This was the first Kelli-emergency in the aftermath of my mother’s death. And I’d thought I’d been braced for it to happen any day. But here I was, tearing up over a bout of diarrhea.

“Tell me what I can do,” said Trevor.

“Um,” I said. “You should go. I’m just gonna give her some Imodium and once, you know, the tap turns off I’ll get her into a diaper and put her to bed.”

“You’ll need something to eat.”

I laughed. “Oh god, who’s gonna eat after this!”

“You’ll need a bite later,” insisted Trevor. “And let’s face it, you may need some help getting her up off the toilet if she’s feeling weak.”

I couldn’t argue with this, even though I hated the thought of it. Once when Kelli had a fever I had to help her out of bed to the bathroom and she’d fallen on top of me and I’d barely been able to wriggle out from underneath her.

“I’ll go upstairs and barbecue that chicken,” said Trevor. “Keep out of your way while you get her looked after. I’ll cover it in tinfoil for later. But that way I’ll be nearby. Give me a shout when you’re ready to get her off the toilet and I’ll stand by, ok? Eyes averted, but ready with a helping hand!”

I nodded and Trevor gave me another stabilizing pat before heading upstairs, nabbing the grocery bag of chicken on his way. When I returned to the bathroom I removed the diapers and Imodium from the plastic bag and used it to deposit Kelli’s soiled pants and underwear, carefully lifting up one Kelli-foot and then the next, trying and not quite succeeding not to smear any on her feet and ankles.

As I was running a warm washcloth down her shins afterwards, Kelli gave me another glassy-eyed glance, which she held longer than was typical for her. I put it down to her exhaustion at first — thinking she was too worn out to follow her usual eye contact avoidance protocol. But no. It was just that she had a question for me.

She wanted to know when our mother was coming home.

9

I sat laughing across the kitchen table from Trevor. Trevor didn’t laugh along with me. He was the kind of guy, I was discovering, who liked his own jokes, but when other people joked he just sat waiting for their mirth to wear off so he could get back to the conversation at hand.

Or maybe my joke wasn’t all that funny. It hadn’t actually even been a joke, but more of a gut-busting (to me) turn of phrase relating to what I had to do next when it came to Kelli’s future.

That phrase being, Shit or get off the pot.

I gasped and pressed my eyes with Kleenex. Sometimes, when something strikes me as being as funny as shit or get off the pot did at this particular moment, I lose all control. My eyes swell shut and start to pour tears and I hyperventilate and sometimes even hiccups come, which make me laugh all the harder. I could see Trevor becoming impatient so I struggled to get myself under control. It wasn’t hard. There is nothing that kills a laughing jag more efficiently than a strained, testy smile from the person sitting across from you.