: The Boy on the Bus

THIRTY-THREE: New Tribe

THIRTY-FOUR: Putting Down Roots

THIRTY-FIVE: Such Sweet Sorrow

THIRTY-SIX: Returning to Go

Author’s Note

Also by E. A. Fournier

Now & Again

To Jane, my beautiful and long-suffering wife.

To Diana, my lovely Ugandan daughter-in-law.

A new broom sweeps better,

but the old one knows all the corners.

a saying claimed by many countries

ONE

Leaving Hospice

The dying room was cheerful. Long ribbons of morning light poured through the east facing windows and painted a glowing pattern of blinds across the floor. Lizzie eyed the dust motes slowly turning in the sunbeams. That hopeful, inquisitive sun was sniffing around again, and this time Lizzie felt as if it mocked her. She liked it, anyway. For her, the sun could do no wrong. She had loved its feel on her skin all her life, but her husband liked the seasons and the shade and the snow. So here in the Midwest was where they’d ended up, and here they’d stayed. Nothing to be done about it now.

Lizzie stretched and drew in a breath. Her back ached from the extra weight it supported, and no chair ever felt comfortable for long. Her eyes slid across the pastel walls where numerous photos of smiling adults and children topped kids’ drawings and get-well cards. The effect proved to be a friendly visual chaos of good wishes and bright lives, all within easy eyesight of the occupied hospital bed. Turning her attention there, she studied the bed sheet and followed its steady rhythm as it rose and fell. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Jonathan Warton reclined on his back, his head propped up by pillows. Pale and gaunt, his lined face looked as if it needed glasses to complete it. Small indents at the top of his narrow nose told the same story, but his lids remained closed and even the eyes beneath them seemed still. His arms lay slack atop the sheet. If he was awake, she saw no sign of it except for the tuneless humming that came from behind his lips. It started months ago without preamble, seldom ceasing since. It varied in pitch and timing. Not a tune exactly, at least not one she recognized. His lips played no part in it. It was just an internal humming.

What did it mean? Why did he do it? Did he even know he was doing it? No one had an answer, the doctors as puzzled as anyone else. There was so much in all of this that no one seemed to know. Jon used to like to hum when he was busy, or happy, or both, she thought, but not like this, never like this.

Outside the room, spring was very busy about itself. The lively repetitive songs of cardinals and chickadees followed one another through an arbor. April was a lovely month in Eden Prairie, a time when the snow was finally gone and the ravenous mosquitoes still slept in their sanctuaries. That’s what Jonathan used to say, and she remembered it. She remembered a lot of things – silly things, sad things, unforgettable moments that only the two of them were there for, but he didn’t. He didn’t remember any of it, not any longer.

Elizabeth Warton kept her quiet vigil seated beside her husband. She watched and waited. He breathed and hummed. She suddenly pictured the two of them side-by-side on a counter, an impaired set of salt and pepper shakers. She snorted, wondering which was which and if she, too, was losing her mind. Not a cheerful thought.

Everything okay?

Lizzie looked up at the kind face of a hospice nurse, who had just peeked in the open door to check the room. Lizzie nodded, smiling wearily back to her.

The nurse stepped into the room and gazed quietly at the bed. She listened to Jon’s humming, tipping her head slightly as if about to offer a translation, and then reconsidered. She folded her arms in a companionable way beneath her draped sweater and looked back at Lizzie once again.

Can I get you anything? Tea? Juice?

No. We’re fine. Thanks.

You’re sure? It’s no trouble. Her face was open, her voice soft.

Lizzie shook her head.

The nurse looked around, puzzled. Where’d the kids go? I thought they were still here.

Out for breakfast. The little ones were hungry. They’ll be back soon. They needed to let off some steam.

The nurse smiled and nodded. If you change your mind, just let me know. Any of us. Whatever you need. Okay?

Okay.

