by Nancy Star
man was him. He gestured at the man to get lost. The
man gestured back. They both slumped.
“I shouldn’t have said I wanted him dead,” he told
his dim reflection. He thought about other things he
wanted that he shouldn’t have said. That time could be
reversed was the main one. “Oh Sylvie,” he said. His
voice sounded odd. Old.
No thank you. He was not going to sit around and
have a pity party. He lurched up and got his phone. He
had to try four times before Shelley picked up. “Hah!”
he said when she did.
“What’s up, Dad?” When he told her she wasn’t pleased.
“I’m sure she’s fine. Maybe she went for a walk. Maybe
she’s visiting a neighbor.”
“Your mother does not voluntarily talk to the neigh-
bors. And it’s a hundred degrees outside. No one here
goes for a walk. I’m telling you, something happened.
Your mother doesn’t blow her nose without letting me
know she’s about to do it first.”
“So call the police.”
“This isn’t a matter for the police.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“I don’t know.” He looked at his watch. “Two hours
ago.”
“Mom’s gone for two hours and you want to call the
police?”
“I don’t want to call the police. It’s lunchtime, by the way. Lunchtime and nothing’s prepared.” He could hear
in Shelley’s sigh that she had lost whatever tiny speck of patience she’d ever had. “Where could she be?” He heard
how he sounded. Weary.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you call Turtle? Maybe Mom
told her where she was going.” There was a moment of 270
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silence and Shelley added, “Mom told me she was going
to call her. To tell her about Uncle Albie.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Why wouldn’t she? When someone dies in your
family, you tell them. Turtle isn’t a child anymore. Call
her. She might be able to help you. Bonus point: she’s on
the same continent as you and in the same time zone. I’m
not either of those things, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget. That brings up something I’ve been
meaning to talk to you about. We want to visit. Your
mother and I. You know we couldn’t travel before. Now
we can.”
Shelley took a moment to respond. “You—come here?
You’re kidding me, right?”
How did he end up with these daughters? “Forget it.
We’re not coming. We can’t come. Your mother’s van-
ished. Not that you care.”
Another sigh. “Did she leave you a note? Did you
even look?”
Marshall looked around. “No note.”
“Have you checked the log on Alexa?”
“What log? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I
never use that thing. I don’t even know why we have it.”
“I got it for Mom. Hold on. Melinda,” Shelley called.
“Come tell Gramps how to use Alexa.” There was a
whispering and then the phone was handed over.
“Hello, Gramps.” As always, Melinda spoke fast and
sounded unnecessarily jolly. “Are you ready? All right
then. First things first, you have to go to settings. Do
you know how where the settings are? Are you writing
this down?”
“Yes,” he told her. “And slow down. Or do you have
a train to catch?”
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“A train? Why would I have to go on a train?”
When he got off the phone, he followed her directions
and somehow it worked.
At 9:09 a.m. Sylvie asked: “Alexa, what day is it?”
Alexa answered: “Today is Tuesday, June 20th, 2017.”
At 9:15 a.m. Sylvie asked: “Alexa, what should I do?”
Alexa answered: “Learn about the world and universe.”
At 10:21 a.m. Sylvie asked: “Alexa, can I tell you a
secret?”
Alexa answered: “Tell me anything you’re comfort-
able with me knowing.”
At 10:23 a.m. Sylvie said: “Alexa, was it my fault?”
Alexa answered: “Sorry, I don’t know that.”
At 10:25 a.m. Sylvie said: “Alexa, do you think Turtle
will ever forgive me?”
Alexa answered: “I’m sorry, I can’t see into the future.”
He called back to tell Shelley that was no help. But
this time she didn’t pick up, even after eight rings. The
answer machine didn’t pick up either. Annoyed, he gave
up and dialed Lane. Of course she was surprised. He never
called her. As soon as she answered he remembered why.
She had that thing in her voice. Some people called it shy or reserved. He heard it for what he knew it was. Fear.
There was so much she was afraid to know.
“Hey Dad. Everything okay?”
