Notes to Remember

I live on Douglas Street, the note in my pocket reads. I tuck it back in. I am not sure why I have that note, but it’s laminated, so it must be important. It slides through my fingers like a wet fish in my pocket. My keys jingle alongside the card. Sprinkles of sun speckle my hair and warm my shoulders. The sidewalk leaps and dips from gnarled roots that revolt against their cement confinement. I balance against the tree, confused for a moment. The pool was always two blocks from the purple house where my friend Kimberly lives. But all I see are shopping carts grazing in a grocery parking lot where the pool should be. I check my other pocket. You usually walk with me to the pool, but I guess you’re busy today.

My hands find a crumpled-up yellow note. Like a Sudoku riddle, this one only has numbers on it. They are stacked on top of each other, spaced every three to four numbers apart. The last number screams at me in red ink. I think of Dorothy, my daughter. She drew an entire scene from the Globe Theater in red ink one afternoon. “Everyone bleeds in those plays!” She’d exclaimed while parading around in her brother’s knight’s helmet. You carried her on your shoulders as she jousted every curtain with a wrapping paper roll sword. This must be her number. I call it.

“Hello, Mom?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I was right.

“Hi, sweetie, I have terrible news. They’ve closed the pool. Built a damn grocery store on it.”

“Oh, Mom…” There’s a long pause. “Stay where you are.”

Birds chatter over my head. Their tune hiccups and flutters. I look up. They stop as if I’ve caught them gossiping. My pool bag sways in the crook of my elbow. A plush blue towel hangs out on the side. It’s ends fraying. A wide hole fills one corner. I pick at the hole. It reminds me of how Daniel nailed it to the side of the cabin one summer to make a fort. His broomstick horse whinnying as he rode down to the creek. You and I sat together with margaritas in mason jars while fireflies twinkled around our mosquito-pricked ankles. An uneven red colored my cheeks, shoulders, and thighs.

My cheeks grow hot thinking of the memory. I am parched. The saliva in my mouth feels tacky as I swallow. I reach into my bag for a drink. My wallet bounces at the bottom of my otherwise empty bag. I pull it out. The main pocket houses only a photo of you. Your peppered hair flops to one side as Dorathy kisses your cheek. Daniel’s face is partially obscured by a baseball cap and a melting ice cream cone. The corners are white with age. The edges are dull and fading. I pull the flap of the wallet wide, but not even a penny falls into my hand. It appears I am only carrying a library card and another damned laminated note that says, I live on Douglas Street. I grunt, annoyed.

The sun winks through the branches. A chorus of wheels and horns whizzes by me. I lumber back the other way. Brick houses I don’t recognize line the street. A couple sits on their porch. Smoke swirls from an egg-shaped, green grill. I stumble. The woman rises. I wave. She pauses at the gate. I am busy with my bag again, not wanting to engage her. My slipper catches on the corner of the sidewalk. I stumble. Reflexively, my hands shoot out. An arm catches me before I meet the ground.

A woman’s voice exclaims. “Whoa, there!”

My Belongings spill across the sidewalk like a page in an Eye Spy book.

The woman’s bob bounces as she picks up my things. Note cards flutter from a pocket in my bag. She picks them up.

“What’s that?” I ask.

She flips one of the cards over. Her voice starts out bold but whithers to a whisper near the end. Herold J. Kilmon died April 5th, 2020, from pneumonia.

I can’t stop myself; the words fall from my lips like a broken spigot. “You died?”

She rubs my back as empathetically as a bank teller after they’ve told you your accounts are overdrawn and mumbles, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

A gray SUV pulls up beside us. The window lowers. “Mom?”

I stammer as I turn. “Dad’s dead?”

Dorathy takes her sunglasses off. She bites her lower lip. “You want ice cream.”

I grab my chest. My brows furrow. My mouth gaps open. The woman next to me vanishes into a blur, back to the porch.

Dorothy steps out. I feel naked standing in a bathing suit with my things haphazardly thrown back into my pool bag. Dorathy takes my hand. My rings feel loose around my fingers.

She pulls open the passenger-side door. “Let’s get ice cream, it’s hot.” The seat adjusts with a hum.

Her phone chimes with Dan's name, and a picture of a grown, bearded man in a Jets jersey fills her screen. Her fingers work furiously at the screen. The messages come in as angry pings, one after another, like a school kid hitting the doorbell relentlessly. She flips the phone over. It continues to vibrate in the cup holder.

We turn out onto a new road. Mounds of dirt and orange cones clutter our path. We turn into a parking lot. A red pickup truck thunders past us. It parks next to my door. A tall, burly man steps out. Pink and blue flames engulf one arm while a scantily clad woman, drawn in dark blue ink, blows a kiss on his other bicep. He grabs my door. I shrink into myself.

Dorathy’s hand rubs my arm. “It’s Dan.”

His hand extends to mine. “Hey, Mom.”

I crawl out. He mouths something to Dorathy. She snaps her fingers.

His voice commands, but at the question mark, it falters with worry. “You can’t be wandering off like that, okay?”

His eyes turn down. The crow's feet wrinkle around his deep brown eyes. Your eyes. He links his arm with mine. We walk towards a small green stand. A bored teenage boy shields his eyes. Dorathy points to a large, colorful sign. She scratches the back of her pale, long calf with the back of her foot. Black curls bounce as she talks. I run my fingers through my hair. It tangles and snags around my fingers. The coarse curls don’t reshape as I pull. Instead, they hang limp to one side of my face, stringy and gray.

Dorathy returns with a large, iced coffee and two vanilla ice cream cones. My hand gingerly reaches out for one of the ice cream cones. Dan grabs the other. Dorathy comes around to my side. She hands me a napkin. The cool ice cream quenches my thirst.

A text pops up on Dorathy’s phone, I love you.

Suddenly, I remember she’s married.

She flips the phone to picture mode. My face flashes back at me. She plants a kiss on my cheek. Dan squints before putting on a baseball cap. His face is partially obscured by the cap and his ice cream cone. For a fleeting moment, I think of you.