The nurse left. Lizzie watched her go until the doorway was empty again. She blinked and let her mind settle on the vacancy of the hall. She ran her fingers through her hair, then yawned while rotating her neck slightly left and then right to relieve the pressure that so often perched at the top of her spine. Jonathan once helped with that. His strong fingers knew just where to push and how hard to squeeze to force out the tightness. She never needed to ask. He just knew – and soon she would be without him. What would she do? His care had occupied all her space for a long time. She would soon get all of it back again. What then? What would she do then? Who would she be without him?

It was hard enough that the disease had robbed her of his mind, cell by cell, but now it would claim his body and his soul, as well. She’d thought herself prepared. She’d had years to get ready, she told herself, and so what was new? She shrugged. Nothing. It would just be the end, and endings always felt new.

She abruptly noticed a change in the room. The humming had stopped. She realized she didn’t know when it had stopped or how long the room had been silent.

Jonathan calmly sat straight up in bed, supporting himself without the pillows. He squinted at the walls and the photos, and then he slowly tracked the sunlight across the floor, up to his wife’s familiar face.

Lizzie? His question seemed to come from far away.

Here, she said, her voice more a breath than a sound. She cleared her throat and tried again. I’m right here.

He blinked and focused harder. Where am I? Is this home? He swallowed as he peered deeper into the room. This isn’t home.

Do you know me?

What? His forehead furrowed for a moment. Yes…of course. But Lizzie I…I don’t know where I am.

Lizzie pushed up cautiously from the chair and moved closer to the bed. She found herself stepping on tiptoes, as if to avoid shattering a spell. You’re in a hospice center.

Hospice? He looked suddenly reflective. He repeated the word carefully, tasting the meaning. Hospice.

Lizzie stood awkwardly beside the bed. Yes.

Jonathan gently rotated his hands and studied them. He moved his legs under the covers, watching the interplay of sunlight and shadows across the sheets. Smiling to himself, he canted his head to look at her. You’re kidding?

No.

He rubbed briskly at his eyes and sniffed. Why?

Because the doctor says you’re…dying.

Jonathan looked suddenly forlorn, his hands settling on his cheeks. Am I?

"Yes. Jon, you are dying. Really. She sighed, You have been for a while."

He blinked slowly, watching her face for more clues. What from?

Alzheimer’s.

Oh… Recognition rose in his face. His hands sank back to his lap. That’s why…

Why?

…the pieces are all messed up. He smiled sadly. And there’s so much missing. He took a little breath and let the air hiss back out. I remember why now. I remember why I don’t remember.

They shared an ironic smile as Lizzie wrapped his hand around one of hers.

Jonathan slowly scanned the lovely room. How’d we end up here?

Long story. Are you back?

He thought about that; he stared inside for an extended moment before replying. I guess. For now.

She sat on the edge of the bed and held his hand. She was afraid to do anything sudden. This felt like a moment outside time’s normal flow. They were together again – salt and pepper, good to go. No need for words. They just rested together until Jonathan showed signs of reawakened fretfulness.

She studied him. Do you need anything?

He shook his head and then frowned. Sorry.

Liz smiled. For what?

His words came slowly. For being such a…drag. On you.

How do you feel?

You’re changing the subject. He smirked, I know your tricks.

She waved a hand toward the other end of the room. The kids were just here. They’ll be back. Some were here all night. She patted his hand. Can you stay?

A feather of panic brushed his face. Don’t know. His eyes turned inward as he struggled to hold onto his thoughts. He licked his lips with the effort. His knees rose as his legs pulled tighter to his body. Coming apart. The faces are…sliding. Everything is sliding…

Lizzie captured his other hand and held firmly to both of them. She leaned in close to his face. Stay with me!

Trying…but – Lizzie, do something.

I can’t make it stop. I…

Not what I mean. His hands trembled.

Lizzie was distraught. What, then? Do what?

I mean…I’m dying. I know that…that’s all back. His voice sounded rushed, frantic, his disjointed thoughts tumbling together. Not talkin’ about me, talkin’ about you! Something that matters to you. Do it!