What a mistake. He needed to get this over with fast.
“Yes. How are you and the boy?”
“We’re fine.” There was a pause. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why do you have to make a big megillah
over a phone call? Your mother and I wanted to know
how you were. Now I know. You’re fine.”
“Can I talk to Mom?”
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A totally terrible idea. “It’s dinnertime. You know your
mother. No talking on the phone at dinner. Dinnertime
is dinnertime. She’s fine,” he added quickly. “She’s fine
and I’m fine.”
There was a moment of silence and then Lane said,
“Okay. I’m glad you called. I wanted to let you and Mom
know that we’re going to be moving again.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll let you know the details once we’re settled.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you want to know where we’re moving to?”
“Okay.”
“Martha’s Vineyard. Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Hanging up on Lane felt different from hanging up
on Shelley, probably because he hung up on Shelley sev-
eral times a week, sometimes twice in a day. Shelley was
tough as nails. She could take it.
He rested his head in his hands, then decided he had
to stay strong and sat up. He glanced across the room
at the pulsing electronic device. “Alexa,” he shouted.
“Where’s Sylvie?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.”
He got up and pushed the thing to the floor and then,
before he even knew what he was doing, picked it up
and apologized. What was happening to him? It wasn’t
the machine’s fault. It wasn’t Sylvie’s fault. It wasn’t his fault.
The problem was, all those years she paid attention
to one person. The wrong person. The problem was,
they let things go on too long. The problem was, where
was she?
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He stood up and called out in the empty house. His
voice was hoarse and low. “I’m sorry, Sylvie. I’m sorry I
wasn’t better to your brother. Please come home.”
He was so tired. Deep in his bones tired. Maybe he
needed to li
e down. He grunted out a laugh. That was a
good one, that now it was his turn to lie down.
As soon as he walked into their bedroom, he saw the
yellow note on his pillow. As notes went, it wasn’t much.
A stickie with barely any stick left.
“You’re old,” he told the stickie.
What it said back was everything he needed to know.
Flight UA 2221 departing from SRQ at 12:15 p.m., land-
ing at EWR at 3:06.
He looked at his watch. “Oh Sylvie. What have you
done now?”
274
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The day she went to pick up the packets and sign what
Arlene called the independent study contract, Lane had
asked Henry if he wanted to come along. Maybe it would
feel good, she’d suggested, to stop in his classroom and
say goodbye to his friends. It wasn’t a surprise that his
answer was no. What was a surprise was that even though
they were alone when she asked—a rare moment when
there were no workers in the house, no Dana and no
Nathan—his no was wordless. With a slow shaking of his head, and a mouth tightly closed, he made his feelings
clear. He was done with that school.
Later that day, when he asked what school he’d be
going to in the fall, Lane answered honestly. She didn’t
know yet, but she promised that was something they’d
figure out together. When she said the word together, it was as if a cloud finally passed. He smiled. A small smile, but still, a smile.
The morning after she picked up his packets was when
Lane found an envelope on their front step. She opened it
as she walked into the house. Inside was a note from Miss
Fiske apologizing for forgetting to give this to her the day before, when she stopped by. The note was clipped to a
stack of letters. There were twenty-five letters, goodbye
letters to Henry. Every student in the class had written
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one. A class assignment, Lane guessed, with the instruc-
tion to say one thing about Henry they’d miss.
They sat on the couch in the living room and looked
at the letters together. Some children wrote with such
perfect careful penmanship. Some wrote with bubble
letters, and dotted the i’s with hearts. Some pages were covered with cross-outs. Some were torn by overzealous
erasing. Some had colorful illustrations to go with their
notes. Others were annotated with stick figures. One
letter was written in an adult hand.
“He doesn’t know how to write yet,” Henry said about
that one. “So his aide writes for him.”
Lane nodded and asked Henry if he wanted to try and
read the letters himself or if he wanted her to read them
aloud. He chose her reading aloud. She read slowly—so
that Henry could take it all in—and watched carefully
for cues, the slight movement of a finger or his head, to
indicate when she should move from one to the next.
