“Maybe because Vincent insisted he do all the decision-making—”

“Or because I let him—”

“—Or because he liked it that way, Ammalie! Cripes, you sometimes drive me crazy.” Mari’s voice verged on angry now. “You’ve been working your whole life, and, might I add, at a job you stayed at because it was convenient for Vincent and Powell; you could have gone back to school, you could have done anything—”

“I liked waitressing; some people actually like it.” Ammalie felt the bark in her voice and took a breath. “And I liked getting out of the house at night, in those early days, so that Vincent had to do the nighttime parenting; heh, the only way to get some men to engage is to leave the vicinity.” But she knew she was telling a half-truth. It had simply been the easiest path.

“No, you did it because it made life easier for Vincent, who wanted life made simple for him. You married a mildly controlling man. Or not so mildly! I know you hate hearing that, Ammalie, but he wasn’t always good for you.” Mari sneezed again, and then again, and then there was the sound of the blowing of a nose.

“I am telling you, I actually liked waitressing. People-watching and good-enough money and come on, Mari, you know it was a cool place! Low-key! And that Burt was the best. And needed me. And also, you don’t sound so good.”

In agreement, Mari let out a hacking cough, and then managed, “Well, I’m going through a divorce, I have a cold, there are nuclear weapons, and all that stuff we used to protest together still exists, and it gets me down because it should get me down and we’re all tired.”

Ammalie crunched a peanut from her Chex mix in her teeth. “Remember our dating days? Music and beer and lots of boyfriends. Surely we had colds then, but that’s not what I remember. We were having too much fun.”

“Yes.”

“We didn’t realize.”

“We did not.”

“The world was lighter, and yet, we felt everything so deeply. But talk about reckless! We’d fall in love with married men. We’d have flings. We’d say, ‘Well, I can’t control my emotions!’ That was our excuse for everything.”

Mari snorted and finished the thought. “You can’t control emotions. But also, not a good idea to let them control you. That’s what maturity teaches you.”

“I hate being a grown-up.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we went too far with that, though. That responsibility thing. I’m going to go back to letting my emotions control me for a brief while.” Ammalie scrunched her face, as if saying this truth physically hurt. “You wanna know the hardest thing? Being the only one responsible. Like, the added need for competency. No room for error, no copilot, no one to turn to with a look that means, Well, you figure it out. But also, the bigger tragedy is this: For the first time ever, I feel I’ve figured out how to live, but there’s no one to notice. I know how to autopay my bills. I know how to cook on Dude.”

“I know how to light a grill!”

“Operate my iPad.”

“Which cords go to which things.”

“And where those cords are.”

“Exactly,” Mari said. “We’ve figured out how to be.”

“And I’m finished parenting, which has rendered me into a more patient, understanding, compassionate person.”

Mari went quiet, and Ammalie put her forehead against her steering wheel. When, for the love of god, was she going to stop saying stupid things?

“I wouldn’t say you’re finished parenting,” Mari said. “Powell still needs you. Even if he is being a shit.”

“I know,” Ammalie said. “Thank you.”

Mari coughed. “We’re awesome, we know it—that will have to be enough. I gotta go make tea. What’s your word of the day?”

“Empyreal. The highest heaven. Pertaining to the sky. That was yesterday’s word, but it’s prettier than today’s word, which is plaguey, as in, plaguey, as in, vexatious.”

“Nice. Have an empyreal time, my friend. Don’t be plaguey.”

“Mari? It will be weeks before I call in.”

Mari’s voice was suddenly plaguey. “Weeks?”

“No cell service where I go next.”

“Weeks?”

“It’s a sweet off-grid cabin I rented!” Ammalie heard a tremor of nervousness in her own voice. “I know you love and support me. And I love you.”

Mari made a sound of resignation. “Okay, friend. I get it. I guess. Go forth—”

“—and kick ass. May the force be with ya and all that jazz.” Ammalie smiled, grateful for how old friends shared your history of phrases or axioms or idioms that made sense to you both.

—

When she called Apricot to say the same thing—no cell for weeks, this being the real turning point of her adventure—Apricot, in her trademark loud, gruff voice, said, “Whatya gonna do if you choke on an apple and there’s no one there to whack your back?”

“I promise to chew my food well.”

“What if you cut your head?”

“I’ll bandage it.”

“What if you have…I dunno, a stroke?”

A buzzing ring filled Ammalie’s ears at such a high pitch that she could barely hear Apricot saying, “Jeez Louise, I can’t believe I just said that, Sis. It just sounds scary.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ammalie found herself saying, though tears were rising, not so much over the comment about strokes but because Apricot was speaking the truth. It had all been scary, and suddenly seemed more so, but what she said was, “You wouldn’t think it was scary if I was a man.”

Apricot made a concession-like sound. “Men. They get to have all the adventures. And then you’re doing what? Going to New Mexico to drop off some pottery shards?”

“Arizona.”

“To put back what Vincent took years ago? To a place he never invited you to?”

“Right. And…yeah, he felt like a shit for picking them up. He always intended to put them back. It will bring his soul peace. It’s one thing I can do for him.”

Apricot’s voice sounded huskier than ever. “You coulda mailed them back to some official, probably.”

“Naw, I need to put them back. But listen, how are you feeling?”

“Never better, and you take care, kid,” and with that, her sister hung up.