Losing It Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    I hovered for a moment, and then wandered into the adjacent living room—a dim area with a cinnamon air-freshener smell and pashmina shawls draped over things. I sat down for a moment, then got up. I looked at a frame with a bunch of seashells hot-glued to it. I thought of our hands whirring over the cards. We’d had a few pleasant, polite phone conversations in the weeks leading up to my arrival, and I wouldn’t have thought it would be like this, like it was fifteen minutes later when we sat quietly across from each other at a long table in the red dining room under a badly tilting brass chandelier. She chewed quickly. Her hair was parted downthe middle and tied back. She had changed clothes—she was wearing a shirt with pastel handprints on it. Her nails were painted red and she looked abrasively clean.
    â€œWow, this all looks great,” I said.
    â€œGood,” said Aunt Viv. She arranged a napkin in her lap. She smiled. I smiled. I took a sip of my water.
    â€œI really like my room,” I said.
    â€œGood, good,” she said. She nodded expectantly, like I was supposed to say more. Like something more was supposed to happen in that moment.
    â€œI was looking at that poster,” I said. “Do you like jazz?”
    â€œYou do?” she said politely.
    â€œNo, I mean, do you? I was asking if you do.”
    â€œIf I . . .”
    â€œLike jazz. Jazz music. Are you a fan?”
    It dawned on her. She tried to shimmy herself into the conversation. “Oh, oh of course,” she said, waving her fork, squinting. “I’ve tried, you know?”
    â€œSure, yeah,” I said.
    She nodded and went back to her food.
    â€œDad says you paint plates?” I said.
    â€œYes,” she said, dabbing the side of her mouth with a napkin. “‘My little hobby,’ right?”
    â€œOh, no, no,” I said. “He didn’t say it like that.”
    She shrugged, and sawed at her chicken.
    â€œBut so, you do?” I said. “You do do that?”
    â€œI do, yes,” she said. “I do.” I had a flash of her cracking up withmy dad on the sidewalk outside our house as they tried to hold on to whipping and wheeling sheets of poster board in the wind. There are gray clouds in the background. She’s laughing helplessly, her eyes shining, their efforts futile against the forces.
    â€œDo you sell them?”
    â€œMore and more,” she said. “I do series, themes, you know. Different things each time. I’m trying to get it off the ground. But for now, for my day job, I still do hospice work.”
    â€œOh, okay,” I said. “What’s that like?”
    She shrugged. “Tiring.” She looked around. She had ramrod posture and a large forehead and a feminine, voluptuous face, but there was a shiny hardness there, too, as if there were steel rods beneath her skin.
    I turned my napkin over in my lap, took a sip of wine, flicked something off the table. I glanced up at the brass chandelier and wondered about the likelihood of it crashing to the table. The seconds ticked by.
    She seemed to remember I was there. She smiled brightly. “What do you think you’ll be doing here,” she said, “for the summer?”
    â€œWell, I have to get a job. But I’m also planning on writing an essay,” I said, surprising myself, the idea having only occurred to me right then.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes,” I said, “about swimming. About swimming culture. What it’s like. I don’t think there’s much out there—or at least I haven’t read much—about what it’s like. And I have that firsthand experience.”
    â€œOf course,” she said. She stared thoughtfully into the distance. “I remember that period of time. Hilary always talked about that. How driven you were. She was really impressed.”
    I shrugged and nodded.
    â€œShe’d talk about how