Page 76 of Hello Stranger

“I do,” I said.

Joe waited to see if I’d say more. But what was there to say, really?

Finally I went with, “Every year, on her birthday, I bake her a cake. And light candles. And watch Cary Grant movies. I tell myself that’s the one day when she can hear me from heaven—and I don’t even care if it’s true. I talk to her, out loud, like she’s there. I just let myself have that. And I try really hard to be happy that I had her in my life at all.”

He was good at listening, it turned out. It prompted me to keep going.

Or maybe this was just something I really needed to say.

“She died very suddenly,” I said. “And when it was all over—weeks later—I found a voicemail from her that she’d left me the day before she died. It was the most ordinary voicemail in the world. But I listened to it and relistened to it so many times that I memorized it. I memorized the words, but also the pauses and the tempo and the musical notes in her voice. I can still do it to this day. When I was really, really lonely at boarding school, I used to go on long walks and recite it over and over, like a poem.”

“Recite it,” Joe said then.

“What? No.” I shook my head. “It’s boring.”

But Joe said, “It’s the opposite of boring.”

I hesitated.

“Just recite it for me. I’d love to hear it.”

He would? Was he being sincere? I suddenly felt shy. “It’s very ordinary,” I said. “She’s just, like, talking about what to have for dinner and stuff like that. And she calls herself Mama, even though by then I’d been calling her Mom for years.”

Joe leaned a little closer, waiting.

I’d never recited it for anyone before. My dad didn’t even know the recording existed. I took a deep breath. Then I fixed my eyes on a random spot in front of me.

Then I just went for it: “Hey, cutie. It’s Mama. I’m at the store. I’m thinking spaghetti for dinner. Good? With garlic bread and salad? Callme if you’d rather do French toast—but I’m about to check out, so be fast. Also, they’re out of that shampoo that smells like coconuts, so I’m grabbing the lemon one instead. Dad has to work late tonight. Not sure what your homework situation is, but I’m free to watch a movie if you are. Okay, that’s it. Home in twenty. Love ya.”

Joe was quiet after I finished. “You really know it all. Even down to the pauses.”

“I’ve listened to it a thousand times. At least.”

“It’s so heartbreaking,” Joe said. “But she’s just talking about spaghetti.”

“Because she died the next day,” I said. “That’s why.”

“So you know the day she died.”

“I don’t, actually. I can’t remember what day it was. It was sometime around now. Sometime in the spring. Sometime before her birthday. But as for the actual day? No idea. So funny. That day changed my life more than any other ever has. But it’s just one day. You know? And it’s not exactly a day you want to remember.”

Joe nodded. I could feel his reaction. I’d worried the mundanity of it might be underwhelming. But he wasn’t underwhelmed.

He seemed to get it.

“Anyway, that’s what I do every year, but this year got a little wonky. But I guess it’s okay to miss it once in a while.”

“There’s still time,” Joe said then. He checked his watch. “It’s only ten.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I’m too tired to bake a cake now.”

“What if we go get a cake?”

I frowned.

“There’s a dessert place not too far from here. I’ll take you.”

IT WASN’T UNTILwe’d made it all the way downstairs that I realized he meant to take me on a Vespa. Which was probably medically ill advised.

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