talking about. She went over to the CD player. "Pink Floyd," she said. "I forgot all about Pink Floyd. But it's good shit, really. In college, I listened to R.E.M. and the Smiths all the time. Pink Floyd was mostly for getting stoned."
"Sure," I said.
"God, listen to me," she said. "I've got diarrhea of the mouth or something. I'm thirty-three and I sound like I'm eighteen."
"I like it when people talk a lot," I said. "I never have anything interesting to say."
She smiled and tilted her head, like she was trying to look at me from a different angle.
"It's just, most days I think of Manny and can't move," she said. "Can't get out of bed, I'm so sad. And then some days—I mean, I'm still sad all the time—but I wake up and think, well, there's a lot less I
have
to do now. I can do whatever I want. I don't have to, for instance, try to get Manny's father to acknowledge his existence anymore, or to send child support. And I don't have to know where my next paycheck is coming from, and I don't even need a house, I can keep all my possessions in the trunk of my car and travel all over the country, or the world, because nobody cares what I do all of a sudden. And then I'm relieved. For just a second. Relieved! And then I hate myself and start crying again, not only for Manny, but for me, because I feel like a weak mother."
She stood and went to the window.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Twenty-two," I said. "Twenty-three this fall."
"That's so young," she said.
She paced along the window.
"Why don't you come and sit down with me?" I said. "You're moving around too much. It makes me nervous."
She did. "You are a sullen creature for twenty-two," she said.
I agreed with her.
"Are you sick of tea? I am. Do you want a drink?"
"Yes," I said.
"Tequila? It's summer. We should be drinking tequila with a little lime. I can make margaritas."
"Good," I said.
"Good," she said.
I followed her into the kitchen and watched her make the drinks. I had always thought margaritas were slushy drinks served in giant glasses, but she made them with a little ice, a lot of tequila, and a splash of some sort of flavored mix in a plastic bottle. She rimmed the glasses with salt and a wedge of lime. We went out to the back porch with our salty glasses.
I finally worked up the nerve to ask about Manny's father. She told me that Manny's father was never her husband and she had no idea where he was now.
"Somewhere in Spokane," she said. "A drunk to beat all drunks. That's all I know. I don't think he knows Manny is dead. I'll have to find him and send him a letter soon."
She told me that she didn't have many friends at work, other than Annie, the owner of the salon. And even Annie was just her best friend from high school; she had three kids and a husband who golfed, Holly said. All they really had in common was a nostalgic kind of loyalty.
"Most of the women there think I'm strange. They're nice enough, but they cut hair and put on makeup for a living," she said. "And I'm a practitioner of the healing arts and we just don't connect. I believe people come to me because they're spiritually needy and they believe people come to them because of split ends."
"Huh," I said.
"So no more lifeguarding? What now?"
"Finish school," I said.
"Then what?" she said.
I didn't answer right away.
I told her a little about my philosophy class, which made me feel very boring and immature. I told her that I still hadn't bothered to apply for a new job, even though my lifeguarding money was pretty much gone. Still, at least for a while yet, I almost always had access to Mack's old Buick, good free food at my mother's house, and a free place to sleep. I had always felt like I didn't have to know what I planned to do next, but now that my mother and Mack were moving, I knew I had to start thinking.
"God," she said, "I've always hated that question: 'What's next?' Why am I asking that? You don't have to know what's next."
"Well, that's good," I said to
"Sure," I said.
"God, listen to me," she said. "I've got diarrhea of the mouth or something. I'm thirty-three and I sound like I'm eighteen."
"I like it when people talk a lot," I said. "I never have anything interesting to say."
She smiled and tilted her head, like she was trying to look at me from a different angle.
"It's just, most days I think of Manny and can't move," she said. "Can't get out of bed, I'm so sad. And then some days—I mean, I'm still sad all the time—but I wake up and think, well, there's a lot less I
have
to do now. I can do whatever I want. I don't have to, for instance, try to get Manny's father to acknowledge his existence anymore, or to send child support. And I don't have to know where my next paycheck is coming from, and I don't even need a house, I can keep all my possessions in the trunk of my car and travel all over the country, or the world, because nobody cares what I do all of a sudden. And then I'm relieved. For just a second. Relieved! And then I hate myself and start crying again, not only for Manny, but for me, because I feel like a weak mother."
She stood and went to the window.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Twenty-two," I said. "Twenty-three this fall."
"That's so young," she said.
She paced along the window.
"Why don't you come and sit down with me?" I said. "You're moving around too much. It makes me nervous."
She did. "You are a sullen creature for twenty-two," she said.
I agreed with her.
"Are you sick of tea? I am. Do you want a drink?"
"Yes," I said.
"Tequila? It's summer. We should be drinking tequila with a little lime. I can make margaritas."
"Good," I said.
"Good," she said.
I followed her into the kitchen and watched her make the drinks. I had always thought margaritas were slushy drinks served in giant glasses, but she made them with a little ice, a lot of tequila, and a splash of some sort of flavored mix in a plastic bottle. She rimmed the glasses with salt and a wedge of lime. We went out to the back porch with our salty glasses.
I finally worked up the nerve to ask about Manny's father. She told me that Manny's father was never her husband and she had no idea where he was now.
"Somewhere in Spokane," she said. "A drunk to beat all drunks. That's all I know. I don't think he knows Manny is dead. I'll have to find him and send him a letter soon."
She told me that she didn't have many friends at work, other than Annie, the owner of the salon. And even Annie was just her best friend from high school; she had three kids and a husband who golfed, Holly said. All they really had in common was a nostalgic kind of loyalty.
"Most of the women there think I'm strange. They're nice enough, but they cut hair and put on makeup for a living," she said. "And I'm a practitioner of the healing arts and we just don't connect. I believe people come to me because they're spiritually needy and they believe people come to them because of split ends."
"Huh," I said.
"So no more lifeguarding? What now?"
"Finish school," I said.
"Then what?" she said.
I didn't answer right away.
I told her a little about my philosophy class, which made me feel very boring and immature. I told her that I still hadn't bothered to apply for a new job, even though my lifeguarding money was pretty much gone. Still, at least for a while yet, I almost always had access to Mack's old Buick, good free food at my mother's house, and a free place to sleep. I had always felt like I didn't have to know what I planned to do next, but now that my mother and Mack were moving, I knew I had to start thinking.
"God," she said, "I've always hated that question: 'What's next?' Why am I asking that? You don't have to know what's next."
"Well, that's good," I said to
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