Chapter 23
I hadn’t heard anything from Janine since sending the chapters about my parents two weeks ago.
I struggled to face the project after the gun incident.
It felt like an omen, a death wish. Whose death, it wasn’t clear.
I wondered why my mom didn’t just get rid of the gun herself.
I knew it’d crossed her mind, just disappearing it then playing dumb.
Either way, these were problems I didn’t particularly want to think about.
My final revisions for Milken’s workshop were due soon.
I wrote for several uninterrupted hours, toying with the idea of turning Amira’s story into a novel.
But in some ways the project was destined to fail to do what I hoped.
As Milken reminded us, most of it would have to be cut to fit comfortably between the covers of this object called a book.
By nature, a container. But in art, in life, love, I was chasing something that spilled out in your hands.
I looked at the time and remembered I told Jay I’d call him back hours ago.
He didn’t pick up the first time, so I tried him again. When he answered, I could tell he was with a woman.
“You can call me later,” I said.
“Oh, um. Okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
He paused. “Nothing, nothing.” A door cracked open, then closed. “You’re still coming for Christmas, right?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. I was just checking.”
“How’s your dad’s knee?” After falling down the steps in front of his house, Mr. Wright had been having problems on and off for the past year.
“He has to get surgery.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I paused. “You know you don’t have to act like this.”
“Act like what?”
“Like you’re committing murder.”
There was a long pause. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A voice said something inaudible through the door, muffled, pitch of concern. “Hey, can I—can we talk tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
The call ended, my screen going dark.