Free Souvenir by Therese Fowler Page A

rest of your weekend,” she said.
    He nodded, his eyes unreadable. “You too.”
    She walked away from him then, and away from the hospital, the paperwork, away from the grieving parents who had so graciously already absolved her of wrongdoing—for now anyway. Her other responsibilities were calling: she needed to phone her father and cancel their dinner date, Savannah needed to be picked up from the game Meg had missed, Brian text-messaged her from the golf course, asking her to buy a bottle of Moët for a friend of his who’d just gotten engaged. Self-indulgence, especially with Clay Williams, was a luxury she could not afford.

Twelve
    S AVANNAH AND R ACHEL SOAKED IN THE POOLSIDE SPA WHILE M EG STOOD at her black granite kitchen counter making a turkey sandwich. The counter was so glossy that she could see her reflection, a tired woman with a deep crease between her brows; she reached up and pressed the crease, stretched her cheeks to erase the scowl. That was better, but she thought she might have the granite changed for something matte; the glossy stuff was obviously meant for Suzy Homemaker types who whistled pleasantly while they mixed and kneaded and dolloped and minced and sautéed, nothing more taxing than making a tasty meal on their minds. A kitchen counter should not remind a woman of her stresses and faults; it was bad enough just to have such a beautiful kitchen in the first place, its underuse a vague but ever-present guilt.
    Through the open patio doors she could hear the girls laughing, hear their cell phones ringing every few minutes, while she concentrated on smoothing mayonnaise onto cracked-wheat bread with her right hand. She dipped her knife into the jar, scooped little globs of mayo, spread it easily with the knife’s tip, over and over again without even a hint of weakness. “Son of a bitch,” she said.
    When her own cell phone began vibrating in the pocket of her white linen pants, it startled her and she dropped the knife onto the floor. She took the phone from her pocket, saw it was her sister Kara, and answered, her eyes on the knife.
    “Hello, sis,” she answered, making her voice normal, as she’d done for the girls when she picked them up. How accomplished she was at pretending.
    “Did you see it?” Kara asked.
    “Did I see what?”
    “The official announcement—Carson’s engagement, what else?”
    Kara
would
be all a-tizz about that. She’d followed Carson’s career and life like a groupie, just as she’d once trailed Meg and Carson over the hills and fields of their farms. “I saw something about it on the CNN website,” Meg said, bending down to get the knife. “Is that what you mean?”
    “No, no, not that. The Ocala paper’s got the real official thing.”
    “How do you know?” Meg asked, picking up the knife. Kara lived in Northern California now, near Travis Air Force Base where her husband Todd, a master sergeant three years away from retirement, was finishing out his enlistment.
    “I read it online—how do you think I keep up with what’s going on back home?” For Kara, who’d had four homes since leaving Florida in 1992, only Ocala would ever be the real thing. She’d told Meg she was trying to talk Todd into going back there when he got out of the service; she wanted to start a plant nursery. She had it all planned out and was certain it would be a hit. Of all the Powell girls, Kara was the most like their father.
    “I assumed you were psychic, obviously,” Meg said.
    “Oh, I wish! Then I wouldn’t have to ferret out every detail of the kids’ lives. God knows they don’t tell me anything. Well, at least I can read the news—and you really need to see this. You get the paper, right?”
    “We do—but I haven’t read it yet.”
    “You haven’t read it? Jesus, it’s four-thirty out there—what’ve you been doing all day?”
    Kara’s innocent question was an ice pick in Meg’s gut, but she made herself stay calm. “I had a mom in labor