The Art of Crash Landing by Melissa DeCarlo

unbearable.
    Queeg is quiet for a second, and I think I hear a metal chink . Like the sound of a cigarette lighter.
    I swipe at a tear that’s poised on my lashes. “You’re not smoking , are you?”
    â€œNope,” he says, pausing long enough that I’m certain he’s taking a drag. “So, how are things going out there?”
    And here it is. The empty slot in this scene just big enough for me to tuck in all my problems, and then ask him to send me some money.
    â€œI met a Lawrence Welk fan,” I say.
    â€œI like Lawrence Welk.”
    â€œDon’t remind me.”
    I hear him chuckle, and that makes me smile.
    â€œAnd I’ve been talking with some people about Mom,” I tell him.
    â€œReally?” He sounds surprised and pleased. He always wants to talk about my mother. I always refuse.
    â€œNot on purpose.”
    â€œAh . . .”
    â€œShe was different when she was younger.”
    â€œSure she was. People change.”
    â€œNo, this seems like more than that.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œNothing. Never mind,” I say, adding, “We’ll talk about her later,” which isn’t true and we both know it. I understand that my mother is always there, her heart beating beneath all of our conversations. But understanding something isn’t the same thing as accepting it.
    â€œAnd when will later be?” Queeg has long since caught on to this dodge.
    â€œI don’t know,” I reply. “But don’t hold your breath.”
    There’s an awkward pause. I’m wishing I hadn’t told a man who might have lung cancer, don’t hold your breath , and I think Queeg is wondering if he needs to remind me that later will someday be too late. As usual, neither one of us says what we’re thinking. Instead Queeg asks me how the visit with Tilda’s attorney went.
    I gloss over everything, telling him that I signed papers and should know more in a few days. I don’t mention the list of creditors waiting for the first bite, and I don’t mention the dogs, and I don’t mention the three months. Instead, I tell him that it’s so nice here that I’m going to hang around a few days and that everything is just great. As I’m concocting this fairy tale, I can picture him exactly. He’s sitting on the edge of his sofa, his hair standing up in tufts, his shirt twisted from his nap, probably a goddamn cigarette between his fingers. Happily ever after is what he needs to hear.
    Queeg laughs softly, pleased by the story. “Now I’ll be the one hitting you up for money,” he says. “I have a feeling my visit today cost a pretty penny, and they haven’t even punched a hole in me yet.”
    He’s playing this off as a joke, but it’s not. And he’s not really talking about money. Unlike me, he’s got health insurance. No, Queeg is giving me a heads-up, reminding me that the time is coming when we’ll switch places, he and I. He’ll be the one calling me, depending on me for help. Sadly, he’s spinning a yarn equally as far-fetched as the one I just told him. I’m pretty sure we both know that he’s never going to be able to depend on me.
    â€œWe’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it,” I say. I keep it light, where it needs to stay.
    He shifts the conversation to Min He’s hemorrhoids, and I’m grateful for the subject change even if disgusted by the topic. When my phone beeps a call waiting, I don’t even look to see whoit is. I just tell Queeg I have another call and to put out his damn cigarette, and then I click over to the other call before he has time to argue or say good-bye.
    It’s Father Barnes on the phone, and I immediately launch into an exhaustive recounting of my troubles, sparing no painful details except the part about me being pregnant, and the part about me trying to sell things that don’t belong