Free Ex and the Single Girl by Lani Diane Rich

old T-shirt from a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert she ’ d gone to in the mid-eighties during a brief flirtation with recapturing her youth.
    “ Mags!” I said, louder. She didn ’ t move . I reached over and pulled the blanket off of her and shook her shoulder. “ Up, up, up!” One eye creaked open.
    “ Mmmmmf?”
    “ Mags, we need to talk.”
    She flopped over and pulled herself up. “ Portia? What ’ s the matter, baby?” She blinked her eyes and squinted u p at me. “ Is the house on fire?”
    “ No.”
    “ What ’ s going on?”
    “ You called Jack, that ’ s what ’ s going on.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look intimidating. “ You invited him to visit, that ’ s what ’ s going on.”
    She yawned. “ Oh. That.”
    “ Yes. That,” I sa id, getting even angrier at her lack of shock and instant remorse. I was expecting regret, sorrow, chagrin. Something that would confirm how right I was to be upset, how wrong she was to arrange a visit with my father without asking me first. I was expect i ng all that, which was insane, because yawning and stretching and acting like it wasn ’ t a big deal was what Mags always did, and I should have known.
    “ Good night, darlin,” Mags said, flicking off the light and pulling the covers around her. “ We ’ ll talk abo ut it in the morning.”
    “ Mags —”
    “ In the morning,” she said again, waving her arm limply over her shoulder, shooing me away.
    I stood there in the shaft of dim yellow light coming from the hallway, watching as my mother drifted back to sleep. I considered fli cking the light back on and demanding to know what the hell she was thinking. I considered wheedling Jack ’ s phone number from her and calling him and telling him not to come. I considered getting a bucket of ice water and dumping it over her head, making a big ruckus until the entire house woke up, until the entire neighborhood woke up.
    Instead, as Mags ’ s soft snore gained momentum, I shut the door behind me with a gentle click and headed off to my room.
    I have one vague recollection of Lyle Jackson Tripple horn, in which he plays a classical music album on the record player in our living room. That ’ s all I have: one flickering image of him carefully placing the needle on the record and then smiling at me, walking toward me, arms out, ready to dance. I remem b er snuggling my head into his neck and smelling his shirt as he waltzed me around the living room. I remember feeling happy and safe and loved.
    But what the hell did I know? I was two.
    I don ’ t remember much about the letters in the shoebox. I sealed them a ll immediately after writing them and never looked back. Mostly, they were just stories about me growing up. What happened at the softball game. What kind of trouble Beauji and I had gotten into. What my favorite books and movies were. Some letters contai n ed school pictures. There were some drawings. There were questions about his life. Where did he live? What did he do for a living? Did he ever have any more children? I never asked him why he ’ d twirl me around a room so lovingly and then leave me without s o much as a look back. I never wanted the answer to that question.
    I turned on the light in my room and went straight for my closet. I pulled the shoebox out and tossed it on the bed, then paced back and forth, unable to look at it. What was I going to do? Open the letters, torture myself with the ghost of a little girl who was stupid enough to believe her father might come back? What did it matter, anyway? Why did I care? I picked up the box and put it back in the closet, closing the door quietly behind m e . I put my hand to my chest, felt my heart banging against it.
    Damnit.
    I was thirty years old. I hadn ’ t seen him in over twenty- seven years. I could barely remember the man. What did it matter?
    I walked over to the bed and sat down. It mattered. And Mags should have known that it mattered. It could have at least