Nothing Special by Geoff Herbach Page A

guess, Aleah). I took a deep breath and then clicked on the link. Here’s what I saw:
    Rose Reinstein, 71, of Fort Myers died the morning of Wednesday, March 28, surrounded by family. Survived by her beloved husband, Stan; daughter, Evith (David Halpen); granddaughter, Tovi; and two grandsons, Felton and Andrew. Preceded in death by son, Steven. Born in Prague (the Czech Republic); an accomplished tennis player and track athlete in her youth. Rose played golf at Fiddlesticks with the same group for fifteen years and volunteered for numerous local organizations. She was a beautiful light to all who knew her. Services will be at the Centennial Cemetery on Monday. In lieu of flowers, please send gifts to the American Cancer Society.
    Holy God, Aleah.
    Do you have any idea? I mean, what the holy freaking…what?
    Rose. Stan. Steven.
    Tovi?
    Andrew. (Poor Andrew.)
    Felton.
    Rose and Stan. My grandparents. I met them when I was a little kid (tiny). A couple times. In Florida too. (That other time I flew.) I could picture a skinny woman with big hands and a giant smile that took up the bottom half of her face. She had black, curly hair like mine. This is what I knew too: these grandparents, they did not like Jerri. They did not like Grandma Berba. They stayed away from Andrew and me entirely: no cards, no phone calls, no anything.
    (I didn’t know anything.)
    They lost their son because he killed himself in our garage (Dad).
    And, Rose, my grandmother, died of cancer.
    â€¢ • •
    Jesus, Aleah. It’s like five in the morning.

August 16th, 9:15 a.m.
O’Hare Airport, Part XIII
    I was just going to leave it at that, Aleah. I finally (like three hours ago) fell asleep thinking: that’s all she needs to know, that Andrew disappeared because of something to do with my dad’s parents (one of whom is totally dead, like Dad). Aleah’s not my family. Ronald has probably told her everything anyway and she never bothered to contact me, which is terrible.
    Aleah? You’ve really made me feel bad. Do you know that? What am I suppose to do?
    Forget it.
    Want to know something funny? There’s a heat wave in the South. One airport is having delays because of pavement issues. One airport just shut down completely because of some kind of power outage. Fort Myers is fine, apparently, but they’re having problems with planes getting where they need to be everywhere in the system. I am very confused.
    I actually said to the gate agent, without stuttering or stumbling, because I was pissed: “The South doesn’t know how to handle hot weather? That’s ridiculous.”
    â€œNot this kind of hot, sir. This is unprecedented.”
    Sir? Unprecedented? Like in the world? Makes me worry about the future.
    Now they won’t tell me if my flight’s going to get the crap out of here on time.
    I am angry. Angry! Monkey chest pound .
    I do not enjoy air travel, for it puts me in prison.
    â€¢ • •
    My legs feel like Jell-O. Donkey needs to run.
    What if I’m stuck in Chicago forever?
    Jerri would come get me.
    Your dad is still in Bluffton, so he can’t just drive over to O’Hare and take me for breakfast.
    Maybe I’ll still be here when you get back from Germany on Friday morning. Then you can spit on my shoes in person.
    Or maybe we’d make up?
    No. Maybe.
    Gus and I sort of made up after I received that unbelievable email from Randy Stone. Who could I call? Who could I talk to? Not Jerri, you know? After falling on the floor for like three hours, I decided no, no, no Jerri.
    I called Gus.
    (After I left Andrew several hysterical voice mails, by the way.)
    Gus didn’t pick up when I called, of course. But in my message I pretty much shouted: “Check your email immediately!” Then I forwarded him the child detective Randy Stone dispatch.
    Gus called me back about thirty seconds after I hit Send .
    â€œHoly shit!”
    â€œYeah,” I