I checked the account number. I checked the meter reading. I even walked out to the little box on the side of my garage and squinted at it, as if the digits might apologize and correct themselves.
« Old fridges eat power. »
They didn’t.
I came back inside and called my daughter Diane — because that’s what widows do when something doesn’t add up. We call our daughters and pretend we just wanted to chat.
« Mom, did you leave the AC running with a window open again? »
« I did not, » I said. « I haven’t touched the thermostat since April. »
« Maybe it’s the fridge. Old fridges eat power. »
Monica had trouble.
« The fridge is younger than you are, honey. »
She laughed. I did not.
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