Phantom Limbs Read Online Free PDF Page A

dad said quietly. “Could you pass the chili flakes?”
    “They are?” My mom’s eyes flicked to him, sharp, accusing. She didn’t hand him the chili flakes, which were right in front of her, so I reached across and slid them toward my dad. “How do you know?” she asked him. “How much are you talking to him?”
    “I’m not! He mentioned it in his message, that’s all.” My dad picked up the chili flakes and sprinkled them over his pasta so carefully that I was pretty sure he was more worried about setting my mom off than over-spicing his spaghetti. His defensiveness made me wonder if he missed Jay. He must. But my mom was the primary force in his life and we all knew it. He would probably do anything to keep her happy — even giving up a good friend. That didn’t seem fair to me.
    “Well,” my mom said, reaching for the salad bowl, “I don’t see why Meg would want to be up here. She obviously left it all behind when they moved.”
    You could cut the subtext with a knife.
    Something out the dining-room window caught my eye and I glanced up. The kid next door was running after a soccer ball that had rolled into our yard. He dribbled the ball back toward his yard, but his dad rushed in and tried to steal it. Their legs tangled and the boy tumbled to the ground, flinging his arms out dramatically and playing dead. Laughing, his dad pulled him up.
    My dad used to laugh.
    I watched him twirling pasta onto his fork. “Dad? How long have Jay and Karen been separated? Do you know?”
    He shook his head. My mom watched him for a long moment, then stabbed some salad onto her fork. It was so quiet after that I could hear the chewing.
    After practice I had a message from Meg. I read it in the locker room, which did nothing to slow down my post-workout heart rate. Then I endured an interminable six-minute drive home with Dara before I could tear up to my room and open it on my computer:
    I know, it’s kind of crazy. I can’t believe my dad’s really moving back.
    FYI, I’ll be back June 11. We’re staying in that Extended Stay hotel at 43rd and Sanders. You know the one.
We used to pass it on our bikes. I’m there for three weeks, and then I have to be back after the Fourth.
    I will wisely take you up on that tour, if you were serious.
    For a casual message, it pretty much knocked the wind out of me. I was still reeling from the fact that after three years of silence, here she was, talking to me. And she wanted to see me — I reread that last line about the tour until it was seared on my brain, smiley face and all. And she had referenced Mason, sort of: those bike rides were our unauthorized visits to the cemetery.
    One month. She’d be back in town in one month. It seemed unreal. I wrote:
    I definitely was serious about the tour. June 11, OK. I have a swim meet on the 25th. You’re welcome to come to it, if you want to.
    I considered deleting that. It seemed stupid. Why would she want to come to my fucking swim meet? But I wanted to make it clear that I wanted to see her, and the joke about the tour seemed too easy for her to dismiss.
    I stared at my message, then finally hit Send.
    I tried to study for my calc test while I waited for a response. Finally, at eleven, it came:
    I’d love to come to the swim meet, if I can. So hard to imagine you swimming! In a Speedo and everything? I can’t picture it.
    Just the word “Speedo,” coming from her, sent an electric jolt through me. Did she realize I wasn’t exactly the same skinny little weakling I was when she last saw me? Still, the idea of her thinking about me almost naked gave me palpitations. I
had
to look better naked than Football Guy. A swimmer and a football player? Please. Bring it on.
    Oh God — had she seen him naked?
    Must. Stop. Thinking.
    I couldn’t come up with a single safe thing to say. Ultimately I just wrote:
    I’m looking forward to seeing you. It’s been a long time.
    Saturday morning after practice, I showered and dressed, then