The Last Summer

Maggie stood in her grandmother's kitchen, the papaya ripening on the windowsill like a small sunset. Three days until the funeral, and already the house was being dismantled by cousins she hadn't seen in twenty years.

"That's mine," her sister said, pointing to the goldfish bowl. The fish, an ordinary comet named Lucky, had survived for seven years in this very kitchen, swimming endless circles while their grandmother complained about the price of everything.

"You live in a studio apartment," Maggie said. "The bowl will take up your entire counter."

"And you live with Marcus." The way Diane said his name—like it was something that needed scraping off a shoe. "How's the corporate lawyer treating you these days? Still pulling in six figures while the rest of us struggle?"

The papaya's skin had grown mottled, yellow giving way to orange. Like their mother's face that last Christmas, when she'd told them she was leaving again.

Outside, a fox slipped through the overgrown garden. Maggie had seen it twice that week—lean, hungry, watching the house with what looked like recognition. Her grandmother had claimed the foxes were spirits of the dead, come back to check on things they'd left unfinished. Maggie hadn't believed in spirits since she was twelve, but lately she'd been catching herself talking to Lucky when no one else was around.

"Marcus asked about you," she said instead.

"Did he." Diane ran her finger through the dust on the windowsill. "Still think I'm the problem? That I drove Mom away?"

"He thinks you should sell. That we should sell. The house, everything."

"Of course he does." Diane turned, and for a moment she looked exactly like their grandmother—same sharp cheekbones, same way of holding herself like she'd already made up her mind about everything. "You know what this house is worth now? The developers have been calling since Grandma went into hospice."

Maggie thought of Marcus's dinner parties, the way his colleagues talked about 'up-and-coming neighborhoods' and 'investment opportunities.' She thought of the fox in the garden, watching and waiting.

"Remember that sculpture," Diane said suddenly. "The one in Grandma's studio. The bull made of welded scrap metal."

"She sold it years ago."

"No she didn't. I saw it last week, hidden under that tarp. It's still here."

The bull—seven feet of jagged metal, horns raised, frozen mid-charge. Their grandmother had made it after their grandfather left, using pieces from his old workshop. 'Art,' she'd called it. 'The way anger feels when you can't say it out loud.'

"Marcus says it's not worth much," Maggie said. " scrap metal prices are down."

"Marcus wouldn't know worth if it hit him in the face." Diane opened the fridge, stared at its contents without really seeing them. "You're going to sell, aren't you? Let them put up condos. Let the foxes find somewhere else to haunt."

"Marcus's firm is handling the paperwork—"

"His firm." Diane slammed the refrigerator door. "Since when do you need a law firm to sell a family home? Since when do you need Marcus's permission to decide what happens to what's left of us?"

The papaya had split open sometime during their fighting. Its orange flesh glistened in the afternoon light, seeds spilling onto the windowsill like something spilled that couldn't be put back.

Maggie reached for a knife. "Want some?"

Diane stared at her, then at the fruit, then at Lucky swimming his endless circles. For a moment, something like understanding passed between them—something that felt like forgiveness, or at least like forgiveness might feel if either of them knew how to do it anymore.

"Sure," Diane said. "Why not."

They ate standing up in the dismantled kitchen, juice running down their fingers, while outside the fox watched them through the window, patient as grief, waiting to see what they would leave behind.