“Oh, and here.” She hands Eve a Butterfinger from her purse. “I don’t know what possessed me to buy it, so don’t ask. But take it before I eat it.”
Eve’s heart pounds. Butterfingers were our secret obsession. We laughed about it all the time: of the candy bars on the market, Butterfingers seemed the most embarrassing one to love. It isn’t just the neon wrapper announcing from fifty feet away that you’re not indulging in, say, a protein bar; it’s the name. Butterfinger. Like butter fingers. Like you’re eating a finger-sized chunk of butter. We bought them every time we bought tampons, which we found doubly amusing.
Eve stares at the wrapper. She’s reading into it, exactly as I hoped she would. Our Butterfinger passion was truly an inside joke. If Paige felt compelled to buy one, I had something to do with it, which means my spiritual presence is real. “My mom and I loved these,” Eve whispers, more to herself than Paige.
“Really? I never saw her eat one.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.” Eve says.
Paige senses a shift in Eve’s mood, but doesn’t know what to make of it, so she gives her a hug and leaves. Eve returns to Rory, lighter with the perspective that I haven’t completely abandoned her.
Orchestrating mini moments of comfort is great, but Eve leaves in two months and I continue to ascend in little surges, so my timeframe to help is shrinking in both directions. So far, elevating hasn’t weakened my clout, but I’m nervous it soon will. I need to establish Rory as a permanent replacement while I can. I continue my initial incant. Rory is lonely. Rory is lonely.
Back and forth they go, evaluating wind speed, the efficiency of different containers, heat’s exponential decay.… Rory lost me during the introduction on the first day, but Eve leverages Brady’s gene pool to follow along. It’s amazing to witness Eve learning from her mind’s eye. She’s brighter than I appreciated. Eve always delivered good grades, but I assumed she had to work for it. She doesn’t, not really, not the way I did. Her brain operates in the fast lane, absorbing most concepts without much concentration, and once it’s there—zap—so it remains without notes or flash cards or zany mnemonic devices. If I hadn’t worked hard I’d have been a C student. I was motivated solely by the ambition to not end up like my mother (and, yes, I appreciate the irony of that). My father, who publically lamented having no sons, said he’d only pay for his girls to go to college if we earned straight As, no exceptions. Meg and I both knew he was the kind of man who’d look at a B + in wood shop and say, “Damn. You were so close,” completely ignoring that the rule was arbitrary. So we both got 4.0s. For Meg, it was a breeze. For me, English was the only freebie.
When I quit work to stay home my mom didn’t consider their college investment a waste. “She landed a great husband because of that degree,” she claimed, unaware people stopped valuing her opinion decades ago. “Brady wasn’t going to end up with some nitwit.”
My father wasn’t convinced. He pulled me aside and said, “You do realize what your mom has—the crazies and the drinking—is genetic. You squirrel away in a house all day long enough, you’ll end up a drunk. Don’t screw with your potential.” But there was no genius in me. I memorized information whereas Eve consumes it. It’s an important nuance. I could only recite what Eve understands.
Rory collects her papers to leave. I pick up the pace. Rory is lonely, Rory is lonely, Rory is lonely. “If you tackle the practice problems before Monday we can start in on chapter four.” Eve stares at Rory’s left hand, not responding. Typical of our society, she associates loneliness with lacking a man. “Earth to Eve,” Rory says, waving. “What are you looking at?”
Eve blinks, embarrassed to have been busted. “Sorry. I’m out of it today. I-I noticed, I mean, I was surprised that … well, not surprised but, are you married?”
“Divorced, actually.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Rory slings a blue tote over her shoulder. “Don’t be. I’m confident you had nothing to do with it.”
“Do you have children?” Rory stops mid-step. Her expression sags. “I don’t mean to be nosy,” Eve backpedals. “You don’t have to answer that.”
Rory regains momentum toward the door. “No, no worries. I don’t have any. Call if you struggle on those problems.”
Rory walks to her car with the same distant expression I observed that first day in the grocery store, only this time I intuit what happened. Her daughter is dead. Rory blames herself. She has more in common with Eve and Brady than I realized.
The usual lyrical flow of Rory’s thoughts crumbles into a litany of random observations as Rory tries to fend off her emotions on the ride home: what’s for sale, what needs to be repaved, what’s closed during normal business hours. She pauses in her driveway before going in, knowing she can’t afford a slump with her mother sick. “People need you,” she says aloud, willing herself motivated. The pep talk is well rehearsed but unsuccessful.
Greta is surprised Rory doesn’t ask for details about Linda’s day, but graciously takes the hint and leaves. After giving her sleeping mom a kiss on the forehead, Rory pours a tall glass of Chianti, and plops on the couch in the dark room. If you substitute the Chianti with chardonnay, the sight is similar to my early evenings after Eve got older and didn’t require as much doting.
Enveloped in a silence disturbed only by the steady click of Linda’s IV machine, Rory stares at a picture of her daughter smiling, revealing a first tooth popping through swollen gums. She has the same chocolate-brown hair as her mother. I cannot fathom the heartache and desperation of such a loss. Losing Eve would’ve taken me to that ledge without bait.
Rory looks older sad. Her mood deflates me. I’ve learned how to get through, but not what to get through. I wanted Eve to invite Rory to stay for dinner, not tip her into depression. I want—oh hell, I don’t know what I want. I guess to be better at death. It should at least be easier than life.
I turn my attention to Brady as he interviews new assistants, quick to notice that none of the candidates are over thirty or at all hard on the eyes. I’m horrified by the prospect of Brady turning into a gawking old man. I prepare to haunt some sense into him until I listen to his reasoning. His hypothesis is that, human nature what it is, The Fireman might be less likely to lash out at a younger, more vulnerable woman. The idea of it repulses him—he wants to be wrong. I find his analytical approach fascinating. It’s scientific self-awareness.
“What were the working hours of your last position?” Brady asks.
The stunning applicant looks rather peeved. “I already told the HR lady that.”
Brady is equally annoyed. “Her name is Meredith. Do you mind terribly sharing the answer with me too?” His tone makes it far from a cordial request.
“It depended on what quarter we were in, and also Mr. Breack’s travel schedule.” She wiggles in her chair like it’s tickling her.