Excerpt: Passing Through

The suitcase was standing upright near the front door, next to Maggie’s walking shoes and the two canes she planned to take along—her everyday ugly one and the fancier, Amish-crafted one she used when the boys took her out to a nice dinner at the Coney Island.

Anne had helped her pack her things the day before, after Maggie had called in tears. How strange, she thought, to need so many of the same things that she hadn’t had to think of since taking the kids on trips all those fistfuls of years ago. Food that wouldn’t upset the stomach, blouses with the easiest buttons, diapers. Maggie’s fingers had had the right idea in their fumbling. It would have been better if these wretched realties had remained tucked away.

Somewhere in the night, Maggie woke with a start. Her hands couldn’t reach the bedside table where her glasses were kept, and unable to see she struggled to catch her breath. A pain in her chest made her have nasty thoughts. Wouldn’t that be a laugh, she said to herself, focusing on the ins and outs of her lungs. Samantha drives all the way from Wyoming and of all the kids is the one to find me dead.

She lay awake until the sun came up, refusing to let her little ugly joke turn into something real.