You Can Say You Knew Me When by K. M. Soehnlein Read Free Book Online Page A

with the plan to take him to kindergarten. I found him alone in the kitchen. The microwave was beeping four high-pitched signals, and AJ was climbing up on a chair to retrieve some kind of plastic-encased breakfast food. “I have to split it open and let the steam out,” he explained to me. “I can wait three minutes for it to cool down.”
    Three minutes . The kind of precise instruction Deirdre had no doubt been giving him all his life.
    “So, where’s your mom?”
    “Having her morning time.”
    “What’s that?”
    “In the morning she closes her door and I don’t bother her for five minutes.”
    Five minutes went by, then six, then seven. AJ kept count. I went upstairs to her bedroom to let her know I was here. From behind the door, I heard her crying and talking to herself, though I couldn’t decipher the words. I imagined her crying over that never-found wedding ring, but of course it was more than that. Mourning in the morning.
    Quietly, I retreated to the top of the stairs, then called out, “I stopped by to take AJ to school.”
    She yelled out a strangled, “Oh, hi. Okay, just a minute.”
    I microwaved myself a bowl of instant oatmeal—the cinnamon scent brought me right back to long-ago winter mornings in Greenlawn. AJ was pouring himself orange juice from a container, the glug-glug of it sending splashes all over the table.
    “Here, let me show you a trick,” I said. I grabbed a knife, poked an air slit in the top, then poured a glug-free stream into my glass. “Ta-da!” I swept my arm wide, clumsily backhanding my oatmeal, which went flying to the floor.
    The crash echoed. My eyes met AJ’s worried stare. “So you see, AJ, that’s how you keep from spilling orange juice. You throw your oatmeal on the floor!”
    He melted into giggles. We cleaned up the mess together, making a promise not to tell Deirdre.
    After dropping him off, I returned to find Deidre leaning over her clipboard, snapping her pen. The radio was on, and she was singing along to a pop song I’d never heard. She’d emerged from her crying jag looking as pulled-together as ever.
    “You think it’s okay for me to take Dad’s car to the city?” I asked.
    “When?”
    “Today. I figured I’d look up some old friends.”
    “Well, actually—” She presented me with the clipboard. “Here’s your do-list.”
    “Not to do? Just do? ”
    “Yes, as in will be done ,” she said firmly.
    Beneath my name, she’d written a list: “Attic. Garage. Dad’s closet.” I felt myself wilting. “I need to get out of here, Dee. I’m going stir-crazy.”
    “Come on, Jamie. There’s so much.”
    “Not today. I’m not in the right headspace.”
    “Well, excuse me, but you’re going back to California in a couple days, and then what? We have to sell Dad’s house. If you want anything at all, you better call it, or it’s going to wind up in the dump.”
    I looked at the list again. I considered mentioning the porn in the bedroom, but I held back; let it be a secret between him and me. “I don’t have anything in the attic anymore. I cleared out all my stuff when I left for San Francisco. And I don’t want any furniture. I live in a tiny one-bedroom. Plus, I don’t have money to ship anything.”
    “Fine. I’ll just throw everything away. Our whole family history. What do you care, anyway?” Her voice cracked and dropped off.
    “Okay, okay.” I lowered my head into my hands, willing myself to do the right thing. “I can go to New York another time. No biggie. Really.”
    “It would be a huge help,” she said. “So, you’ll start with the attic?”
    “Sure. Just tell me one thing: Who died and left you in charge?”
    She froze, and then, catching my smile, shook her head. “You know, you’re an asshole.”
    “It’s the most reliable part of me,” I said. “I know my strengths. I work with them.”

3
     
    U nlike a city apartment, a house with an attic means never saying good-bye to anything. The Garner