The muscles in his neck stood out in cords; he raced to stay a step ahead of the disease. You did what I wanted. Never what you wanted. Sorry. His voice turned shrill and pleading. I was always in your way. Always… Only thing clear in…

Lizzie felt shaken by his outburst. Shhh! Jon, it’s okay…

Don’t shush! He leaned closer, desperate, his forehead shining. Do something big… An incongruous grin tickled the edges of his lips. Without worrying about…anyone else.

She stroked his cheek now, trying to soothe him. Stop it. You’re working yourself up for no reason. Calm down. The kids should be back any time, Jon. Stay with us?

He squeezed her hand and pulled it tightly against his face. His eyes filled with alarm. For once, Liz. Just for this once…

Jon…

He lost her hand as his grip relaxed and his shoulders betrayed him back into the pillows. His face sagged. The little hills in the sheets sank as his legs slid flat. He’d run his race; he’d won the moment, but he’d sacrificed all of his reserves. Nothing left. His drained voice held no colors anymore. One by one and…one…

Jonathan’s arms dropped to his sides and his eyes closed.

Jon, are you still… The tuneless hum without the words returned. Lizzie let her question trail off unfinished. Her eyes brimmed with angry tears. It’s not fair! It’s just not. None of it! She brushed the hair off his forehead and let her tears go. You dear, dear man.

Jonathan’s face remained blank as he continued his tuneless humming.

Lizzie sat back down in her chair. Her spine ached. The muscles in her neck were tight. She dug out a crumpled Kleenex from a hidden pocket and wiped at her eyes and nose. I’m so sorry the kids weren’t here. Oh, Jonathan…

Suddenly, boisterous from breakfast, the rest of the Warton family could be heard in the distance trooping down the hospice hall. Adult voices shushed the children to keep the laughter and noise suppressed as they neared the door.

Joanie, the eldest daughter at thirty-three, paused at the threshold and peered in, catching her mother’s eye with a question. Lizzie sniffed quickly, stuffing the tissue away, and rolled her shoulders, as if to confirm that nothing had changed. Joanie’s husband appeared beside her in the doorway. He smiled gently at Lizzie. The bright faces of their two elementary schoolers appeared on either side of Joanie as they squeezed by their parents and waved brightly at Grandma.

The rest of the family poured through the door, sweeping Joanie and her husband in along with them. Twenty-eight-year-old David, Lizzie and Jon’s only son, entered with his dark haired wife and their giggling preschooler. Just behind them came twenty-six-year-old Cecelia, the Warton’s youngest daughter. She made buzzing noises as her fingers swarmed over David’s young son, causing the boy to hop and howl in high-pitched glee. Cecelia’s wiggling hands pursued him, relentless in their attack.

David glared at his sister. For God’s sake, Celia, leave off, will ya? I’m about to lose my mind.

Cecelia stopped and glanced up, grinning at her big brother. Okay, okay. Just havin’ a little fun. Ya know it’s fine with Ma. And Dad sure doesn’t care.

David never wavered. Well, it’s not fine with me. Alright? So, cut it out!

Cecelia swept the little boy up into her arms and patted him on the rump. No more for now, buddy. Daddy says he’s going craaaazy. She rolled her big eyes at David.

David tossed her a sour look, but he bit back any reply. His wife gave him a soft but solid nudge with her hip.

Joanie settled her kids onto a small couch by the windows and then looked back with concern at her mother. Lizzie still hadn’t moved from her chair beside the bed.

You okay, Mom?

I’m fine, dear. She took a breath, stood and bustled about the room, patting heads and smoothing collars. So, how was the big breakfast?

Joanie wrinkled her brow. No. You don’t look okay. You look different, somehow. What’s up?

Alerted, David moved to the foot of the bed and stared with concern at his dad. Did something happen to him, Mom?

He glanced accusingly at Joanie. I knew one of us shoulda stayed. Didn’t I say that? Didn’t I?

He moved closer to his mother. Is Dad okay? Should we call the nurse?

Lizzie deftly patted David’s back. Now, now. Relax, will you?

She stepped to the bed to smooth Jon’s covers near the railing, then sat back down. She faced her family and placed her hands firmly in her lap, one over the other. No. Nothing happened. I was just thinking about the past, that’s all.

