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1. The Almost-Worst Day The Almost-Worst Day
Gnawing at her thumbnail while standing in the driveway and gushing sweat like an open fire hydrant, Abby watched her moms—Mom Rachel with her puffy ponytail and Mama Dee with her short, dark hair—hug Ms. Wasserman for all she was worth, while an airport shuttle van idled nearby in the street.
The three women separated, wiping away tears, even though they were the strongest women Abby knew.
Cat, with her silky, straight brown hair, rushed over and clutched Abby, her warm tears mingling with Abby’s and Abby’s with hers on both of their cheeks. Abby was memorizing how Cat felt—bony and warm; how she smelled—mango shampoo and lavender soap; and how she sounded—sniffly and sad.
“Come on now, you two,” Mama Dee said.
Ms. Wasserman sighed. “The van driver is waiting, Catriella.”
“Give them another minute,” Mom Rachel murmured.
Eventually, the moms needed to grab the girls’ shoulders to pry them apart, like separating tangled roots of garden plants, and guide them away from each other.
“Don’t leave,” Abby whispered. It felt like a part of herself was going—the best part.
Cat shook her head. “I wish—”
The van driver honked.
Suddenly, Cat wriggled from her mom’s grip and ran back to Abby. She handed her a rectangular package. “Got this for you.”
“But I didn’t get you anything.”
“I don’t need anything.” Cat put up a hand to wave or surrender.
Abby wasn’t sure which.
Then Cat and her mom boarded the van, which drove down the street and was gone.
Mom Rachel held on to Abby. Mama Dee held on to Mom Rachel. The three of them clung to one another like crumbling pillars, barely able to support each other.
Long after her moms clasped each other’s hands and went inside, Abby stood in the driveway, sweat stinging her eyes, and stared at the avocado-green house next door. The one with the red door she’d gone through hundreds of times to have dinners and sleepovers, listen to Cat practice violin, read books, bake cookies, and recently, gossip about the boys Cat liked.
Cat and her mom didn’t live in that house anymore.
It seemed impossible that Cat wouldn’t be bursting through the door to share a bit of news with Abby or join her when she walked Miss Lucy to the neighborhood park around the corner.
Abby wondered if she or Cat ached more over the move and decided it was harder for the person being left behind because the other person at least had exciting new adventures ahead.
“Don’t you dare forget about me, Catriella Robyn Wasserman,” she whispered fiercely to no one before going inside.
In Abby’s bedroom with the blue-and-green afghan her Bubbe Marcia had crocheted for her on the bed; her bookshelf filled with books about turtles, fantasy novels, and poetry collections from the bookstore in town; and the tank of her red-eared slider turtle, Fudge, on her desk, Abby sat on her bed and unwrapped the gift Cat had given her. She ran her fingers over the image of a forest path on the hardback journal’s cover and read the quote.
What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? —Mary Oliver
“Good question, Mary Oliver,” Abby said to the dead poet.
Of course Cat had found a journal with the last line from her favorite poem—“The Summer Day.” Abby would use the journal for important things, like writing poems and thoughts she wanted to share with Cat.
Abby opened to the first page and poured her pain into a poem, her pen making satisfying black scars on the cream-colored surface.
Going... (a poem for two voices, one of whom isn’t here)
Away.
Please stay.
Toward Israel.
Please...
So far, far away...
Stay.
From here.
