Page 8 of Whatever Will Be

“You wouldn’t BELIEVE what I’ve had to put up with today! When I told her it was the tackiest table display I’d ever seen and an insult to her sister’s memory, you should have seen the dirty look on her face!”

The strident pitch of that voice is burned into my memory. Sharon Aaronson was always loudly unhappy about something; her husband or her house or her kids or the weather. The kitchen seems like a less desirable destination now that I know she’s in it but there’s no other way to go unless I want to squeeze past Andrea and her date.

There’s a closed door ahead on the left. It used to lead to a den with a large television and a pair of mismatched sofas. I don’t know what it’s used for now but I take a chance in the hopes it might be empty. All these trips down memory lane are messing with my head and I need a minute.

No sooner have I shut the door behind me when I realize the room is indeed still a den.

However, it is not empty.

“Who are you?”

I can’t tell which little girl fired out the question. They sit huddled close together in a large brown armchair and stare at me with their mother’s wide green eyes.

The girl on the right frowns. “Why are you here?”

The girl on the left cocks her head and looks more wistful. “Did you know our mommy?”

Her sister elbows her. “He’s a stranger, Mara.”

I move slowly so I don’t alarm them and take a seat on a footstool that was randomly left by the door. The floor is casually littered with children’s books and stuffed animals. Cracker crumbs have been embedded in the brown carpet. The television is playing some movie where the cartoon characters break into song constantly. Right now they are singing about snow.

The girls watch me in their identical dark blue dresses that might have been worn for the holidays not too long ago.

“I’m not a stranger,” I assure them.

“I’ve never seen you before,” insists the first girl.

I try to remember what her name might be.

“I grew up just down the street. And yes, I knew your mommy. My name is Trent.”

“I’m Caitlin. This is Mara. You can tell which of us is which if you try. She has a freckle on her left cheek and I don’t. And my hair is shorter. See?” She demonstrates by touching her brown hair, which is cut just around her shoulders while her sister’s is a good four inches longer.

“I do see, yes.”

“I don’t like having my hair too long.”

I nod. “Got it.”

“Gramma doesn’t try,” says Mara and plays with the long satin sash on her dress. “She always gets us mixed up.”

Caitlin raises her chin. “She’s supposed to be in here watching us. Aunt Gretch said so. But Gramma said we were giving her a headache and she needed some air.”

They’re probably better off and I almost make the mistake of saying so before I catch myself.

For all I know, they are going to have to live with their sharp-tongued grandmother after today.

The thought is depressing as shit.

“I’m so very sorry about your mom,” I tell the girls. “I lost my mom too when I was a kid.”

Caitlin’s eyes cloud. Mara swallows and sniffs.

“Were you friends with our mommy?” Mara asks as she continues to sniff.

But both girls are looking at me with something like hope, eager to hear something nice about their mother.

My time around children has been nonexistent. I’ll have to avoid cursing.

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