I wanted this to be a complaint: Mother went on a shopping spree again; Mother is angry I’m not coming for Sunday dinner; Mother is insisting on another dinner party and Dad wanted me to talk her out of it. A complaint.

Let this be a complaint.

“I found her, Ellie. In our bed. I found her. My God, why did I have to find her?”

I didn’t ask another question, because sometimes I don’t ask the question I don’t want to hear answered.

“Are you there? Can you hear me?” Dad’s voice bellowed through the phone line.

“Yes,” I said.

“She’s dead, Ellie. Your mother is dead.”

“I know,” I said because I did know. When I heard his voice I knew. Maybe when the bird flew into the window I knew. But I knew. “I’m on my way.” I hung up.

Rusty entered the kitchen in his fresh-pressed khakis, his white button-down. He held the AJC article about the art showing. The picture of Mother, Lil, and me stared out, mocking me for thinking all was well only twelve hours ago.

“Nice article,” he said. “They did a good job.” He then tossed the newspaper into the recycle bin.

I stared at my husband as if I didn’t know him, as if a stranger had just walked into my kitchen and spoken to me.

He shrugged in a “What is it?” gesture.

“Mother died,” I said in the same tone as if I’d just said, “Would you like some scrambled eggs?”

He came to me then, drawing me against him. “Oh, Ellie.”

I jerked away and walked toward the recycle bin, pulling out my article. “I was going to frame this for her.”

He cringed.

I threw it back into the bin. “Guess I won’t now.”

He reached for me, but I held up my hand. “I’ve got to get to Dad.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said, and swiped the car keys off the counter.

That day lasted longer than any other I’d lived to that moment, as if all bad days were piled one on top of the other and time had expanded to fit into their width and depth. When I entered my home that night, I walked straight outside to check on the cardinal, hoping of course against hope that it had flown away.

On the grass, fallen and red, the bird lay dead, and I wept.

Rusty finally found me lying in the grass. He helped me up and walked me inside with soothing noises one would make to an inconsolable child. The hours in between that moment and the funeral were times I remember with only a blurry fatigue of “doing” what was necessary to say good-bye.

Although I understood that in many ways I would never say good-bye to Mother.

Three

Three