The box she'd been struggling with contained a computer—a desktop. Steve was impressed. Most people his age were just getting around to having personal computers and, only last year, a friend had told him about something called the World Wide Web. Barbara knew all about it and invited him to come back and try out the internet on her computer.
The next time he'd been out mowing his front lawn, Barbara waved at him from across the street and he'd waved back. When Steve finished with his chore, he walked over and offered to mow her back lawn, noticing the long grass from the driveway. She was delighted and offered to pay him. He refused, but she wouldn't hear of him doing it as a favor. Later, they spent two hours on her new computer. Barbara showed him how she had set up something called an AOL account. Through AOL, Barbara was able to do things that Steve had never heard of, like check her electronic mail, talk with people on instant messaging, and access something called a web portal. After that, he mowed her lawn every two weeks, then fiddled around on her computer until he'd finally convinced his dad to purchase one.
When Steve set up his own AOL account, Barbara became his first online friend and they'd messaged back and forth, talking about all sorts of stuff. She'd been a terrific geek, a Star Trek and Star Wars fan. She’d read all of Steve's favorite books, The Lord of the Rings series, Dune, Stranger in a Strange Land and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Sometimes they sat outside in her yard after he was done mowing and drank fresh lemonade she made from the lemons on her trees. He learned that Barbara had three daughters and worked as a fourth-grade elementary school teacher before retiring. The oldest daughter, Brenda, lived in Hawaii, a mother to her own daughter. The two youngest girls never grew up. They'd been killed along with Barbara's husband in a freeway accident on the 405 Northbound near the 10 exit. The years after the death of her girls and husband were the hardest years of Barbara's life.
One afternoon when Steve stood looking at the framed photo on the wall of Barbara’s little girls all lined up holding hands, she’d said,
“Brenda was a difficult child before the tragedy. But after the accident, well it felt like I lost her too. She was a daddy’s girl. When she left home at nineteen, that was that.” Barbara had glanced at him, then said, “Sometimes I wish it was Clair and Dotty who lived and Brenda…” She’d stopped herself, and ran her fingers through her short grey hair. “It’s an awful thing to wish. I’m sure you don’t think I’m such a nice old woman anymore.”
Steve hadn't known what to think. He couldn't imagine his mother wishing for the life of one of her children over the other.
"You haven't seen Brenda since she moved out?"
"No. Not one visit. But she writes me letters."
"Do you write back?"
Barbara gave a snort of a laugh, a little toss of her head, and waved his question away.
In the remaining months of Barbara's life, she would tell Steve stories of her girlhood and when she was a young woman. She would reminisce about friends and family long gone, but she never mentioned Brenda again. Barbara was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in January. By March, she was dead. Now it was April.
Steve assumed that the dark-haired woman who moved into Barbara's house with the weird blond guy was Brenda. Barbara did mention a few times that the house would go to her daughter after she passed away, and there had been no For Sale sign, so the dark-haired woman had to be Brenda. Steve had begun to think of her as Maybe Brenda. He’d never imagined his neighbor's daughter would be a hippy, though. Barbara's most recent picture of Brenda was of a young woman with a bee-hive hairdo posing next to a red Mustang convertible.
Maybe Brenda was all angles and lean muscle, her walk more like a prowl. When she talked with the blond guy, she had this way of throwing back her shoulders, thrusting out her chest and pushing her pelvis forward.
While Steve watched the boyfriend do his Tai-somethings, the old Volvo the two of them recently acquired pulled up and a different man and a girl in a t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts got out of the car. Steve rolled up his open blinds, wildly curious now. The other man was older and short with a petite frame. He had a narrow face, a prominent nose, neatly cut jet black hair, and wore an ugly rainbow sweater with blue jeans and velcro sandals. The blond guy gave him a hug and waved at the girl. Maybe Brenda got out of the car, too. Steve's gaze returned to the girl. She was striking. Tall. A massive puff of hair pulled back in a ponytail. He could only catch snatches of her profile: a high cheekbone and a well-defined jaw. Her nose was a bit like the older man's, but more regal looking. He wondered if she was the man's daughter, but then when the girl stood next to Maybe Brenda, he noticed how similar their bodies were. It was hard to place who she might belong to because she obviously wasn't white, like the three adults.
There was a knock on his door.
"Yeah?"
His sister Carrie opened the door a crack and poked her face through. "The last
