The Accidental Text

by Becky Monson

  I let out a breath. “I just … don’t feel like myself right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I mean … my mom just died.”

  “Of course.” She nods her head, her eyes crestfallen. “And we all miss Katherine Cooper very much.”

  Hannah loves calling my mom by her first and last name. I’d once thought it was a Korean thing, but it turns out it’s because she enjoys the alliteration so much.

  We’ve lived down the street from each other since I was six and Hannah was five. We bonded our first day of first grade, and the fact that we lived so close only sealed the deal. We were instant besties, always together, only separated during the summers when Hannah would go with her grandma to South Korea to visit family, and also during college, when Hannah went to Stanford and I stayed here and went to ASU.

  After college and a year back at our parents’ houses, we finally got an apartment together, where we’ve been for the past four years. Hannah has a real job now, working at her mom’s law firm, and can no longer do a full summer trek to Korea, much to her grandma’s chagrin.

  “What I mean is,” Hannah says, “the Maggie I know would have honored Katherine Cooper’s wishes, no matter what.”

  “I know. That’s what I mean about not feeling like myself,” I say. It’s hard for me to get people to understand how I’m feeling when I don’t even understand it.

  “How did Chelsea take it?” Hannah asks. She takes a sip of broth from the dumpling soup her grandma made us from leftover mandu she’d made for the Lunar New Year celebration last weekend.

  “She was … annoyed.” I look away from Hannah and over toward the contemporary decor of the living room. The space has changed a lot since we were kids. Some pieces are still here from when we were younger, like the modern-looking grandfather clock in the corner and the painting that hangs over the fireplace. Hannah’s mom is very particular about keeping things nice. Hannah didn’t get that gene, since her room in our apartment usually looks like a tornado hit it. In her defense, sixty-hour workweeks don’t leave a lot of time for cleaning.

  Hannah snort laughs. “I’m sure she was.” She adds an eye roll for emphasis. “What about Devon? And what about your dad?”

  “Devon was irritated, of course, but was fine after my dad offered to buy dinner. And my dad was … supportive.”

  “Good ole Nick,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, resting my spoon by my dish, having just eaten the last bit of the soup.

  It’s at this moment that Hannah’s grandma comes over and sees that I’m done. She nods her head as if to ask if I want more, and when I tell her no thank you she eyes me, a scowl on her face. She says something to Hannah in Korean and Hannah just stares at her. She says something again and Hannah says something back. Hannah turns to me with a frustrated expression.

  She lets out a breath. “Halmoni wants me to tell you that you’ve gotten too skinny.”

  I look down at myself and then back up at Hannah and her grandma. Sure, I’ve lost a few pounds since my mom died. But it’s not like I’m sickly skinny or anything. I’ve always been on the thin side, never having had to work too much on my physique. But to say that I’m overly thin seems like a stretch, even with my recent unintentional weight loss.

  Still, Halmoni, as we call Hannah’s grandma, keeps up the scowl and has now added verbal tsking, along with one pointer finger rubbing atop the other, the universal sign for “shame on you.”

  Halmoni doesn’t speak much English, and both Hannah and her mom are fluent in Korean, so she’s never really had to learn. Although this doesn’t stop her from lecturing me via Hannah.

  “Well, I guess I need more manduguk, then,” I say, most likely butchering the word.

  Halmoni walks over to me, her graying permed curls bouncing around her face, her countenance now one of approval. She pats me on the head and grabs my bowl to get me more.

  “So what now? Are you going to find another place to leave her ashes?” Hannah asks after her grandma walks away.

  I sigh and slump in my seat. Halmoni tsks me from the kitchen and I sit up straighter. The woman has eyes in the back of her head, I swear. Hannah and I could never get away with anything when we were younger. Not with Halmoni around. Sometimes she’d scold us for things we didn’t do, just in case we ever dared consider doing it.

