We Didn't Make It After All

Chapter Three

I awoke the next morning in a haze. Dawn broke slowly into morning—and I realized through my hammering heart that last night had been more than a mirage. The smell of cardamom greeted me in the kitchen, where Nana was, brewing tea and skimming The Holden Sun. A cautionary look overtook her face as she skimmed an article headlined Mysterious disappearances continue around Holden, targeting young girls.

"Morning Nana," I said, walking into the kitchen.

She frowned, putting the newspaper down. "Long night?"

"I was at Anderson Flemming's party," I explained sheepishly. I grabbed the kettle from the stovetop and poured myself a cup of tea. "Do you know Anderson Flemming?"

"They're good people, the Flemmings," she said, allowing herself to soften. "Just let us know if you'll be home late next time, Narnie. Maya was worried sick. Said you wouldn't pick up her calls. You know how she is these days."

I nodded. Nana was right: Mama was more alert than usual these days. Papa's death had done that to her. It had made her fragile.

Death was funny in that regard. It had weakened all of us, targeting Mama's romantic soul just as indiscriminately as my dispassionate one. Until Papa was its victim, it had been a mere abstraction—the distant plight Middle Eastern children or strangers in fleeting news reports. But then it happened to him, arriving abruptly, vehemently, unsuspectingly—and that was the most haunting of all, the realization that he too was condemned to this dreadful end. A man we had once believed to be immortal, today, all of his passions, artifacts and convictions were in the process of withering into a state of nonbeing. And here we were in the aftermath, plagued with the ambiguity of being alive, condemned to live until we died.

Nana pointed to a plate of scrambled eggs on the counter, her eyes meeting mine. "Eat."

I finished my breakfast in silence, ruminating about Papa as I often did. I wanted nothing more than for him to walk through the front door, to tease us as he often would, to tell us, Did you really believe that I could die? You silly girls.

"Hurry, darling," Nana said, pulling me away from my thoughts. "You'll be late."

"Love you, Nan," I said, finishing my last sip of tea. I kissed her goodbye before leaving for the day. Outside, Mrs. Henry, our neighbor, was exiting her house with her daughter, Isabella.

"Morning Mrs. Henry," I said, walking into our driveway.

"Narnie," she said warmly. "It's so nice to see you, dear. I was just dropping Isabella off at school. Do you need a ride?"

Her ride was a beaten Cooper old enough to have been her ancestor's. My eyes wandered from its dilapidated frame to her daughter, Isabella, who wearing a teal sweater I recognized all too well: one from Rosalie's by Marin and Chapel Street in San City, handcrafted in Merino wool. Papa had given me the same sweater two winters ago for Christmas, but in magenta.

"Actually, would Isabella want to come with?" I asked, motioning to my car.

"Hell yeah," she began, while Mrs. Henry said, "I don't know, Narnie...I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Bye Mom!"

I couldn't help but laugh as she loaded herself into my car. It was as I was sliding in beside her that Mr. Henry appeared onto their veranda. "Nice to see you again, Narnie," he said.

My body slackened all at once. I swallowed my nostalgia whole, shouting a weak "You too, Mr. Henry," before attempting to start my car, to no avail. Unfazed by my sudden shakiness, Isabella leaned over and helped me insert the key into ignition—and suddenly it was like we had known each other for years, like we weren't two strangers left alone in a chilly car.