Free Normally Special by x Tx Page B

will be the World Pea Eating Champions. We can do this!”
     
    And so would go the peas.
     
    I would make a certificate on the computer with both of their names and present it to them after the meal. It would hang on the fridge with the rest of them—Pork Chop Eating Champions, Baked Potato Eating Champions, Asparagus Eating Champions, and so on.
     
    They are still there, overlapping and white, feathering our refrigerator.
     
    I am not sure what I should do with them.
     
    I am not sure of many things now.
     
    I think there should be a “t” at the end of the word “loss.”
     
    ***
     
    At the dinner table with the emptiest chair, I continue my contrivance: Darth Vader head meatloaf, hot dog pirate ship, macaroni and cheese man.
     
    A hot fudge sundae volcano.
     
    I try to lead by example, eating the mast off the pirate ship, the right leg off the mac and cheese man, and spooning a forkful of Darth Vader helmet into my mouth. I chew enthusiastically and force myself to swallow.
     
    “Mmmm… it’s good, baby. Try some. At least eat the sail or those two arms.”
     
    He picks at it all, trying, but not really trying, to appear as if he’s eating.
     
    “If you eat three forkfuls, I’ll kiss Chester,” I tell him. Chester is our goldfish.
     
    “Can I go play XBox, please?”
     
    Defeated, I clear the table. Dishes and food amass in the sink with a smell that taunts of failure. Chester swims, stupid.
     
    I go to my bathroom and vomit my hard work into the toilet.
     
    I lie down on our bed. My bed.
     
    Across the house, the sound of chainsaws.
     
    ***
     
    My son’s PE teacher leaves a message about his lack of class participation and asks me to phone her. I call her back and we make an appointment to discuss things.
     
    When the day comes I drive to the school, park, and start walking. It’s only after many minutes of turns into long hallways and wandering down concrete corridors I realize I am lost. For a moment I feel invisible. For a moment I want to stay there.
     
    The PE teacher’s name is Ms. Boyce. She looks like she is better than me. I sit across from her while she eases me politely into the matter at hand. I try to make my face look normal. It seems like it should be able to do that on its own, but still, I feel as if I need to force it somehow.
     
    I don’t want her to know.
     
    When her monologue breaks I ask her if she is a mother and if she knows any recipes that nine-year-old boys really like. I tell her I’ve been trying things with cheese and bacon.
     
    She tilts her head and looks at me with her brow furrowed and then changes the subject back to my son’s withdrawing from the class, his lack of attention, and, of course, his weight.
     
    I make sounds of agreement and understanding, nodding with my normal face and then, when she pauses, I ask her, “What about quesadillas? Don’t they like quesadillas? I thought I could use a cookie cutter and make them into…”
     
    “Mrs. Stevens!” she interrupts, and then, softer, “Please, I need you to take this seriously.”
     
    I tell her, “It’s ‘Ms. Stevens’ now.”
     
    She mutters something in apology and our meeting fumbles to a polite close.
     
    I walk back to my car, questioning my response. Does becoming a widow change your status to Ms. or am I still Mrs.?
     
    I’m not sure.
     
    I feel like I should know this sort of thing, or that I’m supposed to know.
     
    But I don’t.
     
    I don’t know much of anything lately.
     
    ***
     
    It’s his father’s birthday, but he doesn’t know this. I know because I wake up alone again.
     
    It’s a Sunday. My husband died on a Sunday. Or it could’ve been Saturday. When someone dies during the night there is no official time stamp. The day of his death was a best guess made by officials who needed to turn in paperwork. I have decided he died on a Sunday because that is when I woke up to him, unresponsive, unmoving, un…John.
     
    Even though my touch knew