One Last Thing Before I Go

about it for a moment then smiles. “That’s right. I did. Wow! You have a good memory.”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Hey, you know, my roommate was a huge Bent Daisies fan. He played that album almost nonstop. I think I know it by heart.”
    “College kids are listening to us to be retro. Kill me now.”
    Jeremy smiles nervously, not sure how serious he is. Silver’s not sure himself. So, having paid his lip service to respect, Casey’s impregnator turns back to her.
    “Have you been getting my texts?” he says.
    “Yeah, I’m sorry. We had a bit of a family emergency, and I kind of went off the grid for a few days.”
    “Is everything OK?”
    “Yeah, my dad, he, uh, he was in the hospital.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.” He turns back to Silver. “You look OK now.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Silver,” Casey says in a low voice.
    “I’m bleeding internally. I could die at any moment.”
    Jeremy is not sure what to make of that. He’s now officially out of his depth, and Silver likes it. It occurs to him, watching the kid squirm, that he feels like a father.
    Casey rolls her eyes. “Ignore him.”
    Jeremy nods, relieved at the direction. “We should get together.”
    “Sure,” Casey says. “I’ll text you.”
    “Great,” Jeremy says. “I’ll let you get back to your . . .” He sees the piles of food and leaves the rest of the sentence unfinished as he backs away slowly. They both watch him until he’s out of range.
    “So, that’s him,” Silver says.
    Casey looks instantly alarmed. “What? Who?”
    “Casey.”
    She considers her options. “Not now, Dad, OK?” she says softly. It’s the first time today she’s called him Dad, either because she’s feeling vulnerable or else it’s a calculated attempt to distract him with something shiny. If so, it works.
    “You OK there, Silver?” Casey says, looking him over.
    “You ask me that a lot,” he says.
    “Well, you are dying—on purpose.”
    “And you’re pregnant—by accident.”
    “A fine pair we make,” she says, thoughtfully licking some whipped cream off her spoon. Then she puts the spoon down with great ceremony and straightens up, becoming deadly serious. “Maybe it happened like this for a reason.”
    “Yeah? How’s that?”
    “Maybe we’re supposed to save each other.”
    He considers his beautiful, complicated daughter. How did he ever consider anything to be worth losing her? “Do you believe in God?” he says.
    She smiles, like she’s the parent and he’s the child, and makes a gesture designed to incorporate herself, him, and the world at large. “Who else could throw together such an insane shit show?”
    * * *
    He used to believe in God. When you grow up in a rabbi’s house, God is part of the package, an amiable resident ghost, floating about in corners, sitting in the empty dinner chair, peering in through your curtains after you get tucked into bed. He would pepper his father with endless questions:
Does God have teeth? Does He eat? Does He sneeze? Does He watch
The A-Team
?
His father never tired of the exercise, was always ready to engage in his juvenile theology.
    Is He here right now?
    Yes.
    Where?
    Everywhere.
    He’s in my hand?
    Yes. And you’re in His.
    Silver would hold up his fist, wide-eyed at the notion that the same God who created the world and split the Red Sea could be holed up in his grubby little hand. Then he would open it quickly, like releasing a captured fly.
    Does God know everything we think?
    Yes.
    Does He get angry when we’re bad?
    He understands humans, because He made them. He knows we’re not perfect.
    Why didn’t He make us perfect?
    Because then we’d never try.
    Even to his seven-year-old brain, this had the ring of religious propaganda. Unable to confront the idea that his father might be lying or, worse, deceived, he would quickly move them to safer ground.
    Does God have other worlds?
    He might. We don’t know of any.
    Does God have a god that He prays to? And does that god have a god?
    I don’t think so.
    Can God die?
    No.
    And round and round they went.
    He would lie in his bed at night and picture God, moving about the house like a breeze, making sure they were all tucked in and safe. He can remember talking to Him from his bed, always in a whisper, always with the faintest trace of self-consciousness, finding God’s features—His smile, His furrowed brow—in the sand-swirl finish of his ceiling. When the radiator knocked, he imagined God straightening