An “I can see when people will die displayed above their heads” story but it is not the time of their death. It’s the order.
Someone new has entered the party, because the gauzy 27 clinging to the tip of Salmon Man’s cowlick has ticked up to 28. Salmon Man smooths his hair down and I wonder if he noticed me staring. Unlikely. He’s too many cranberry mixers in and too deep into his dogecoin pitch to notice what I’m doing. I nod along. I’m happy for him, maybe. Or sad for whoever walked in. I’m not sure Salmon Man deserves the 28. He pets his salmon-pink hair down, and like a magician’s sleight of hand, it reappears 29 as his palm passes through. Another new person has joined the room, not so lucky as Salmon Man with his many years ahead of him to peddle crypto scams.
It’s hard. I keep my smile on my face but it’s hard while Jon dips Cassy into a low kiss and the crowd erupts in cheers. Their numbers cross in the motion – the 15 above Cassy’s veil and the 58 over his head. I’m glad Cassy made the hard decision to pass me over as Maid of Honor. It was either me or her older sister Jess who’d been estranged from her family for years before her diagnosis, which came at the end of June and, for Jess, made some things more important than family squabbles. Jess delivers her speech through happy tears to a reception of 114 guests, and I watch the 2 above her head the entire time.
Cassy has tipped up to 17, because there are more people at the reception than at the ceremony. 17 out of 116 attendants. And the newly emblazoned 61 above Jon sends cold ripples through my veins. He’d yelled at her in the bridal suite just an hour before. He wasn’t allowed in there. But Cassy had messed up seating Jon’s cousins, and he’d grabbed her arm with the accusation. I’d pulled him off and in that bridal suite of 10 people, tears in her mascara, Cassy had worn the 1.
I wonder cold thoughts now. Jon and Cassy kiss.
On my mom’s front porch, the egg timer goes off. She hops to her feet, and Jackson does a little stretch-and-roll while Winston scrabbles up on puppy-feet eager to follow. Mom slides the screen door open and shut, and then open again with a tray of biscuits in hand. I take one, light touches against its radiating heat.
“So, you know I’m going to ask.” “Mom–” There’s a 1 above her head. “Is there anyone–” “No, Mom.” I never factor in. I can’t see my own number. If I’m alone with someone, they’re the 1, and I’m at ease. “Do you remember Donny from high school?” “Donny who got in trouble for huffing glue?” “Donny was baseball captain–” “And he huffed glue–” “And he’s very nice. Still in town. Works at Dave’s Meats.”
I stroke Jackson’s gray fur. He’s warm in the sunlight, and very sweet right now after being an absolute hellion little shit for me getting him in his carrier and driving with him to Mom’s place.
“You really don’t want to meet a nice man…?” Mom asks. “…Or woman? It could–you know–if that’s–”
“No–thank you that’s nice, Mom–but I’m very happy with Jackson being the only man of the house.” Jackson rolls over and shows his bear-trap belly. He has no number. Neither does Winston, with his big puppy paws pressed against Mom’s knee, huffing for biscuit.
There’s still a chair out here for Dad, 20 years out of date. Jackson is happy in it now. But I remember how Dad looked in this chair. His 1 to Mom’s 2. His 1 that followed him. In church. In movie theaters. In grocery stores. At seven years old I didn’t know what the numbers meant. Just that Mom’s got real big in big stores. And Dad’s never would.
I don’t want to meet Donny. I don’t want to fall in love with anyone who might wear the 1 at the grocery story.
Mom shuffles her toes. She takes a bite of her biscuit and tears off a little chunk to throw to Winston. “If you don’t want a man… if you did still want kids, well–” “Mom–” “I’m home all day. I’d babysit all the time. Winston loves kids.” “It’s just not right for me.” “I know you said that. But you might change your mind.”
I won’t, though. Because I can manage like this. I can go to restaurants with Lindsey and Doug, who say treatment is going so very well, and ignore the 4 above his head the whole time. I can visit Bethanne for Thanksgiving and be so very normal when her number is lower than her grandmother’s.
But I haven’t figured out how to be normal when a family boards the subway, baby in arms, wearing a number lower than both parents. It undoes something in me. I hold Jackson a little tighter those nights. I couldn’t bear it, if it was me holding that baby. I couldn’t bear it if I’d made a little thing more important to me than anything else, and found that the 1 above its little head stayed in place when I stepped into the world.
amhrancas 