July 2002


Abby


What was the last thing you said to me?
Something about the weather.
Not very poignant, but you didn't know. You thought you'd be back in an hour. I could see the orange Lycra straps of your tank top criss-crossed in the back before you pulled your jacket on and opened the front door. The detective asked me later if I remembered what you were wearing. An orange tank top, I told him. Black leggings, black windbreaker.
You wanted to get in a run before it started raining. I could always count on you to know the forecast. You'd say things like, "Put mittens in your backpack, Abby. It's going to snow." Or "Don't forget your sunscreen, Sis!" You were always prepared.
In the doorway, holding one foot behind you in some sort of runner's stretch, you said, "You should rest. Pretty soon you can kiss sleep goodbye. When my niece gets here."
"Or nephew." Sitting on the couch, I shifted my belly, pulled your yellow fleece blanket up to my chin. When my OB/GYN had asked if I wanted to know the gender, I said no. It made it too real. You would have found out. You liked to know everything. When I was seven, you showed me your old Ouija board, rested your fingertips lightly on the plastic dial, and told me about how, when you were a kid, you would try to ask the spirits what you were going to be when you grew up, where and when you'd meet the man of your dreams, how you'd ultimately die. Seven-year-old me asked the spirits if Mom and Dad would let me get a hamster-which they totally didn't, because I'm the daughter who forged Dad's signature to explain my missing homework, who ran myself a bath and then got distracted watching TV and let it overflow, who opened my Christmas presents when our parents weren't looking and then tried to re-wrap them.
A niece. You knew. You knew you knew.
With the front door open, I could see bruised clouds hanging low in the sky, the sun beginning its slow descent for the summer night. I said, "It looks ugly out." Pregnant at eighteen. Maybe I should have asked the Ouija board some more serious questions about my future.
You slid your windbreaker over your shoulders. Smiled. Zipped. Said, "I can outrun this storm. See you in an hour." You turned. Your dark ponytail swung.