The Goof, Meredith

Meredith, the woman who hit Gabe with her car, is still in the living room, sitting in the chair possessed by the spirit of Grace’s dead grandmother. She’ll be having visions shortly. Got it?

The stated purpose of her visit is to “check in.” She is not now part of the family, despite the fact that she brought cinnamon rolls.

“What is your real purpose?” I say. “Gabe’s spleen is healing just fine.” 

I had been prepared for meanness in this world, but not butt-kissing. It struck me as a low form of aggression. 

But now the ghost of the chair had her, and she is most likely experiencing rural Georgia in the 1950s. She was killing chickens on a farm and being courted by a young man with Dax in his hair. She is being tortured by nostalgic Americana. 

When the ghost releases her, she starts crying, which is the typical outcome.

“It’s not like we’re going to sue you,” I say. “This is totally unnecessary, if not inappropriate.”

“I keep running into your son in dreams,” she says, standing now. “I need relief…these cinnamon rolls.”

Grace and Gabe are not home. I’m on my own with the whole ushering-her-out-of-here business.

As a child, I was run down on the beach by a golden retriever off its leash, and I’ll never forget the way my father threatened the owner. No doubt, the dog was playing, but that breed bites more people than pit bulls. It’s an actual fact. Things are getting muddled here, but what I mean to say is that our dogs are just waiting behind the bedroom door to get rowdy. Please don’t mistake my kindness for enthusiasm.