Halmoni walks over to me, her graying permed curls bouncing around her face, her countenance now one of approval. She pats me on the head and grabs my bowl to get me more.
“So what now? Are you going to find another place to leave her ashes?” Hannah asks after her grandma walks away.
I sigh and slump in my seat. Halmoni tsks me from the kitchen and I sit up straighter. The woman has eyes in the back of her head, I swear. Hannah and I could never get away with anything when we were younger. Not with Halmoni around. Sometimes she’d scold us for things we didn’t do, just in case we ever dared consider doing it.
“I don’t think I could convince my family to spread them anywhere else, since that’s what my mom wanted,” I say.
About a year before my mom started having trouble with her legs and her balance, we did a jump in southern Utah. On the same plane as us was a group of guys who’d recently lost a friend in a car accident. They went first, and we watched as they jumped together. They must have been experienced, because they knew how to jump in a formation—something my family and I had been practicing—linking arms together as they fell. Then one of them released their friend’s ashes into the sky.
After we landed from our jump, my mom informed us through teary eyes that that was how she wanted her ashes spread after she died. She said if we were too old to do it, then we’d have to send her grandchildren up there to jump.
When she got her official diagnosis and we found out it was terminal, one of the first things she did was remind us of that.
“So when will you go again?” Hannah asks.
“Not sure,” I say. “My dad says it’s up to me.”
“And how will you not choke next time?”
“I have no idea. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be just fine.” Even as I say this, though, I feel tendrils of fear twist around my insides. What is wrong with me?
Halmoni sets down a fresh bowl of steaming hot soup in front of me. She points to it and says, “Eat.” And then pats me on the head again before walking away.
“Can you like, practice?” Hannah asks.
I scrunch my face. “I don’t think practicing will help. I’ve been doing this for years.”
She twists her lips to the side as she thinks.
“What about building up to it? You could start smaller or something. Go bungee jumping.”
My eyes go wide. I hate bungee jumping and always have, and she knows this. “Jumping out of a plane is not the same as bungee jumping. That’s like apples and … something that’s not apples.”
Now it’s Hannah’s turn to scrunch her face. “Oranges?”
“I’m really tired.” This is the truth. Grief is draining.
Hannah looks down at her nearly finished bowl of soup, twisting her lips again. “What about those indoor jumping places?”
I shrug. “I guess. Also not the same. The truth is, I just need to get over myself.”
“I’ve been saying this for years.” She gives me a smirk.
“Yes, I know,” I say flatly.
“So what if you can’t do it? What’s your plan?”
I look to the side, contemplating. Hannah always asks the hard questions. I know I need to think about this, but I don’t really want to. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m forever Maggie the Chicken? I suppose I could strap myself to Devon and go tandem, since he’s certified to take other people. But it’s impossible to even out your jumps when you go tandem and others are going solo. You fall much faster when there are two of you strapped together. It won’t work for what my mom has asked us to do.
“No plan, really. I just have to do it. I think I just need time. I’ll figure it out.”
“Because it’s what Katherine Cooper wanted.” Hannah looks at me with soft eyes, the corners of her closed mouth upturned slightly.
I think about the phone in my pocket; the last text I sent to my mom was me apologizing to her for failing her. I’m sure if she were here, she would tell me that I could never fail her, but it feels like I did all the same.
~*~
“Hi, Dad,” I say as I walk into the cluttered home office where my dad’s sitting at his desk, his eyes glued to his computer screen.
“Hey, Magpie.” He doesn’t even look in my direction.
After finishing my second bowl of soup at Hannah’s, for which I got a nod of approval from Halmoni, I popped over to my parents’ house—the place I’ve called home since I could barely say the word—to see what my dad’s up to. I also wanted to make sure that my mom’s phone is still sitting in its same location.
It’s the first place my eyes went when I entered the room, and sure enough, it’s still there. Second shelf down, in one of the cubbies. It’s an older iPhone, with a case that has a cover attached to it. I never knew why my mom liked having a cover on her phone. It always seemed like an inconvenience to me—an extra step. The red faux-leather of the cover now has a dull look to it, with a thick layer of dust on top.
Never have I ever felt appreciation for a layer of dust. But I do right now. It’s proof that the phone has sat there, untouched. My secrets are safe. It’s hard to believe that my mom will never hold that phone again. She’ll never answer a call, never send a text.
“What are you up to?” I ask my dad as I take a step closer to him and look at the screen he’s been studying intently.
I take a sharp breath inward. “Silver Match?” I say, my voice taking on a scratchy sound from my instantly dry throat.
My dad is looking at a dating site. For old people. I knew this kind of thing existed, having looked at dating sites myself, but I didn’t know he’d have a clue about them. He’s not all that internet savvy. And he’s only been single for three months.
My dad, who has been mostly in a trance since I got here, whips his head toward me, realizing what he’s looking at and that he just got caught looking at it.
“It’s not what you think,” he says, the words spilling out of his mouth.
“Well, it looks like you’re scrolling through single ladies on the internet,” I say, unable to keep my tone from sounding horrified.
“Okay … then it is what you think.” He reaches up and rubs his jaw. Like he’s always done when he’s been caught.
“Dad?”
He sighs. “I’m not dating anyone. It’s just … well, you know June?”
I almost laugh when he says that. Do I know June? Our neighbor down the street? The one who’s been in our neighborhood almost as long as we have?
I nod my head. “Of course I know June,” I say. Her oldest son, Shane, used to pull my pigtails in the second grade.
“Well, she’s been doing the single thing for a while now.”
“Right,” I say.
June has been single since my junior year of high school, when her husband, Roger, passed away unexpectedly.
“Anyway, we got to talking,” my dad continues. “I told her I was curious what was out there, and she told me to have a look. So”—he motions toward the screen—“that’s what I’m doing.”
“Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, I don’t want to date anyone, but it’s … more informational, that’s all.”