Perfect Girl - Weebly

Aunt Marty brings my mother Little Debbie crumb
cakes and orange spice tea. She gathers damp wads of used
Kleenex and throws them away. She wipes her sister’s face
with a cool wet washcloth and rocks her while she sobs.
Mostly, I feel numb. I listen to CDs, set the table, do my
homework, make room in the refrigerator for all the food
that keeps arriving, but I’m detached from it all. Like I’m
floating above me, watching myself do stuff.
“How is your mother doing?” Mrs. Fannerife asks, holding
a casserole dish.
“She’s okay,” I say.
Mr. Perwit, our next-door neighbor, shows up with a
bowl of peaches from his backyard tree.
“Is your mom hanging in there?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
The truth is, I’m not sure how anyone is doing. The real
world seems miles away from anything I recognize. I keep
waiting to rejoin myself.
In the days following his passing, I learn more about
Mr. Arthur than I ever knew while he was alive. Though I
should have guessed, he doesn’t have anyone but us. The
possessions in his room fill two big boxes. That’s it. And, his
last name is Arthur. His first name is Randolf, and his
middle name is Eugene. Randolf Eugene Arthur had asked
to be cremated and have his ashes sprinkled at the base of
Mom’s yellow Towne and Country rosebushes.
169