Page 8 of The Accidental Text

“Yes, well, I think it will work out for the best.”

By “the best,” she means the best for me. They must really think of me as fragile. I hate that so much.

I open my mouth to protest more, but then Devon appears in the doorway, next to Chelsea.

“You tell her?” he asks.

She nods.

“Are you gonna freak out again?” Devon turns toward me.

Chelsea punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop it. I’ve already talked to her.”

“What did she say?”

“She’s going to do it.”

“Yeah, but will she really?”

“I’m right here,” I say loudly.

“Right,” Devon says, his face turning toward me again. “And?”

“It’s fine. I’ll be ready.” Even as I say this, though, I feel nervousness swim through me. What if I can’t do it? What if I choke? What if I’m Chicken Maggie indefinitely?

“Good,” Devon says, and Chelsea echoes him with the same word.

“Are we done here?” I ask my siblings after a few seconds of quiet, both of them still standing in my doorway.

“Yeah,” Devon says, and Chelsea nods.

“Good, because I need to tell you that I caught Dad on a dating site the other day.”

“What?” Chelsea and Devon say at the same time.

They both walk into my office and stand near my desk. Without words, we are now in a sibling meeting. It’s something we’ve always done.

When we were younger, we’d get together in Chelsea’s room and sit on the floor, calling our meeting to order so we could discuss things we didn’t like—like the chore chart our mom had started using—or we’d make plans to strike over our allowance (we never followed through with that one). We also used to make detailed, coordinated plans to get our parents to take us places. Like to dinner, or the zoo, or even Disneyland. And it worked, most of the time.

As we grew older, the meetings were less and less frequent, and when we’d have them, they’d mostly be about Mom and Dad. For the past nine months, our meetings had been about health care for my mom, and then what hospice we should use … and eventually funeral planning. My dad wasn’t in a place to make huge decisions, so we’d gather the information, present him with all the options, and let him choose.

Then, after Mom was gone, there were meetings about Dad and what we were going to do for him. How we would take care of him, fill our mom’s shoes as best we could.

“Dad was on a dating site?” Chelsea says, her voice a hoarse whisper, as if saying it fully out loud will make it real.

“Yep,” I say, raising my eyebrows as I look between the two of them.

“Why?” Devon asks.

“To check the weather,” Chelsea says sarcastically.

He looks at her, hands resting on his hips. “I know what a dating site is, believe me.”

Chelsea wrinkles her nose at this information.

“I mean, why would Dad be on one?”

“Apparently, our neighbor June told him to check it out. To see what’s out there,” I say.

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