A year after the snap that nobody cheered, Lisa hosted Cole’s birthday in the backyard with a sheet cake and no television. Pam came. Mike came without Rick, by agreement. Rick came at four for the gift and the song and left at four-twenty. Cole blew the candles. Nobody said make a wish out loud. Wishes were contaminated by lock screens. They ate cake. Derek ate two pieces. Lisa counted that as a cheer. Counting was still the method.
Rick’s apartment was a rental near the clinic he no longer worked. He had a couch that was not Mike’s and a rule about no guests when Cole was there. The rule held. Cole said the apartment smelled like new paint. Rick said it was. They ordered pizza. The report remained pizza. Lisa, hearing it, said as long as there is a vegetable sometimes. Cole said there was a topping. She accepted toppings. Standards had to be portable.
In the fall a woman at Lisa’s work asked if she was dating. Lisa said no. The woman said you should. Lisa said I should finish a wall first. The woman did not understand. Pam understood. The wall was done. The sentence meant the inside. The inside was not on a schedule. Lisa went home and muted a game Cole had on and sat with him anyway. He said you don’t have to watch. She said I know. I am sitting. Sitting was the offer. He leaned a shoulder into her arm for a minute and then pretended he had not. Thirteen. She pretended with him. The pretending was kindness. The jersey on the screen was not theirs. Theirs was in a bag or a drawer. The room was still a room.
Two years on, Cole asked to wear the replica to a school day. Lisa said yes. The yes surprised her. The shirt was clothes. The father was a Saturday. The categories had separated enough to allow cotton. Cole wore it. Nobody at school knew the banister. He came home and put it in the wash himself. The wash was a grown act. Lisa let it be his. She did not stand over the machine. Standing over had been the phone. She was done standing over. She was not done remembering.