She paused to let the apparent truth of her words sink in. Just memories, lots of memories. Her voice grew ever firmer as she talked. I’m glad you went to breakfast. All of you together. Don’t worry about me. And stop imagining things. Everything is the same. It’s just – just the same.

She patted her hands firmly against her knees and smiled widely. Now, Will and Sandy, and Tomlin, I want to hear all about your breakfast. Come over here and tell Grandma everything that happened. Okay?

The children eagerly gathered around her and began to pour out their food stories, each interrupting the other, and all of them trying to be first.

Lizzie sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup in the church gathering hall. She watched the long lines of friends and family working their way through the post-funeral buffet. She smiled to herself and thought again of her friend Ruth, who loved any church gathering that involved food. Ruth would stand next to her in line, her plate filled with samples of everything offered, and shake her head. One of these days, it’s gonna be macaroni salad and red jello over us, you know. Then she’d laugh and smile indulgently down at her plate. But not today!

Lizzie heard a familiar voice call her name. She glanced into the dining area. George, her youngest brother, stood up from a folding chair and waved her over to a table full of relatives. Balding on top, shining with perspiration, and also in his sixties, he shared her size but didn’t carry it as well. In fact, he seemed to be limping.

Lizzie, Lizzie, I’m so damn sorry about all this. He gave her a side hug and tapped her shoulder as he spoke. Poor old Jon. It’s been such a long haul for him, but that’s just the way it is. He smiled sadly at Lizzie. Lose this, forget that, and pretty soon…know what I mean? You and me, we’re at the wrong end of the hill, and that’s for sure.

George dropped back into his chair with a thump and a heavy wheeze. Lizzie smiled tolerantly down at him and planted a motherly kiss on his forehead. Speak for yourself, George.

Yeah, yeah, okay. Just wanted to tell you that you and the kids did a great job. He squeezed her hand. Really. Strictly first class.

He looked around the table at the familiar faces. Didn’t we all say that? We were just sittin’ here talkin’ about that. Everyone nodded and agreed. George looked back at his sister. Jon woulda been so proud.

Lizzie nodded. I hope so.

Jon’s funeral had been crowded and touching, with plenty of flowers and a eulogy filled with humor and good words. Oh, there had been plenty of tears, and difficult moments, too, but plenty more of laughter and grins. The kids had pulled together and stayed up very late to help Lizzie sort and choose the photos. The grandkids fell asleep on couches in the living room, or with their little legs spread wide across cushions laid out on the rug. Joanie, David and Cecelia ate sandwiches and cookies at 3 a.m. at the dining room table. Lizzie had gently pushed aside the piles of pictures to make room for the food.

There was so much to recall and cherish, so much forgotten and now remembered, and each memory linked to other memories and other times. How could they leave any photo out? In the end, eight large display boards held all of the images. At the crowded wake the family groups would clump in front of certain memorable photos. The old tales would be retold and friends would join, attracted by the noise, to add their versions, and the old stories would change and expand with fresh bits and new pieces, and suddenly, for a moment, Lizzie sensed Jon standing among them, chiming in. She actually turned once, half expecting to see him. The irony wasn’t lost on her: the fact that these shared memories, so healing and so powerful for a grieving family, represented the very things denied Jon by the plaques and tangles of that hideous disease.

Through it all, Lizzie made sure everything went the way Jon would have wanted. I don’t want people checking me out and saying stupid things. His casket stayed closed. There was a violin duet in the middle of the funeral service called Ashokan Farewell, because it was his favorite. As the draped casket was smoothly pushed down the aisle towards the hearse, the choir sang On Eagles’ Wings, because Jon had maintained that it was the best damn hymn ever written.

In short, it was a good goodbye, in exactly the style he said he wanted, but in the end, Jon remained gone and Lizzie alone. Nothing unusual about that, she consoled herself. Most women outlived their men, so what else was new?

She didn’t miss the Jon of the disease, and she felt thankful to see him released. However, she bitterly missed the Jon of before the disease, but that agony had transitioned into a familiar ache many years before he took his last breath. She didn’t feel like a new widow now. Instead, she felt like a seasoned widow wearing someone else’s black dress.

