Page 26 of Living with Death

“How else did you think you got there?”

“Honestly, I haven't had time to think about it.”

He sits back on the couch and lifts his tie, making it lie straight. He's still in his suit from last night.

“Do you take showers?”

He laughs. “I suppose I need to.”

“I mean, I wasn't saying you smelled or anything. I was just curious.”

He nods. “Understood, and yes, a shower would be nice. A bucket list experience.”

“Your bucket list is going to be much simpler than mine.”

He laughs. “There's nothing wrong with simple, Mabel. It's important to appreciate little things along with the big.”

“Hmm,” I agree. “There are towels in the bathroom. Um, I don't have any clothes for you to wear unless you want my robe?”

“I can handle that part.” He winks before he exits the living room, and I lean my head back against the couch, running my hands through my still-wet hair. I remove the hair tie and exhale, hearing the water come on upstairs. It's strange hearing the water running while I'm down here. It's something I haven't heard in years.

I look around the living room at the books on the floor and the messy, unorganized bookshelf. If I had died, someone would have had to come in and pack up all my things. They would have seen what a mess I am and that I'm stuck in time.

When Grandpop passed, and his lawyer read the will to Mother and me, I was ecstatic he left me this house. I sigh as I look at the worn carpet.

There's so much I haven't experienced in my life. I look at the photo on the fireplace mantel of my grandpop and me. It's been two years since he passed, and I can still smell him in the air. He smoked cigars, and that was his favorite chair. I stand to grab a pen and paper just as the doorbell rings.

I narrow my eyes, walking up the step before peering around the corner and looking out the glass.

Mother.

Shit.

She rings the doorbell. “I know you're in there, Mabel. Come and open this door.” I look down at my clothes. She'll be sure to say something about them. I look back at the pizza box.

And that.

“Mabel,” she says, ringing the bell again.

“I'm coming,” I say, walking to the door and opening it.

Her face is in a frown, her forehead as smooth as a baby's bottom and unmoving. The red pantsuit she wears doesn't have a single wrinkle and, just like everything else she has, was made to fit only her.

Her eyes drop down my body and then back up, scrutinizing the baggy sweats and t-shirt I got from a book festival one year. It reads,the book was better. And there's a tiny hole at the bottom from too many washes. It's seen better days.

“Jesus, Mabel, you look like a homeless person.” She moves me to the side and walks in.

“Come on in,” I say without enthusiasm. I shut the door with my foot. “Mom, I don't feel like company today.”

“Don't call me company. I'm your mother.” She walks into the living room and immediately goes to the window, yanking the curtain open. Light filters in, and dust particles fly in the air.

She waves her hand in front of her face. “Let me see your head.”

I swat her hand away. “No. It's okay—just a cut.”

She spots the pizza box. “How many slices did you eat?” she says, wide-eyed. She picks up the box and walks toward the kitchen, her red-bottom Jimmy Choos echoing through the hall. She tosses the box into the trash.

“Hey,” I say, taking it out.

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