  “I don’t think I could convince my family to spread them anywhere else, since that’s what my mom wanted,” I say.

  About a year before my mom started having trouble with her legs and her balance, we did a jump in southern Utah. On the same plane as us was a group of guys who’d recently lost a friend in a car accident. They went first, and we watched as they jumped together. They must have been experienced, because they knew how to jump in a formation—something my family and I had been practicing—linking arms together as they fell. Then one of them released their friend’s ashes into the sky.

  After we landed from our jump, my mom informed us through teary eyes that that was how she wanted her ashes spread after she died. She said if we were too old to do it, then we’d have to send her grandchildren up there to jump.

  When she got her official diagnosis and we found out it was terminal, one of the first things she did was remind us of that.

  “So when will you go again?” Hannah asks.

  “Not sure,” I say. “My dad says it’s up to me.”

  “And how will you not choke next time?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be just fine.” Even as I say this, though, I feel tendrils of fear twist around my insides. What is wrong with me?

  Halmoni sets down a fresh bowl of steaming hot soup in front of me. She points to it and says, “Eat.” And then pats me on the head again before walking away.

  “Can you like, practice?” Hannah asks.

  I scrunch my face. “I don’t think practicing will help. I’ve been doing this for years.”

  She twists her lips to the side as she thinks.

  “What about building up to it? You could start smaller or something. Go bungee jumping.”

  My eyes go wide. I hate bungee jumping and always have, and she knows this. “Jumping out of a plane is not the same as bungee jumping. That’s like apples and … something that’s not apples.”

  Now it’s Hannah’s turn to scrunch her face. “Oranges?”

  “I’m really tired.” This is the truth. Grief is draining.

  Hannah looks down at her nearly finished bowl of soup, twisting her lips again. “What about those indoor jumping places?”

  I shrug. “I guess. Also not the same. The truth is, I just need to get over myself.”

  “I’ve been saying this for years.” She gives me a smirk.

  “Yes, I know,” I say flatly.

  “So what if you can’t do it? What’s your plan?”

  I look to the side, contemplating. Hannah always asks the hard questions. I know I need to think about this, but I don’t really want to. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m forever Maggie the Chicken? I suppose I could strap myself to Devon and go tandem, since he’s certified to take other people. But it’s impossible to even out your jumps when you go tandem and others are going solo. You fall much faster when there are two of you strapped together. It won’t work for what my mom has asked us to do.

  “No plan, really. I just have to do it. I think I just need time. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Because it’s what Katherine Cooper wanted.” Hannah looks at me with soft eyes, the corners of her closed mouth upturned slightly.

  I think about the phone in my pocket; the last text I sent to my mom was me apologizing to her for failing her. I’m sure if she were here, she would tell me that I could never fail her, but it feels like I did all the same.

  ~*~

  “Hi, Dad,” I say as I walk into the cluttered home office where my dad’s sitting at his desk, his eyes glued to his computer screen.

  “Hey, Magpie.” He doesn’t even look in
my direction.

  After finishing my second bowl of soup at Hannah’s, for which I got a nod of approval from Halmoni, I popped over to my parents’ house—the place I’ve called home since I could barely say the word—to see what my dad’s up to. I also wanted to make sure that my mom’s phone is still sitting in its same location.

  It’s the first place my eyes went when I entered the room, and sure enough, it’s still there. Second shelf down, in one of the cubbies. It’s an older iPhone, with a case that has a cover attached to it. I never knew why my mom liked having a cover on her phone. It always seemed like an inconvenience to me—an extra step. The red faux-leather of the cover now has a dull look to it, with a thick layer of dust on top.

  Never have I ever felt appreciation for a layer of dust. But I do right now. It’s proof that the phone has sat there, untouched. My secrets are safe. It’s hard to believe that my mom will never hold that phone again. She’ll never answer a call, never send a text.

  “What are you up to?” I ask my dad as I take a step closer to him and look at the screen he’s been studying intently.

