“But I didn’t want to be right,” Isabel protested. “I just didn’t want her to get hurt.”
“But she did,” Mira said. “And until she gets over the shock and comes to her senses and gets angry, you just have to keep your distance. The timing is bad too, with the eclipse and all. Everything’s out of whack.”
Isabel rolled her eyes. “But it’s my house, too,” she grumbled. “I can’t even get to my clothes.”
“Give her time,” Mira said, looking down at the drafting table. “Or better yet,” she said brightly, “give her a card.”
“A what?”
“A card!” Mira said, gesturing grandly to the boxes behind her. “There are thousands of ways right here to console her on a loss. Just pick one.”
“He’s not dead, Mira,” I said.
“He should be,” Isabel said darkly.
“Go ahead,” Mira said cheerfully. “Take one. Take several.”
Isabel walked to the shelf and pulled down a box. Mira bounced in her chair, smiling at me.
“So,” she said. “Ready for that big date?” I’d told her about it that morning, during our cereal session.
“I guess,” I said, and she smiled at me.
Isabel opened up a card and read aloud. “ ‘I am so sorry to hear of your terrible loss . . . but I know that time, and love, will heal all wounds and that your little friend will live on in your heart forever.’ ” She looked at Mira, eyebrows raised.
“Dead hamster,” Mira explained. “Try another one.”
“Okay,” Isabel said, opening a second card. “How about . . . ‘There comes a time when we all must accept the loss of someone who may not have been truly real but was very real in our hearts. I know this loss affects you in a way some might not understand. But as your friend, I do. And I am so sorry.’ ”
“Dead soap opera character,” Mira said. “That’s not right either.” She got up and went over to the boxes, rifling through them. “Let’s see. How about a dead ex-husband? Or a dead former flame?”
“These are all too nice,” Isabel said. “What we need is a good, nasty, empowering card. But nobody makes those.”
Mira turned around, took a pen out of her hair, and then jabbed it back in another spot. She was thinking. “We could,” she said suddenly. “Of course. We’ll make a card. How stupid of me!” She went back to her chair, jacked it up, and pulled out a blank piece of sketch paper, folding it in half. “Okay,” she said, licking the tip of her pen. “What should it say?” She looked at Isabel.
Isabel looked at me.
“The truth,” I said. “It should say the truth.”
“Truth,” Mira agreed. “So maybe, the front should say something like . . . ‘I am sorry for your broken heart.’ ”
“Perfect,” Isabel said.
Mira bent over the card, writing with smooth strokes. Underneath, she drew a heart with a jagged line down the middle. “Okay,” she said when she was through. “Now we need the inside. This is the hardest part.”
We considered this. Cat Norman walked through, looked at the three of us, and sat down with a wheeze.
“ ‘I am sorry for your broken heart . . .” Mira read off the front. “but . . .”
“But,” Isabel said, “ ‘he was a rotten, cheating rat bastard and you deserve better.’ ”
“Bingo!” Mira said, whipping another pen out of her hair. “Perfect. And . . .”
“And,” I said, “‘As your friend, I want you to know that I love you and I know you can get through this.’ ”
“Excellent.” Mira was scribbling madly. “Wonderful. You know, I like this concept—revenge cards. Straight and to the point.”
“You should start a new line,” I told her as she finished it up with a flourish, then turned it over to sign her name on the back. “Give it a snappy name. Leave the death business and take up empowerment.”
Mira looked up. “You’re right.” She thought for a second. “I know!” she said excitedly, pointing her pen at me. “Heartbreak Diet. That’s what I’d call it. I’d make millions.”
“You would,” I said, smiling at her. “There’s even more heartbreak out there than dead people, I bet.”
“Okay then,” Isabel said, walking over and signing the card in red felt-tip marker before tucking it under her arm. “Wish me luck. I hope this helps.”
“Good luck,” Mira said.
“Good luck,” I said. “Are we still on for later?”
“Later?” Isabel said.
“You said you’d help me get ready,” I told her. “For my date.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Just come over in a little while. Give me some time to work this out. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. And I crossed my fingers for both of them as she walked through the yard toward home.
Around eight o’clock, when it was just beginning to get dark, Norman pulled in to the driveway. I stood at my window and watched him unload some groceries; there was celery poking out of one bag. He went around the side of the house, his sunglasses perched on his head, toward his apartment. But just as he turned the corner he looked up at me.
I stepped back. I’d already changed my outfit twice, and finally decided to carry an optional shirt so Isabel could make the final decision.