Free The Learners: A Novel (No Series) by Chip Kidd

luxuriated in confirming, weekly, my gainful employment. What mother didn’t, I supposed. And yes, I didn’t entirely mind the confirmation myself. We ran through all the usual: When was I coming home, it’s been too long, Aunt Sophie is trying to run her life, Dad’s working too hard, the car port needs reshingling, the Riordans next door got a new Ford when they hadn’t even paid for the last one. And then.
    “Honey…”
    Oh. Something’s wrong. A sad switch had been thrown in her. Anyone’s guess: One of the dogs was sick. The Symphony Ladies had blackballed her. Something. “What. What is it?”
    “That’s such a shame about your friend, the girl.”
    What? “Girl? What girl?”
    “The one who sent you the present that time.” Present? What did she think she was saying? “From Connecticut. Remember that Christmas?” No. Himillsy? How could she be talking about Himillsy? “I’m pretty sure it’s the same girl. The name is so memorable. Oh, hon, there was a story about it in your paper.”
    My paper. The minute my parents heard that my first ad was running in the Register , Mom got a subscription. Which I thought was a little excessive—local news far from their locality. But she read it compulsively, as if it would somehow tell her what was going on in my life. Good God, maybe it did. “Did you see it?”
    “Mom, see what ?”
    “Honey…she’s gone. She’s…”
    Someone threw a shotput into my stomach…
    “It was a traffic accident.”
    …growing into a bowling ball. I choked out the words: “A traffic accident?”
    “She couldn’t get out of her car.”
    “Who, who are we talking about?”
    “That girl. Him---Himsey?”
    No. “Himillsy?” Impossible.
    “That’s it. Himillsy. I always remembered the name—”
    “It can’t…”
    “Didn’t you know? Oh, I’m sorry, dear.”
    She’s confused. She got the story wrong. She was always doing this, mangling messages—the plots of movies, thirdhand accounts of domestic disputes from relatives, recipe measurements, stories about me as a child. She was selectively allergic to details. That’s what this was. “What are you saying? What happened?”
    “It was in the paper. Last Sunday. Wait, I saved it.” She left the phone, returned. She read.
    Time stopped.
    “Hello? Honey?”
    I had yet to see it. Until I did I told myself there was hope. I would not believe it until I saw it, typeset, off-set printed onto newsprint. Kerned properly. Eight-point Century Schoolbook on 10 points leading. Until I saw this I would, not, believe it.
    “I’m sorry, dear.”
    So unacceptable was not just the thing itself, but that I was hearing it from my mother. That was wrong . An intrusion. This was private. She had no right. They’d never met, there was no connection between them, ever.
    Except me .
    Me: “I have. I have to go now. I need to find the story in the paper. I need to find it. Find it. I need, to read it.” I was babbling, a walleyed wretch walking away, without a scratch, from a head-on collision that should have killed me. “See it.”
    She didn’t want to hang up, not while her child was like this. I made an effort to restore my voice to normal and said some other things to her, anything to get off the phone. I’ M FINE , REALLY . I HAVE TO GO NOW . T HERE ’ S SOMEONE IN MY OFFICE . O KAY THEN . R IGHT . I HAVE A MEETING . Y ES , I’ M SURE . W E ’ LL TALK SOON . T HANKS . L OVE YOU , TOO .
    At some point she acquiesced. Or I just hung up. (No, I didn’t.) And then I went to the Records Room, our file copies of the paper. To see. How, how on earth had I missed it? Answer, of course: Because it was probably on the Obits page, which Mom always read in our local paper at the breakfast table with uncharacteristic fascination. I hated the Obits page. Its form was completely divorced from its content—there was no compassion. If I had my way, the first thing I’d do is make the whole page black for starters, with white type.