  I take a sharp breath inward. “Silver Match?” I say, my voice taking on a scratchy sound from my instantly dry throat.

  My dad is looking at a dating site. For old people. I knew this kind of thing existed, having looked at dating sites myself, but I didn’t know he’d have a clue about them. He’s not all that internet savvy. And he’s only been single for three months.

  My dad, who has been mostly in a trance since I got here, whips his head toward me, realizing what he’s looking at and that he just got caught looking at it.

  “It’s not what you think,” he says, the words spilling out of his mouth.

  “Well, it looks like you’re scrolling through single ladies on the internet,” I say, unable to keep my tone from sounding horrified.

  “Okay … then it is what you think.” He reaches up and rubs his jaw. Like he’s always done when he’s been caught.

  “Dad?”

  He sighs. “I’m not dating anyone. It’s just … well, you know June?”

  I almost laugh when he says that. Do I know June? Our neighbor down the street? The one who’s been in our neighborhood almost as long as we have?

  I nod my head. “Of course I know June,” I say. Her oldest son, Shane, used to pull my pigtails in the second grade.

  “Well, she’s been doing the single thing for a while now.”

  “Right,” I say.

  June has been single since my junior year of high school, when her husband, Roger, passed away unexpectedly.

  “Anyway, we got to talking,” my dad continues. “I told her I was curious what was out there, and she told me to have a look. So”—he motions toward the screen—“that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, I don’t want to date anyone, but it’s … more informational, that’s all.”

  My dad leans back in his seat, folding his arms. For nearly sixty, he’s in quite good shape. He’d probably look even younger if it weren’t for the almost-all-gray hair. He started graying early, right around the time that Devon was born. Although he’s not sure if it was something genetic or if Devon was the cause. I’d put money on the latter.

  “I thought you said you never wanted to date again?”

  “I did say that. And I still feel that way. It’s just … lonely.”

  I reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, feeling my heart do a sudden twisty thing. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “I have you kids, of course, but … it’s hard to come home to this big empty house sometimes.”

  Even though Mom has been gone for only three months, Dad has been coming home to an empty house for more than six. Since my mom went into the hospital and never came home.

  I swallow audibly, wanting to ask him a question but not sure I want the answer. “Did you find anyone … interesting?”

  My dad gives me a small smile. “No. Probably because no one compares to your mother. It was just out of curiosity mostly.”

  I feel relief wash over me. I want my dad to be happy. I just want him to be happy being alone for the rest of his life. Which is very selfish of me, I realize. But I’ve only just lost my mom; I don’t need to add a new wife for my dad into the mix. Would it be like a stepmom thing? I’m too old for that, right? Oh gosh. I hope it never gets to that.

  My dad stands up from his chair. “Don’t worry, Magpie. No one can replace your mom.”

  “I know that,” I say, feeling a lump in my throat make an appearance. This is a familiar feeling, unfortunately. I’ve cried so much throughout the past year, it’s become an unwanted companion of mine.

  “Well, that was enough looking around for me,” my dad says, pushing his chair back from his desk and standing up. “Ice cream?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  I take one last look at my mom’s phone before leaving the room. I have a lot to tell her in my next text.

  Chapter 3

  Maggie: Well, I started my period. Thanks, womankind, for this oh-so-precious gift of menstruating.

  It’s days like today that it really feels like you’re gone, Mom. I’m cramping and my boobs hurt and there’s no one to complain to that will actually listen or care. We both know Chelsea isn’t that person. And Dad and Devon are no help. Hannah and I cycle together, so she gets it but offers no support. As we all know, sympathy is not one of Hannah’s gifts.

  Here’s a tiny silver lining: my freaking out at the jump last week? It must have been PMS. Which makes me feel better, honestly. I’d thought I’d snapped or something. And obviously I still don’t want to do it because I’m on my period. Once it’s over, I’ll be back to the old me. Ready to fulfill your wishes.

