Page 6 of The Significance of Moving On

“Thank you,” I say and clear my throat. This time less timid, sticking the spoon in the bowl and struggling to stir, I push on. “I’m Chantal, but everybody’s always called me Al.”

“Which do you prefer?”

That’s a good question because I don’t feel like either of them anymore. Those names belonged to the girl with a home and a family. A girl who knew without a shadow of doubt that she was loved wholly and unconditionally.

I shrug and continue to work the mix. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore. Both bring with them the highs and lows, you know?”

“Yeah, I think I do.” After taking the bowl from my hand, he moves to a heavy cast iron pan that’s been heating on the stove, and ladling batter onto the oil and smoothing out the globs into pancake-looking circles, he turns pointedly, locking eyes with mine. “Tally, could you hand me a knob of butter?” Tally?Tally. It’s cute. It’s new. Once again, he gets it.

“Do you have a name?” I ask.

“Most people do.”

“And?”

“And.” He snickers. “It’s Casey. Davenport.”

Hmm…Casey Davenport, what’s the story here? “What’s with the snicker?” I ask, lobbing off a knob of butter from the stick with more force than necessary because I didn’t realize he’d brought it up to room temperature.

“I introduced myself the other day… when I brought you here.”

Oh. I’ve got nothing. No response, because I’ve got no memory of an introduction. At all.

He keeps staring. Not like creepy staring, but like he has something to say and isn’t sure how to say it. I got lots of those stares at the hospital after Tom.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

Finally he clears his throat. “I, uh, don’t know if this is the right time to tell you, but there’s been a man in a suit nosing around across the street the past couple of days, and someone’s really been trying to get ahold of you on your phone.” It’s not surprising he wouldn’t be excited to share that news. Who’d want to share news of this magnitude with someone as unstable as I’ve been.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

Casey flips the pancakes onto the second side. As they always do, they cook faster on that side, and within a minute he flips a couple on a plate he’d left sitting on the small counterspace between the stove and the refrigerator. He hands that plate off to me.

“Syrup’s in the fridge.” Then he uses his chin to point. “Forks in that drawer.”

While he flips crispy golden-brown pancakes onto his plate, I smear mine with melting butter and douse them in real maple syrup pulled from the fridge and wait for him to finish preparing his own, still not commenting on the phone or guy nosing around. Even thinking about talking any of that turns my stomach, and these pancakes look too good to waste.

“How old are you?” I pointedly change the subject after we move back into the living room with our breakfasts. Age seems a safe enough topic.

“I’m twenty-one. You?”

I blink. It takes me a minute to remember how old I am. Is that normal? Shouldn’t that be automatic? “Um…eighteen. Since May. He was supposed to take me to the casino to celebrate.” I blow out a slow breath and pinch my eyes shut trying not to cry. “Did…um… did you know Tom?” My head is way too fogged to think clearly.

“We weren’t best friends, but did the neighborly ‘weather sucks’ or ‘did you catch the game lastnight?’ thing.” He shovels a forkful of his breakfast in his mouth, chews, swallows and pauses for a moment. His voice grows reflective, I guess. “In the two years I’ve lived here he was gone a lot for work. I did pick up his mail from time to time while he was away. But, um…I noticed you, too, you know. When you’d visit during the summer or holidays. Your laugh is hard to ignore…” He takes in a breath. “I’m just sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

Under these circumstances? That’s putting it lightly.

Dealing with the fallout of Tom’s bad decisions doesn’t come as easily as dealing with Casey. Those missed calls on my phone, the hospital, wanting to know what my plans are for my brother. Sorry, I forgot to make plans. I’ve been busy, I don’t know, dealing with thedeathof mybrother.

“I hope you don’t mind…” he pulls me from my disparaging thoughts, “but I went over and brought what I assume is your suitcase and purse. They were right in the foyer—I didn’t snoop or anything.”

“No. Thank you.” My voice comes out a squeak. The burn materializes in my nose as I blink several times trying to fight back those damn prickles of emotion, the prickles which form right before the tears come. His kindness and the hospital’s voicemails, it’s all too much.I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t—awe hell, who am I kidding? The levy is breached as the tears that I’d managed to keep locked away until now, they spill and spill over my lashes. And I’m acutely aware of this continuous wheezing, squeaky sob coming from me.

“Please let me know if I’m being too forward,” he whispers in my ear. And then he’s holding me, rubbing circles over my back, not shushing or trying to convince me that everything will be okay but just being there, letting a virtual stranger wet his shirt with tears shed over a man he barely knew.

Apparently, I cried myself to sleep on his shoulder because the next time I realize my surroundings, he’s not there. Reality time. Phone calls aren’t usually hard, but this one, excruciating. The woman on the other end of the line, Ms. Bottner from the hospital, tells me where the John Does and those without family are sent—my least expensive option. I call Mr. Carson at Carson’s funeral home. Cremation, transportation, storage, permits and sealed in a heavy-duty cardboard box will cost me thirty-five hundred dollars. The lowest price in town, he assures me. Oh, and there are box upgrades. This man is the used car salesman of the funeral world.

Really though, what does it matter? Because right now, thirty-five hundred might as well be a million or ten million. What tree is thirty-five hundred dollars going to drop from? Tell me universe, where should the monetarily challenged stand to catch it all?

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