Love and Other Four-Letter Words by Carolyn Mackler Page A

walking fine by lunchtime, when we bought hot dogs from a street vendor. As we dangled our feet over the river, Moxie begged for a scrap of my food.
    “It really
is
a dog-eat-dog world.”
    Phoebe giggled. Phoebe was always making dog references, every opportunity she could get. Like when we were throwing our wrappers into a trash bin, she pointed to a woman jogging by us, with a sturdy build and strawberry blond hair.
    “What do you think she is?”
    “A golden retriever?” I whispered.
    “Not bad.” Phoebe wiped some relish off her cheek. “A
Chesapeake Bay
retriever.”
    Phoebe also pointed out cute guys. “I'm the first to admit I'm boy-crazy!” she exclaimed as we passed a schoolyard where some guys were playing three-onthree basketball.
    “Mmmm,” she moaned as one of them ripped off his shirt, exposing a six-pack stomach, “I like my men built.”
    I stepped back a little so it wasn't obvious we were watching them. I wonder how much experience Phoebe has, if she's more like Kitty or more like me. If I had to guess, I'd say she's somewhere in between.
    By late afternoon, we found ourselves back at the metal gate outside the dog run.
    “Well.” Phoebe gestured toward Columbus Avenue. “I go up here.”
    “And I go down.”
    We stood there for a second. Dogma began whining and tugging at his leash.
    “Hope to see you soon,” Phoebe said.
    “Me too.”
    We'd just started off in opposite directions when Phoebe called out, “Sammie?”
    “Yeah?” I turned around.
    Phoebe grinned. “I had a dog-day afternoon.” “Me too,” I said again, smiling this time.
    But when I entered our apartment a few minutes later, I got a queasy feeling. It was stuffy and still and exactly the way I'd left it in the morning, with my bowl on the counter, two pillows situated on either end of the futon and my sorry-ass Moosewood sign crumpled on top of a stack of newspapers ready to go out for recycling. Directly within my eyeshot was Mom's pen-andink sketch, still clipped to the easel, untouched now for several weeks. It was strange to look at the half-finished cityscape, with windowless buildings and partially erected skyscrapers. Almost as if the contractors hadpricked their fingers on a cursed spinning wheel and fallen into a deep slumber for a hundred years.
    My gut told me to go right back outside again, but my bladder insisted I had to pee. Phoebe had fasttalked her way into a diner a little while ago, but I always feel weird about doing that, especially when there's a sign posted on the door that says Rest Room for Customers Only.
    When I peeked into Mom's room, my fears were confirmed. The blinds were drawn and Mom was sprawled on her stomach with her bare legs twisted in a tangle of sheets. While I was tiptoeing out of the bathroom, she glanced at me through a veil of matted hair.
    “Are you okay?” I whispered. “Do you have another headache?”
    Mom shook her head, but I wasn't sure if that meant no, she wasn't okay or no, she didn't have a migraine.
    “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”
    “That'd be great.” Mom's voice was barely audible, what with her face burrowed in a mound of pillows.
    I twisted some ice cubes out of the tray and plunked them into a tall glass. I couldn't get this unsettling thought out of my mind: What if Dad suddenly attributed the trial separation to a temporarybrain lapse and rolled into town, intent on nestling back into connubial bliss? I bet if he saw Mom like this he'd run for them thar hills. Sprint would be more like it.
    As I took her the water, I decided that I should do everything within my power to keep things around the apartment as normal as possible. Because if I didn't, who would?

 
    O ver the next few weeks, I was in a near-constant state of anxiety, to a point where it was normal for my throat to be tight, my cheeks tense, my breath hard to catch. At night I would fall into bed, my body zapped of energy, and dream about separating lights from darks in