I was not so much startled by the fact that Trevor answered, which of course I’d been expecting, but rather by the way he answered, which was: “This is Irene Petrie’s residence.” He sounded practised and professional, like he’d been taking my mother’s calls his whole life.

“Hello there?” called Trevor.

“Hi, uh, Trevor, it’s Karen.”

“Karie-on-my-wayward-son!” Trevor bellowed. “Ya have a nice time with your pal?”

“I did! Listen, I thought I’d bring home a couple of chicken breasts for supper. Are you up for some chicken?”

“Oh, now, you don’t have to go cooking me supper!”

“No, it’s the least I can do to thank you for giving me the afternoon off,” I insisted. I decided to follow Trevor’s lead in pretending he hadn’t hinted I should do this very thing.

“Well, chicken sounds great. Why don’t I fire up the barbecue again and that way I can earn my vittles?”

“You shouldn’t have to lift a finger,” I argued. “You’ve been earning your keep all afternoon.”

“Spending time with my best girl is hardly earning my keep!”

I laughed a little, as if Trevor’s whole Kelli-as-girlfriend shtick was something novel at this point. “How’s she been?”

Trevor paused. I didn’t like that pause, coming after all the breezy banter.

“Well, now,” said Trevor. “At the moment, we seem to be having a bit of an issue.”

“What issue?”

“Let’s say, a slight bathroom issue.”

I closed my eyes. Kelli’s digestion. Kelli’s colon.

“What’s happening?”

“Well, she’s been in there for a while.”

“How long?”

“Maybe ten minutes. Says she’s got a tummyache.”

“Oh god.” I racked my brain. What did my mother do when this stuff happened? I had a memory of castor oil being massaged into Kelli’s cushiony abdomen, mine too every so often, but had that been for diarrhea? Or constipation? I couldn’t remember. With Trevor still in my ear, I headed to the Pharmacy section of the store.

“Trevor, sorry to have to ask this, but do you have a sense of what the problem is?”

“Oh yeah,” said Trevor. “I definitely have a sense. The whole neighbourhood has a sense by now.”

I went up and down the aisle, searching for Imodium. Would my mother give Kelli Imodium? She wasn’t big on pharmaceu­ticals. She liked her home remedies for this kind of thing. Castor oil, yogurt, black tea with sugar. But it seemed to me natural products wouldn’t be of much use if this was a full-on case of the shits. We’d been down that road before, my mother and I, and it had not been pretty.

“Oh no,” said Trevor, “I’m sure it’s just a little bout of something or the other.”

I’d been thinking out loud, I realized as I scoured the aisles. Out loud to Trevor. I’d found the Imodium, the Pepto-Bismol. Now I found myself standing in front of a display of adult diapers. I reached out and batted one of the packages, labelled LARGE, off the shelf and into my basket. I stood there another moment, scowling at the display — the cheerful and relaxed senior citizens depicted on the packaging, the brand names like Prevail and Serenity — and batted in a second one.