Chapter 33
One morning, as I am brushing my teeth, a spider skitters into the sink.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen her. She has been in my bathroom spinning webs for a few weeks.
I try not to kill bugs unless it’s absolutely necessary (the black fly, mid-bite).
Even back in the city, when I came across a cockroach, I would trap it in a jar and release it out a window or onto the sidewalk.
I figure you never know who you’re dealing with, and it’s best to be gracious, lest they return the favor someday.
So as I watch this spider flirt with the drain, I decide it’s time to usher her to safety.
I grab an empty Q-tip box and encourage the spider into it, closing the paper flap to seal her inside until I can find a suitable place to release her.
When I get to the porch, I find my father sitting in his chair.
“What do you have there?” he asks.
“A spider.”
“For the serpent to eat?”
I cock my head in confusion. “What serpent?”
My father looks around. “He was just here.”
“Who was? You mean a snake?” Alarmed, I start to flip over the cushions of the wicker couch with my free hand, bracing myself for what I might find.
“They’re gone, I suppose,” says my father.
“Who? Who’s they?”
“The blond kid was here to visit, and he brought a snake. Coconut.”
My fingers clench around the Q-tip box as I realize that my father has once again been visited by Seth, this time in the company of the long-deceased snake, whose name, I’m certain, I never shared with my father.
This time, I don’t waste precious seconds by questioning whether what my dad saw was real.
I simply ask: “What did you and Seth talk about? What did he say?”
“He was happy to see the loons are back. Coconut is doing splendidly. Something about a cricket…”
“What?” I yell, knowing that means me. “What about a cricket?”
“What?” My father looks confused.
“What did he say about Cricket?” I’m practically shouting at him now.
“About a cricket? What do you mean?” It’s gone. He has lost the train of thought, and Seth has slipped away again. My heart sinks.
We are quiet for a minute and then my father looks toward the box and asks, “What do you have there?”
“A spider,” I repeat. Crestfallen, I lift the flap of the box so the arachnid can make its escape onto the railing of the porch.
I’m frustrated, but with whom? My forgetful father? My ex-boyfriend’s ghost? Whatever conversation they are having, I want to be part of it.
That night, I have the same dream I had on the eve of Nina’s departure last summer.
Again, I cough up my own heart and catch it in my hand. “Can I live without this?” I ask passersby, who shrug. But this time, a familiar face emerges from the crowd. It’s Seth—still floppy-haired, still seventeen. (Always seventeen.)
“Do I still need this?” I ask him with more urgency, shoving my heart toward him.
He just smiles and says, “You’ll see.”