  “Mom’s birthday.”

  I scream at the sound of a voice. My phone slips out of my hands, and I bat it around like a cat, trying to get a hold of it, before it lands on my knees and rolls down my leg, landing with a plop on the top part of my foot and then onto the floor under my desk.

  “Ow!” I say. The phone hit just the right spot—right on that bone on the top of my Vans-clad foot. It makes me want to both laugh and cry at the same time. I roll back my chair on the epoxy-finished cement floor of my office and reach down to pick up my phone, rubbing my foot before sitting back up.

  I look the phone over to inspect it and, sure enough, there’s a tiny little crack at the top of my screen protector.

  First my period and now this? I hate this day.

  “What?” I say to Chelsea, who’s missed this entire sequence as she’s staring at something on her phone. She’s wearing jeans and a company polo that says Cooper’s on the pocket. I never wear the polos from work, even though I have a bunch in all different colors. I like wearing my own T-shirts. Plus, I feel like polos make my shoulders look bulky. I’ve requested other shirts and even had some designed, but we haven’t gotten around to ordering them.

  Chelsea looks up at me, down at her phone, and then up at me again, like she’s forgotten why she’s even here. Mom brain, she calls it. I say it’s her brain starting to misfire from all her multitasking. She does the books for our family-run business, manages a household with two small girls, runs a charity that we do called Drives for Dreams, and still finds the time to be an exercise addict as well.

  “Mom’s birthday,” she repeats.

  “Yes … May fifteenth.” I wonder if I’m being quizzed or something. What an odd thing to say.

  She shakes her head. “Put it on your calendar; we’re jumping then,” she says, impatience in her voice like I’m supposed to read her mind.

  “What?” I ask, pulling my calendar app up on my phone and scrolling through three months to get to May. “Why so long? Can’t we just do it in a week or something?”

  I’m suddenly super annoyed. Didn’t Dad say I got to pick? I reach up and tug on the k pendant on my necklace. It feels like taking a big deep breath. But I take one of those too, fo
r good measure.

  “We have so much coming up with the anniversary party, Drives for Dreams, plus Mark and I are taking the girls to see his parents in April.” She ticks these things off on her fingers as she says them. Then she looks at me, wearily. “Last week really was the best time.”

  “Sorry,” I say for the umpteenth time. I really do feel horrible about what happened.

  I had a long discussion with Mom over the weekend, via her phone. And even though it was one-sided, I’m feeling better about the whole thing. Plus, like I was just telling her—before getting interrupted by Chelsea—the whole thing was most likely due to PMS. I’m pretty sure.

  Chelsea shakes her head in quick movements. “It’s fine,” she says. “Anyway, Dad and I think May will be a good time.”

  “You’ve already talked to Dad?”

  “Yes.” She nods once. “He thinks it’s a great day to do it. And …” she stops herself, her eyes moving around the room as if she’s trying to think of the words she wants to use. “We both think it will give you enough time to … you know.” She purses her lips. “Get your crap together. Devon used another word, but Mark and I are working on not cussing since Alice called Mark’s mom an ass last time we were there.”

  I snort laugh out my mouth. I love that story. If only I had that kid’s gumption. And in Alice’s defense, Mark’s mom is pretty terrible. At least, according to Chelsea she is.

  My smile drops as I realize something. “Wait … Devon was there too? So, what … you all had a meeting behind my back?” Annoyance pools in my belly. I suddenly feel like a fragile person who’s left out of conversations that might be “too hard” for me to handle. This is not who I am. I’m the middle child. The glue. Clearly, my family no longer sees me this way.

  Sure, I’ve taken my mom’s death the hardest of all of us. But that’s because Mom was my person. I talked to her every day. I told her nearly everything. I don’t have a family to keep me occupied, like Chelsea. And Devon is always busy doing whatever Devon does. Plus, boys don’t stay as close to home as girls do, or so I’ve been told.