Still, funerals celebrated the past, and while Lizzie valued the memories, she felt as if she had lived on the fumes of their history for the last decade. She didn’t want to live there any longer. Somewhere during Pastor Anderson’s eulogy she gave herself permission to recall Jon’s surprising outburst in the hospice room, and to consider her present and her future. She felt a twinge of guilt to be doing this now, during his service, but the present was the present, she reasoned, and she might as well get used to living in it again. So, Lizzie sat with quiet eyes in the front pew, surrounded by family and friends, properly somber, dressed in black, but with a mind brightly straining against the harness that had long been fastened around her shoulders. An oddly delicious struggle, to be sure, and not one she could have easily explained. She cautiously banished all signs of it from her face while she appeared to attend to her kind pastor’s labored words meant to honor Jon and to comfort her.

TWO

Back to Normal

The center of Lizzie’s Cherrywood dining room table usually contained a delicate Havilland soup tureen with pink and blue floral patterns, and flanked by a pair of brass colonial candlesticks, but not this morning. This morning they were shoved aside, the premium spaces occupied by stacks of investment reports, social security letters, medical insurance documents, filed tax statements, life insurance papers, trust documents and mortgage records, along with all the other typical monthly invoices. Lizzie herself perched on one of the dining room chairs at the mid-point on the long side of the table. She busily jotted notations onto a legal pad and occasionally keyed numbers into a sleek digital calculator. The sounds of Cecelia upstairs pulling her wheeled suitcase across the second floor hallway caused Lizzie to leave her work in a rush.

When she reached the main floor landing, she watched her youngest daughter muscle her hefty suitcase down the stairs. Cecelia grunted on each step, her oversized carry-on bag slapping against her other side.

Lizzie frowned up at her. Let me help. You’re gonna hurt yourself.

I’m fine, Ma. Really, she gasped. Just stay where you are. I’ve got bigger triceps than you think.

You’re just like your brother. You always have to do everything in one trip.

Cecelia reached the main floor and worked her way around her mother. Still refusing help, she proceeded down the additional steps to the foyer, finally parking the suitcase next to the door. She huffed out a breath with a smile and shook her head. "If there’s one thing I certainly am not, and never will be, it’s like my brother."

Lizzie frowned. When will you two stop picking at each other? He’s the only brother you have, and here he is kind enough to leave work and take you to the airport.

Yeah, what a guy. Cecelia shed the carry-on bag and dropped it next to her suitcase. Any coffee still hot?

Always. Lizzie went back through the dining room to the kitchen and began to pull out a mug. Her voice carried some chiding. I thought we were having breakfast together?

Cecelia’s response drifted in from the front of the house as she moved toward the kitchen. Um, we were but, I just…I just got behind with the packing and I…okay, I overslept but…look, I just need some coffee’s all. Nothin’ special. The voice seemed to pause in the dining room. Mom, what’s all this?

Lizzie poured the coffee. What?

This on the table.

Lizzie brought the mug to the entry way into the dining room. Cecelia was studying the paperwork stacks and lifting a few of the pieces to read the headings.

These aren’t just bills; I mean, there are bills, but a lot of these look like investments, assessments, insurance…taxes. Mom, why are you looking at all this now?

Here’s your coffee. Are you still pretending to like it black?

What’s goin’ on?

Lizzie handed her the steaming mug and smiled with just her lips.

Cecelia stared at her, waiting. Mom? She took a tiny sip from the hot coffee and nodded at her. C’mon.

Lizzie retreated back into her kitchen. I don’t exactly know yet. Maybe nothing.

Cecelia followed right behind her. Is there something you’re not telling us?

Lizzie busied herself at the sink. Oh, stop it. It’s nothing like that.

What is it like then?

David suddenly called from the front door. Hello? Airport taxi anyone?

Lizzie stepped around Cecelia to answer him. Hello, David! We’re here in the kitchen. Bags are by the door. She bustled to the foyer to greet David, relieved for his interruption. Let’s go, Cece. Bring your coffee.

