Notes on a Near-Life Experience by Olivia Birdsall Read Free Book Online Page A

there's nobody here.”
    Keatie takes violin lessons at a music academy after school. There's this sort of cab service for kids that picks her up and takes her there, and then my mom, or sometimes Allen, picks her up. Since Mom started working more, she's had Allen pick Keatie up more often.
    “Who was supposed to pick you up? Mom or Allen?”
    “I don't remember. But nobody came. I've been waiting and waiting. I called Mommy and Daddy and Allen, but noone answers. I called them at work, too, but they said Daddy's showing property and Mom is with a client somewhere.”
    “Let me see if Ana and I can swing by the academy on our way home. Just a sec.”
    Ana has been half listening to my conversation while talking to some other girls and waiting for me. She nods when I look over at her.
    “Yeah, Keatie, we'll come and get you, okay?”
    “All right. I'll wait outside for you.”
    When we get to the academy, Keatie is sitting on the cement steps that lead to the entrance, hugging her violin case; her face is tearstained.
    On the drive home, she cries a little when she tells us about how scared she was, how no one answered their phones, how long she waited. “Everyone forgot about me,” she says. “No one remembered.”
    “I think they just got confused, Keat. They all thought someone else was taking care of you,” I tell her, trying to convince both of us that that's what happened.

S INCE D AD MOVED OUT, EVERYONE'S BEEN TALKING LESS . I counted the number of words I said to each of the members of my family today.
    Allen: 43
    Mom: 28
    Keatie: 21
    Dad: 11 (Not to him, exactly; to his answering machine.)
    I don't really have any actual predivorce data to compare this to, but I can confidently hypothesize that we are talking less to each other. Much less. I can say this because my family has mysteriously developed a new language that is more efficient than any previously known to man. We have found a way to say as much as possible in as few words as possible. For example:
    We used to greet each other by saying things like “Hey, Keatie, what's going on? How was your violin lesson?” or “Al, how's the bus? Have you gotten it to run without push-starting it yet?”
    And then we'd talk about things, make fun of each other, make fun of Dad, make fun of Alex Trebek, or whatever.
    Now our “conversations” go a little something like this:
    “Hey,” followed by a slight lifting of the chin.
    To which the respondent often replies, “Erngh.” Chin lift.
    At the dinner table, we used to say things like “Please pass the tofu loaf ” or “Are there any more rolls? ”
    Now we say, “Rolls.” Or we just point at stuff.
    We are like vaults now: just try and get an extra word out of us. I feel like maybe we could train CIA operatives in this language and make a fortune.

W HEN I WAS YOUNG , I FELT LIKE I NEEDED MY DAD . I N MY mind, he was a human encyclopedia. I'd call him at the drop of a hat.
    “Hi, Dad. It's Mia. Do you have time to answer a question?”
    “Hello, Mia. Actually, I'm with a client right now….”
    “But this'll be really fast. I promise. Allen says that Las Vegas is the capital of Nevada. But my teacher said it's Carson City, and my states and capitals test is tomorrow….”
    “It's Carson City, sweetie. Listen, I'll help you study when I get home tonight, okay?”
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    I don't remember if he helped me study that night or not. But we could always count on him to know the answer to any homework question we ever had. Before he moved out, heseemed to answer his phone less and less, but now I can never seem to get ahold of him on the first try. Keatie's homework questions always go to Al or to me. She sees Dad as the guy who comes on vacations with us, to family parties, to dinner twice a week. I wonder if she has any idea how much he knows. It's like he's become a different dad.

A LLEN AND J ULIAN ARE COACHING K EATIE'S SOCCER TEAM this season because none of the parents