Page 62 of In a Word, Yes

My bag vibrates.

Dad

Yeah, tiger! Mom says send it to her email. Same goes for me.

Before I can even return my phone to my bag, another text comes in, this one from Vanessa. Which is super random, considering we haven’t connected much lately.

Send it to me too!

Send ... what? I scroll up. Fiddlesticks! I chose the family thread that includes all of us. My body tenses. I scour my memory for anything in the piece I wrote last night that wasn’t meant for my sister’s eyes. Anything that might draw her judgment or that she might take offense to. Had she resented the closeness of my relationship with Nana? I never thought to wonder about this.

And then I cluck my tongue and, one by one, dismiss these concerns. I was never designed to run interference for everyoneelse’s feelings, all the time, every day. Can’t even begin to get myself hyped up for it. Even for family. It’s too much work. I’m exhausted.

But that doesn’t mean my sister and I can’t be close. In fact, maybe this isn’t a bad place to start.

Twenty-One

flabbergast(v.): to overwhelm with shock, surprise, or wonder

Minutes later, I all but float over the threshold of theMessenger. I am a woman unfettered, learning to accept things as they come. Ready to write about it all.

Each boot step makes a hollow sound as I cross the lobby’s weathered floor. The cowbells echo eerily behind me. Something feels off.

Dot pops her head out of her office, coral lips cinched together in a tight line. With a vigorous shake of her stubby pigtails, she gestures to Sam’s closed door.

What in the ...You’d think Sam’s bear mount came back to life and was on the loose in there.

Straightaway I prop my rear on the corner of her desk and cross my arms. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Something’s up. He’s being super ... well, hold on to your elf hat. When I got here this morning, he’ddone the dishes. Scoured every mug—with baking soda. The man is out of it.”

“Interesting. Not his own cup, though.” It’s a statement, butmaybe a question also. Cleaning Sam’s coffee mug is a capital offense. It’s like he thinks his mojo is all tied up in the coffee-stain buildup.

At Dot’s slow nod, I raise my brow. “Maybe he’s just extra high on life?”

“And he’s too quiet. Hasn’t spoken a word. I’m worried, Lucy.”

“Something to do with Noleen, maybe.”

“I’m wondering.”

Dot doesn’t have to wait long for an answer, even if I’m left hanging. At 9:00 a.m., Sam summons her into his office. I hear his low mumble just before she tugs the door closed behind her.

And then, silence.

Shifting my focus to something less anxiety-laden, I review notes from my interview with a group of local citizens organizing a volunteer ride-share program. How cool is this—drivers donating time and gas to make sure seniors can get to their medical appointments. My heart tingles.

A deep scraping noise behind me. The editor in chief’s door being muscled open. Ugh. The handyman isn’t coming to fix the door until next week. Dot exits red-nosed, dabbing her eyes. She shoots me a pained look and heads to her office.

A moment later, Sam’s voice blares over the phone system, summoning Brad. A much shorter meeting, this. Within minutes Brad reemerges, glowering, and retreats to his cave down the hall at a speed I didn’t know he possessed.

Next, Sam pages Meg. Between this and the fact that Dot remains uncharacteristically buttoned up about whatever is going on, I conclude that Sam (a) plans to speak to each of us in order of seniority, and (b) expects confidentiality.

By this measure, my own meeting should come next.

Meg’s meeting lasts an excruciating twelve minutes. By 9:35 a.m., when she forces the door shut behind her, I’ve already gone through a week’s worth of cheesy pretzel mix.

Minutes tick by. Finally, Sam’s office door thuds open and I flinch. Here it comes, my summons.