In the foyer, Lizzie kissed her son on the cheek. I told you, you didn’t need to do this – leaving work and everything. It’s silly. I’m perfectly capable of running people to the airport. Done it for years.

David grabbed all the luggage at once and backed out the door. Don’t worry about it. This’s what sons are for. He disappeared outside, his voice carrying back from the driveway. Dad would have expected me to help.

Cecelia stepped into the foyer, still sipping her coffee but now rolling her eyes.

Lizzie caught the look. Behave! He’s just being kind – in his own klutzy way. She rewarded her daughter with a tiny eye roll of her own.

Cecelia nodded, took a breath and slowly let it out. Her mother slipped into a light jacket and pulled it straight. Do you have your phone?

Cecelia patted her purse and scowled.

Lizzie gathered her own purse. Ticket?

Cecelia slapped her purse again and curled her lip. In the phone!

License?

You know, we don’t have to go through all this.

Wallet?

Mom. I’m not eighteen!

Just making sure.

Thanks. Now, stop.

What about…?

Cecelia growled in annoyance. Mom!

Lizzie grinned and pinched her cheek, Oh, you’ve always been such an easy tease! She breezed by her daughter, still chuckling. And now get ready for David to ask you the same questions once you’re in the car. Be nice!

Cecelia snorted and steeled herself for the ride to the airport.

David merged from Highway 5 onto east 494 and settled into the middle lane as he headed for the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. He looked over at his sister in the front passenger seat. Which airline?

Cecelia paused to think.

Lizzie immediately chimed in from the back seat. It’s Delta. Her plane doesn’t have a gate assigned yet but her flight number is 2214. It’s a non-stop to LaGuardia.

David nodded. Okay. Delta.

He glanced at Cece. Still not buying your own tickets, huh?

Cece glowered. What’s your problem?

What? I’m just trying to figure out which terminal I need to head to. Delta leaves from Terminal 1, so that’s Lindbergh.

Yeah, right. What’s it to you who’s payin’ for my flight?

Doesn’t matter. David calmly checked his driver’s side mirror. Just an observation.

Cecelia jammed her coffee mug into the holder. Well, next time how about not observing out loud, okay?

Lizzie calmly inserted herself. Cece, I’m sorry I spouted off from back here, but let it go. And David, if I choose to pay for something, I don’t need you to second guess me.

David clamped his mouth shut. Cecelia sat quietly looking forward. The car tires hummed.

Cecelia turned in her seat to look back at her mother. You gonna be okay?

I’ll be fine, dear. Don’t worry about it.

David perked up. He flicked his eyes at his sister. What’s up? Why wouldn’t she be fine?

Financially. Mom was…I mean – back at the house – I don’t know, she was looking at finances. It was spread all over the table.

Cece, please… Lizzie’s voice sounded tired.

David scrunched up his face. Are you kidding? You’re worried about Mom? She’s got the house, Dad’s life insurance, his social security, his pension – she’s on easy street! You’re the one we’re all worried about.

David! Lizzie’s voice flared from the back.

Cecelia glared at him. Me? I’m okay. I’m busy.

Right. Busy. I’m sure. More gigs for charity? Easy to stay busy when you’re giving it away.

Lizzie tapped on David’s headrest. Stop it. Now.

Cecelia snapped back at her brother, "Maybe my life’s not about money."

Oh, and mine is?

Didn’t say that.

Lizzie tried again. Can we move on now, you two?

But maybe that’s what I shoulda said.

Lizzie was shocked. Cecelia!

David angrily changed lanes. You’re so busy! I’m surprised you could tear yourself away long enough to come home for Dad. He checked his mirrors again and then glared at his sister. You haven’t exactly been a regular show-up.

Cecelia’s anger suddenly turned inside out, then gave way to guilt. That’s not fair! I wanted to come more…but…well, I—

Oh yeah. The struggling artist, right? But what do I know? I’m just another workin’ stiff puttin’ in my time.

Lizzie slapped both front seats with her hands. Stop it! Both of you! I don’t need this on top of everything else. We’ve just buried your father! Show some respect.

