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Ah, yes, I remember. You looked so proud as you zipped that coat up to Kate’s chin. Only the best for my princess, you said, and I twisted my apron until my knuckles turned white. Then you said, I’ll be right back.
The smell of hospitals makes me sick, but I came because I thought you’d want to know: That coat was a shoddy rough-patched mess, and being “real” doesn’t make something nice. Sure it was soft, but it smelled like our cat, who’d died a few months earlier, though you wouldn’t have known.
I’m sorry this is the end for you, and I’m sorry you’re looking so cracked and pale, but I thought you might also want to know: Kate’s bag was packed and ready at the curb; With chalk she drew stick figures while she waited on the driveway; Her face rose and fell as each car passed. It was years ago, I know, but can you picture it now as though you were there? As though you’d come back? Perhaps this will help: Her chalk-smudged fingers caressed that coat; Her little arms crossed to hug the fur; She shook her head when I called her inside; In her stick figure drawing, she was holding your hand.
Last week she said she visited you (What a sweet, kind girl she’s always been – who the hell knows where she got it from). But she didn’t bring Jacob and so you asked, doesn’t a dying man deserve to see his grandson? Well, I’m not here to pass judgment on that, but did you know she wouldn’t stop wearing that coat? Wore it through the summer though it made her sweat? Wore it because it was a coat for princesses? On the days she got quiet, thinking of you, she’d run her fingers along those fissures, along those gaps between segments of pelt. Can you see the cracks? she asked me once. Forgive me, I don’t recall my answer – it was so long ago.
I guess I came so I could have the last word, but God that was dumb because you’ll just keep talking. When your body’s in the ground, Kate will take Jacob to a petting zoo, and there will be a rabbit and Kate won’t touch it. Jacob will say, but Mommy, it’s so soft, and Kate will say, even so.
I suppose I should say something nice while I’m here. What did Kate say? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Words shouldn’t be taken so seriously, we know, since what is soft can also be dead. Anyway, I’m feeling a bit thirsty now and didn’t I see a vending machine down in the lobby? Give me a moment, will you please? I promise I’ll be right back.
About Andrea Lynn Koohi
Andrea Lynn Koohi is a Canadian writer with work appearing or forthcoming in Passages North, Bending Genres, Lost Balloon, Pithead Chapel, filling Station, Flash Frog Magazine, Whale Road Review and others. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions, and was selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction 2022.
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