Page 131 of From Nowhere

“You can do whatever it takes to keep her from worrying about something you don’t know with certainty. Okay?”

I laugh.

Amos squints, drawing together his bushy gray eyebrows.

I laugh some more.

Lola and I will pull up to Maren’s funeral on bicycles. We can set our handlebar lights to flash mode to fit in with the procession. Maybe we’ll bring Bandit with us. I should get Lola one of those backpacks for cats with the domed window.

“Dad?” Lola peeks her head around the corner.

My laughter simmers into a light chuckle. “Sorry, Lola. I didn’t mean to scare you. Someone from work called me with some concerning news, and when I took a step backward, I tripped.” I take the broom that Amos leaned against the counter and continue to clean up the mess. “Go get ready for bed. I’ll be down after I clean this up.”

I feel everyone’s gazes on me, heavy and suffocating, but I don’t look at them. My composure and survival hinge on my ability to believe my own lies and imagine bicycles and cats in backpacks for funeral processions.

“Okay,” Lola says.

Amos, once again, steps up and shows me some compassion. “Come on, Tia, let’s get out of Ozzy’s way while he finishes cleaning this up.”

I will cover for his late-night pastime until the day I die because he’s throwing me a lifeline when I need it the most.

After sweeping the glass into a bag, I use the vacuum and a wet microfiber mop to remove any remaining shards so nothing ends up in Lola’s feet. I have to keep moving. Idleness is the enemy.

I go over things I need to do.

Take the trash bags to the garbage.

Check the air in the bike tires.

Make a grocery list.

Pay bills.

Throw in a load of laundry.

Tuck Lola into bed.

Then I robotically follow them.

“Did you feed Bandit on your way home from work?” Lola asks when I step into her room.

“I did. You have an appointment with your therapist tomorrow. Nana or Pa might ride with you there, and I’ll come straight from work and meet you.”

Apples.

Bread.

Yogurt.

I go over my grocery list. We might stop by the store after her therapy appointment.

“Okay. Is Nana upset about the broken dishes?”

“She shouldn’t be. They’re our dishes. I’ll replace them. They’re just broken dishes.” I straighten her blankets and the pile of stuffed animals around her. “Good night, my girl.” I press my lips to her forehead.

I don’t think a guy kisses a girl on the forehead until he loves her. It’s like a parent kissing a child on the forehead to see if they have a fever. It’s a loving gesture.

My heart surges into my throat, a noose cutting off all the oxygen.

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