“Ohmygoodness.” Rechy rushes to speak. “You picked up, yay, you picked up. How are you?”

T

he carnations are dead.

I only know they are carnations because of the card Rechy sent along. These are carnations, water once a week. It is a dry sort of plant. Take care of it.

It’s the third week of flowers showing up on my doorstep. I know they're from Rechy, and I know I should say thank you, but I don’t.

I think she thinks that sending me something pretty every week would somehow help me, make me feel better. It’s a stupid plan.

Ha. I shake my head and dump the drooping flowers in the garbage.

The jarring ringtone confuses me, and it takes me a full minute to realize that I have to pick up.

That is how phones work, Leah’le, I chide myself. Just because everything else is different doesn’t mean that phones aren’t still the same.

“Ohmygoodness.” Rechy rushes to speak. “You picked up, yay, you picked up. How are you?”

“Are you dancing?” I ask her. “Your voice sounds like you’re dancing.”

I lean on the counter of my big empty kitchen. The lights closed and the window shades shut. My bones are tired, my heart is tired.

“I’m preparing supper now.”

I make a sound. Rechy can choose to interpret it however she pleases.

“Leah’le, what are you making for supper?” I don’t think she’s actually interested; I think she just wants to hear me talk so she knows I’m still here, still okay.

The past three weeks have been yogurt-and-eggs-and-bagels-for-supper kind of weeks. “Nothing, eggs maybe, I don’t know.” I sit down on the kitchen floor before my legs can buckle.

Surprisingly, Rikki and Heshy have not complained about their supperless suppers.

Rechy launches into a detailed description of her exact menu for today. I tune out. It’s not intentional; it’s just what happens. I have nothing against my sister. But her voice is just so enthusiastic, and it makes me feel weak.

“Chicken and garlic and crumbs with rice and the cream of chicken soup Yossi loves.”

She explains how you coat the cutlets as if I have never done it before.

“That sounds nice.” I tell her. My voice comes out choked.

“Are you okay? Like, all the way okay?”

If I close my eyes, I can see her in her kitchen dipping her cutlets in batter.

“Leah’le.” She is trying so hard to be patient and joyful, and I am making it hard.

“I’m good.” I assure her. “I am really good, don’t worry, baby sister.”

There is a space where neither of us talks. I close my eyes. Everything is dark and as close to peaceful as it can be. I breathe.

“So you’re making eggs,” she says, humor in her tone.