Free You Have Seven Messages by Stewart Lewis Page A

is?”
    “Can’t you smell her? It’s like, onions or something … ew.”
    “It’s called patchouli.”
    “Pawhosit?”
    For a moment I wish I were Tile’s age, so immune to the hardness of things. My mother’s death will affect him more as he grows older. Especially when he finds out what I’m discovering. Do I want to know more? Is therea legitimate reason why my father wouldn’t tell me who was at dinner that night?
    I tell Tile to get lost, and will myself to relax. I listen to my iPod for a while, music always being my chosen form of escape, then drift off to sleep.
    The next day I take the entire stack of Daria photos and put them in a big envelope. My father’s still with Elise, and Tile is right—all rules are off.
    This time the cabdriver who gives me a ride to Greenpoint is talking very loudly into an earpiece in what I believe is Swahili. It sounds like chanting, and it has a calming effect on me.
    Once again, I have the driver wait outside the building. I run up and knock on number four and Daria comes to the door in a robe, looking like she just woke up. She rolls her eyes and I tell her I’ll come back another time, but she points at the portfolio.
    “Those them?” she asks in a hoarse voice.
    “Yeah.”
    She motions me in. I hand her the envelope and she opens it and pulls out my favorite one of her, from the chin down, on the bench in the park. She giggles a little and then looks at the rest. She spreads them all over the floor and at one point her robe slips, revealing part of her nipple. I look away. An entire section of her apartment is lined with cardio machines.
    “Wow. You, my dear, are incredibly talented.”
    I don’t know what to say except “Thanks.”
    “Listen, I’ve got to go back to sleep, but I have an idea. Can I keep these for now?”
    “Um, okay.”
    “Call me on Tuesday. Go back to the city. I know I told you to come, but you’re not supposed to be here, right?”
    “I know, the cab’s waiting. Bye.”
    She kisses me on both cheeks and her hair smells like apples. As she walks toward her bedroom, she scratches her butt.
    On the way down the stairs I wonder not only why she wanted to keep the shots, but also why I so casually agreed.
    During the cab ride back to the city, I feel good, like maybe all this is happening for a reason. But I don’t get my dad lying to me. I have the driver drop me off at the Creperie, where I order an orange soda and tell myself I’m ready for the next message. What could be worse than your dad lying and your mom having an affair with someone who wears costume cuff links? I am so mad at both of them right now I almost smash the phone on the ground. Instead I take a deep breath like Ms. Gray says to do.
    Beep
.
    “Hi, it’s me. I got your email and wanted to talk in person. Heavy stuff. Call me.”
    I can tell immediately it’s Richard, my mom’s brother, the one who lives in Italy. What “heavy stuff” is he talking about?
    At the funeral, Richard spoke and dressed soeloquently, and I sat on the piano bench while his boyfriend, Julian, played, mesmerized by his long fingers. I think it was Chopin, and it struck me as beautiful but very sad. The three of us ended up in the kitchen in the morning, and I remember Richard talking in hushed tones to Julian. All I heard were the words
what killed her
. When they noticed I was there it was like time suspended for a second, and they tried to cover it up. I thought something weird was going on, but because it was such a traumatic time I never thought about it again. There were too many other things to worry about, like living the rest of my life without a mother.
    When I arrive home there’s that same sort of tension in the air. My father’s sitting on the stairs, holding the picture of Cole and looking perplexed.
    “Moon, what the hell is going on, where did you get this?”
    “You went into my room?”
    He stands up and holds the picture out, his hand shaking.
    “I’ll repeat.