Gillian Flynn - Gone Girl:

“It’s not Kool-Aid,” Go said. “It’s beer. Kool-Aid seemed a little too regressive.”

“This is very nurturing and strange of you, Go.”

“You’re cooking tomorrow.”

“Hope you like canned soup.”

She sat down on the couch next to me, stole a chip from my plate, and asked, too casually: “Any thoughts on why the cops would ask me if Amy was still a size two?”

“Jesus, they won’t fucking let that go,” I said.

“Doesn’t it freak you out? Like, they found her clothes or something?”

“They’d have asked me to identify them. Right?”

She thought about that a second, her face pinched. “That makes sense,” she said. Her face remained pinched until she caught me looking, then she smiled. “I taped the ball game, wanna watch? You okay?”

“I’m okay.” I felt awful, my stomach greasy, my psyche crackling. Maybe it was the clue I couldn’t figure out, but I suddenly felt like I’d overlooked something. I’d made some huge mistake, and my error would be disastrous. Maybe it was my conscience, scratching back to the surface from its secret oubliette.

Go pulled up the game and, for the next ten minutes, remarked on the game only, and only between sips of her beer. Go didn’t like grilled cheese; she was scooping peanut butter out of the jar onto saltines. When a commercial break came on, she paused and said, “If I had a dick, I would fuck this peanut butter,” deliberately spraying cracker bits toward me.

“I think if you had a dick, all sorts of bad things would happen.”

She fast-forwarded through a nothing inning, Cards trailing by five. When it was time for the next commercial break, Go paused, said, “So I called to change my cell-phone plan today, and the hold song was Lionel Ritchie—do you ever listen to Lionel Ritchie? I like ‘Penny Lover,’ but the song wasn’t ‘Penny Lover,’ but anyway, then a woman came on the line, and she said the customer-service reps are all based in Baton Rouge, which was strange because she didn’t have an accent, but she said she grew up in New Orleans, and it’s a little-known fact that—what do you call someone from New Orleans, a New Orleansean?—anyway, that they don’t have much of an accent. So she said for my package, package A …”

Go and I had a game inspired by our mom, who had a habit of telling such outrageously mundane, endless stories that Go was positive she had to be secretly fucking with us. For about ten years now, whenever Go and I hit a conversation lull, one of us would break in with a story about appliance repair or coupon fulfillment. Go had more stamina than I did, though. Her stories could drone on, seamlessly, forever—they went on so long that they became genuinely annoying and then swung back around to hilarious.

Go was moving on to a story about her refrigerator light and showed no signs of faltering. Filled with a sudden, heavy gratefulness, I leaned across the couch and kissed her on the cheek.

“What’s that for?”

“Just, thanks.” I felt my eyes get full with tears. I looked away for a second to blink them off, and Go said, “So I needed a triple-A battery, which, as it turns out, is different from a transistor battery, so I had to find the receipt to return the transistor battery …”

We finished watching the game. Cards lost. When it was over, Go switched the TV to mute. “You want to talk, or you want more distraction? Whatever you need.”

“You go on to bed, Go. I’m just going to flip around. Probably sleep. I need to sleep.”

“You want an Ambien?” My twin was a staunch believer in the easiest way. No relaxation tapes or whale noises for her; pop a pill, get unconscious.

“Nah.”

“They’re in the medicine cabinet if you change your mind. If there was ever a time for assisted sleep …” She hovered over me for just a few seconds, then, Go-like, trotted down the hall, clearly not sleepy, and closed her door, knowing the kindest thing was to leave me alone.

A lot of people lacked that gift: knowing when to fuck off. People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don’t reach my lips. She looks nice today , I’d think, but somehow it wouldn’t occur to me to say it out loud. My mom talked, my sister talked. I’d been raised to listen. So, sitting on the couch by myself, not talking, felt decadent. I leafed through one of Go’s magazines, flipped through TV channels, finally alighting on an old black-and-white show, men in fedoras scribbling notes while a pretty housewife explained that her husband was away in Fresno, which made the two cops look at each other significantly and nod. I thought of Gilpin and Boney and my stomach lurched.

In my pocket, my disposable cell phone made a mini-jackpot sound that meant I had a text:

im outside open the door

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

APRIL 28, 2011

DIARY ENTRY

Just got to keep on keeping on , that’s what Mama Mo says, and when she says it—her sureness, each word emphasized, as if it really were a viable life strategy—the cliché stops being a set of words and turns into something real. Valuable. Keep on keeping on, exactly! I think.

I do love that about the Midwest: People don’t make a big deal about everything. Not even death. Mama Mo will just keep on keeping on until the cancer shuts her down, and then she will die.

So I’m keeping my head down and making the best of a bad situation , and I mean that in the deep, literal Mama Mo usage. I keep my head down and do my work: I drive Mo to doctor’s appointments and chemo appointments. I change the sickly water in the flower vase in Nick’s father’s room, and I drop off cookies for the staff so they take good care of him.

I’m making the best of a really bad situation, and the situation is mostly bad because my husband, who brought me here, who uprooted me to be closer to his ailing parents, seems to have lost all interest in both me and said ailing parents.

Nick has written off his father entirely: He won’t even say the man’s name. I know every time we get a phone call from Comfort Hill, Nick is hoping it’s the announcement that his dad is dead. As for Mo, Nick sat with his mom during a single chemo session and pronounced it unbearable. He said he hated hospitals, he hated sick people, he hated the slowly ticking time, the IV bag dripping molasses-slow. He just couldn’t do it. And when I tried to talk him back into it, when I tried to stiffen his spine with some gotta do what you gotta do , he told me to do it. So I did, I have. Mama Mo, of course, takes on the burden of his blame. We sat one day, partly watching a romantic comedy on my computer but mostly chatting, while the IV dripped … so … slowly, and as the spunky heroine tripped over a sofa, Mo turned to me and said, “Don’t be too hard on Nick. About not wanting to do this kind of thing. I just always doted on him, I babied him—how could you not? That face . And so he has trouble doing hard things. But I truly don’t mind, Amy. Truly.”

“You should mind,” I said.

“Nick doesn’t have to prove his love for me,” she said, patting my hand. “I know he loves me.”

I admire Mo’s unconditional love, I do. So I don’t tell her what I have found on Nick’s computer, the book proposal for a memoir about a Manhattan magazine writer who returns to his Missouri roots to care for both his ailing parents. Nick has all sorts of bizarre things on his computer, and sometimes I can’t resist a little light snooping—it gives me a clue as to what my husband is thinking. His search history gave me the latest: noir films and the website of his old magazine and a study on the Mississippi River, whether it’s possible to free-float from here to the Gulf. I know what he pictures: floating down the Mississippi, like Huck Finn, and writing an article about it. Nick is always looking for angles.