Army of Lovers by K.M. Soehnlein

Author:K.M. Soehnlein
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bywater Books

I Will Survive

Does the virus take a vacation? No, but Derek’s therapist says he, or actually we should. Together. I don’t actually know what happens in therapy. Derek doesn’t tell me much. He said he started off talking about me, but since everything’s good between us (really?), he’s been focusing on his mother. He knows she loves him, but why, why does she criticize, second-guess, insist he’s wrong all the time?

“Maybe she’s changing,” I suggest. “She came to Mom’s funeral.”

“It’s not about what she does, it’s about how I respond to her.”

This sounds like a line he’s memorized, but it also sounds like the truth.

It’s early September. His car isn’t working; it’s last-minute to make a reservation; my Visa is full. But Dr. Essen, Derek’s therapist, says these are minor obstacles and tells him, you can solve this.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“Surprise me,” I tell him.

And he does, with a note (Pack for the beach. Don’t forget sunblock.), a train ticket to Sayville, and my Adventurers Camp for Boys t-shirt, folded neatly.

• • •

Before I go out to Fire Island, I meet with my family to say good-bye to Michelle, who’s leaving for college. They drive into the city and meet me at Kiev, on Second Avenue, a restaurant crammed with wobbly tables and chairs whose vinyl seat cushions are all cracked, more down and out than they likely expected when I suggested brunch.

“What happened to you?” Lisa asks, looking at the split in my lip, the bruised side of my face.

“Nothing to worry about,” I say.

“Was this a police thing again?”

I shake my head and point to the menu. “You should try the pierogi.”

My sisters share a concerned look, but they go ahead and order—cheese blintzes—while Dad chooses the pierogi, which he says he hasn’t eaten since he and Mom had one of their first dates at a Ukrainian street fair. We joke about her unadventurous eating habits—all those buttery egg noodles and iceberg lettuce salads—and her nervous driving, and her penchant for nicknames like The Odd Couple. I share with them the story of Mom and the bunny rabbit in Ireland; Lisa and Michelle had the same exchange with her during that last week. Whatever it was, that image was the final fixation of her life.

Dad clears his throat. Says there’s something else. “She had a life insurance policy through her job, and you’re each getting fifteen thousand dollars.”

I manage a whoa or a wow or some similar stupefied reaction; this is an extraordinary amount of money. I barely earned more than that last year.

“I don’t want it,” Lisa says. “It’s blood money.” Her face is pained but firm. Next to her, Michelle has cast her eyes downward.

“I guess I don’t see it that way,” I say carefully.

“If she wasn’t dead, we wouldn’t be getting it.”

Dad says, “Your mother worked that job, in part, for the benefits. She named you on her policy because she wanted to take care of you. It’s a gift.”

“Maybe I’ll give it to the American Cancer Society,” Lisa says.

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