The inside of the car became abruptly quiet. Everyone became painfully aware of the swish of air rushing over the windshield. Seams in the pavement clicked loudly as the tires passed over them.

Lizzie stared at the back of David’s head, sensing his growing discomfort. She knew what was coming next and felt the same ham-fisted awkwardness creep over her that had plagued her while raising him. He was the only son and like the first pancake on the griddle, she knew he hadn’t come out perfect.

David exhaled loudly. Sorry! Okay? I’m sorry. He waggled his head back and forth. Same old, same old. Me and my big mouth. Stupid! I’m an idiot. What can I say? Okay?

No one replied. Ahead, the freeway sign for Airport Terminal 1 appeared and flowed by the car. David signaled for a lane change and prepared for the upcoming exit.

So, Cece, I know you’re leaving, but I was thinking, why not consider moving back home? The way things are now, sounds like Mom can sure use the help to keep organized and to get around, and then you could find a real job and—

Both women cut him off, talking on top of each other.

Lizzie was livid. Get around? What do you think I am, an invalid?

Cecelia erupted, "I have a real job where I am! I have lots of real jobs. They’re just not real jobs to you."

Lizzie continued, on the heels of her daughter, Don’t you get it? It’s easier now, without your Dad. It’s a hell of a lot easier than it’s ever been for the last ten years with him! Lizzie’s face flushed in shame. The sudden silence in the car took on a new and bleaker tone. Her voice fell to a whisper. That didn’t come out right.

David dutifully pulled into an opening near the Delta drop-off area and popped the trunk. Lizzie and Cecelia slid quickly out on the curbside of the car. David brought the luggage around and set it on the sidewalk beside his sister.

She nodded brightly at him, her face a study in pleasant, but when he made as if to help carry her suitcase farther, she held up a hand and firmly shook her head. No, no, really, I’ve got it from here.

David stood stiffly with his hands dangling until she squeezed his shoulders and pecked his cheek. He wanted to say something but couldn’t seem to find a start. Have a…do you have your phone?

Cecelia barked at him. I’m warnin’ you, do not even start that litany!

Ah…okay. Sorry. Bye. David awkwardly returned to the car.

Cecelia looked at her mother and growled. Lizzie made a tired face and wriggled her eyebrows. Cecelia finally slid an arm through one of Lizzie’s, and linked together, they took a few steps away from the car.

Sorry about your brother, dear.

Yeah, I know. Cecelia tipped her head until it touched her mother’s. "And if I had a dime for every time you’ve said that over the years, I wouldn’t need one of David’s real jobs."

Lizzie’s face softened. He does have a good heart. Just not always a…a good head. Despite herself, Lizzie giggled at the whole pathetic moment. She brought a quick hand to her lips to muzzle anything further but soon realized that she was powerless. Oh, dear!

Once the laughter escaped Lizzie’s mouth, there was no stopping it. Cecelia was quickly overwhelmed as well. Like a surprise flash flood in the desert, all their departure decorum was instantly swept away. Soon both of them were sniggering and coughing, sputtering and trying to talk, stamping their feet, holding onto each other, and all the while dabbing helplessly at streaming eyes. If David saw them, they didn’t know. Neither of them dared to even look his way.

Cecelia was the first to compose herself enough to talk. Next time, I’m takin’ a taxi, and I don’t care what you or anyone else says.

Lizzie fought off a few last hiccups and caught her breath. She produced a tiny Kleenex pack and jerked out a few tissues for each of them. Okay, but you’re paying for your own taxi.

Cecelia nodded as she blew her nose. I insist on it.

Her mother smiled back, content again.

Wrapping her in a tight hug, Cecelia spoke into her ear. Love you so much. Thanks for everything. Promise you’ll talk to me before you let that cat out of the bag.

And what cat might that be?

Cecelia broke the hug and gave her a mocking smile filled with intrigue. I don’t know yet. You refused to tell me, remember?

Lizzie smiled coyly back. Meeeooow! Okay. When I know, I’ll let you know.

Holding hands they strolled back to the waiting baggage. After a final kiss to her