A Five-Minute Life

“How about some music, Pops?” I said from the back seat.

“Eight seconds of silence,” Dad said. “A new record.”

“Music is life,” I said, laughing. “Right after painting. And The Office. And pizza.”

“No pizza.” Dad fiddled with the knob until he found my favorite station, and “Bad Romance” filled the car. “Good?”

“Can’t go wrong with Lady Gaga.”

Dad smirked. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I grooved to the song as best I could within the confines of my seatbelt until Mom turned down the volume.

“Poor Roger,” she said. “What are his parents thinking?”

“I wonder what Delia is thinking,” Dad said. He peered at me through the rearview. “You have any sisterly intel on the two of them? Are they an item?”

“No idea,” I said. “You know how Delia is. Wound up tight. She never tells me anything.”

Mom craned around to peer at me. “And how about you? No date for the occasion?”

“This is a family thing,” I said. “And none of the guys I’ve dated lately are worthy. They think I’m ‘fun’ and don’t want anything serious with me. Or maybe I don’t want anything serious with them. Maybe I’m not capable of serious.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, honey,” Mom said.

“Delia would beg to differ.”

“I love your sister to pieces, but a monastery isn’t serious enough for her.”

“Honestly, I can’t wait to fall in love, but I guess you can’t force these things. It’ll happen when it happens. I’ll meet That Guy. The one I can’t stop thinking about. And when what I feel about him starts to spill over into my art, I’ll know he’s the one.”

“A wise philosophy,” Dad said.

“Speaking of art,” Mom said, “how is your latest project coming along?”

“It’s done. I finished just as Delia was about to blow a gasket.”

“Wonderful, I can’t wait to see it.” Mom knocked my knee with the back of her hand. “You and your pyramids.”

“Right?” I laughed. “If I ever get famous, Egypt will be my thing. Like Kahlo’s self-portraits or O’Keeffe’s vagina flowers.”

“Thea.” Dad chuckled.

“I’m not saying I’m a Frida or a Georgia—”

“You wouldn’t say that because you’re too modest,” Mom said. “But as your mother, I’m allowed to brag that you’re right up there with the greats.”

“As my mother, you’re contractually obligated to say that,” I said. “But thanks, Mama. You’re the best. I—”

“Dear God,” my father cried out.

Mom started to turn. “What…?”

A flash of pale blue and blinding chrome.

A bang as loud as the universe. I felt it in my bones. In my teeth. It echoed through the hood, through the windshield.

It kept coming and coming and coming, tearing through us until there was nothing.