Free 37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) by Kekla Magoon Page A

with him over text. Anyway, he’ll come down on Abby’s side like usual.
    idk. she’s out of control.
    The little green light comes back almost immediately.
    i meant wtf is up with u?
    I don’t even know what to say to that.
    f u. f both of u.
    I close the phone. When it rings two seconds later, I don’t pick up.
    *   *   *
    I TELL DAD everything. Last night, the party, this morning, the stuff with Mom and the doctor.
    “I’m not going, okay? You understand why I’m not going, right?” I reach for his hand. His warm fingers close around mine, but only because I press them into place with my other hand. It feels almost right. It feels good.
    I tell him about Cara—he’ll remember her from when we were little.
    “We hung out for a bit, and it was really good, Dad. I think we’re going to be friends again.
    “But I fought with Abby. I haven’t even told her what Mom said the other day. Isn’t that stupid? I mean, I have to tell her, right? Do you think it’ll go away this time, like before? Do you think Mom will just leave it alone after a while? She always does, right?”
    I rest my head on our clasped hands. “Yeah, that’s what she always does.”
    So why does it feel like this time might be different?
    *   *   *
    THE TINY CHAPEL separates itself from the hum and thrum of ALF’s hallways. The seats on the wooden pews are padded, red and plushy.
    The nurses are changing Dad’s sheets, so I’ve stepped out of the way. I don’t like to watch the mechanics of their care. The behind-the-scenes, keep-him-alive-and-looking-good technicalities. I don’t see him that way.
    The rain on the stained-glass window is pretty. I love summer rain, the kind you can walk in and just be wet, with no ill effects. The ends of my hair are still damp from earlier.
    Being in the chapel is nice, and not, because it makes me think harder about the way things are right now. The quiet reminds me that there’s no easy answer, even though I’ve read everything imaginable about end-of-life issues, looking for one. I don’t know what’s right, or what Dad would want. Except, I can’t give up when there’s a chance he could wake up. That happens sometimes. There are stories.
    I think you’re supposed to pray when you’re in here, but I never do. I don’t know what to say to God or whoever might be listening. I thumb through the worn hymnals and draw on the little prayer request notepads, even though that might be kind of wrong.
    We’re not religious, but when I think about what’ll happen when Dad goes away, I have to wonder. I don’t know if I like the idea of an afterlife. It feels like a huge gamble. I mean, it’s pretty much fifty-fifty that there’s life after death. But on top of that, it’s fifty-fifty that life after death is going to be something worth hoping for. You just don’t know what you’re casting your lot toward. It could be awesome, a euphoric heaven where you never feel worried or hurt. Or it could totally blow, and then you’re really stuck. What if heaven/eternity/forever is this horrible trap that’s way worse than life as we know it?
    Maybe it’s better if the end is just the end.
    *   *   *
    YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED to use cell phones in the patient rooms or in the hall, but there’s no one around and the chapel’s all the way at the end of the building. I slide open my phone and click through my contacts until I find her name. One quick press, and it connects and starts ringing.
    “Hi,” Cara says.
    “Hi.”
    Pause. I didn’t plan any further than this.
    Music turns down in the background on Cara’s end. “What’s going on?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You at home?”
    I study the stained-glass window, with its slow tears running down. “Sort of.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Nothing. I don’t know why I said that.”
    “Oh.”
    “The more we talk, the weirder I get,” I say. “You can hang up if you want.”
    “I don’t want.”
    Pause. My turn. “You