“I liked the way he drawed,” said the first one.
“I liked that he wasn’t bossy,” said another.
“I liked how when he drew me he made my head
look like the sun.”
“I liked the way his hair had curls.”
“I liked that Henry never talked too much.”
“I liked that his smile was in his drawings.”
The last one Lane read was from Francesca: “I liked
when he used to whisper his ideas to me and I wish I
never said that I didn’t.”
h h
h h
Roxie Classics was an idea Lane came up with right after Henry was born, as a way to extend her maternity leave
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for two additional months. Sam had given it his immedi-
ate approval. The rubric for what made a Roxie letter a classic was simple and unscientific. A classic was any letter Lane liked that had gotten a lot of readers’ comments
when first published.
The suggestion to publish Roxie Classics now was
Sam’s. She still hadn’t spoken to him yet—they were
playing a very long game of phone tag. But in his most
recent email, the same email where he told her he’d be
back for the first Monday meeting after Labor Day if she
could just hold on till then, he suggested she consider
resurrecting Roxie Classics for the summer. She reread his words— if she could just hold on. Okay. If Sam wanted her to hold on, she would.
“I’ll sell Bert on Roxie Classics,” Sam wrote. “And
I’ll let him know I’m approving your working remotely
for the rest of the summer. We’ll catch up when I’m back.
First Monday after Labor Day. I’ll shoot you an email once I’ve spoken to Bert. You should reach out to him after
that. Let’s keep him at least feeling like he’s in the loop.”
That gave her pause. She looked at Sam’s address. He
was still using his personal email. Something was go-
ing on, behind the scenes. She sat up a little straighter.
She could deal with it, whatever it was, so long as Sam
prevailed.
She entered the date for Sam’s return on her phone
and then began to search for a letter to kick off the Roxie Classics, Summer Edition. When she finally found one she liked, she drafted an email to Bert to send as soon as Sam confirmed he’d connected with him. In the email
she acknowledged, without apologizing, that the Live-
Chat had not turned out the way either of them hoped
and added that she was eager to sit down with him and
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Sam in September to work out a plan for Roxie that all
of them could get behind, moving forward.
Once that was done, she emailed Shelley again. She’d
already called twice and sent a text without hearing back.
This time she wrote, NEW ADDRESS, in the subject
line and in the body of the email she wrote, I’m moving.
Where are you?
Her family was getting more exasperating by the day.
Earlier, she’d had the oddest phone call with her father.
Something had been bother him but he wouldn’t— She felt
a presence and turned to find Henry in the hall, waiting
for her to notice him. He looked like he’d been waiting
for a while. “Hey buddy. Everything okay?”
He walked in and whispered, “Someone’s at the door.”
Lane stood up. “Nathan?” Henry shook his head. “A
contractor?” He shook his head again. “Someone you
don’t know?”
He shook his head again and leaned in close to whis-
per in her ear.
“Is she alone?” Lane asked she headed toward the stairs.
Henry shrugged but didn’t follow.
When Lane got to the door, her mother was standing
outside on the top step, her suitcase beside her.
“I have something to tell you,” Sylvie said.
“What’s wrong? What happened? Come in.”
Sylvie came in and turned around in a circle, slowly
taking in everything. With a start Lane realized that in
all these years her mother had never visited her anywhere
she’d lived. Even when Henry was born, she didn’t come—
another ill-timed bad bout of the blahs for Uncle Albie.
seemed frozen. “Come. Let’s sit down.” She led her mother
to the living room couch and practically had to force her
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to sit. When she did, it was with her purse in front of her, like a shield. Still she said nothing.
“Do you want something to drink?” Her mother shook
her head. “A glass of water?” Another shake. “Okay. What
is it? Whatever it is, just tell me.”
Her mother’s face went slack. “I’m sorry.”
279
PART THREE
West Tisbury, Massachusetts
Summer 2017
July 1, 2017
Ask Roxie, Classics Collection!
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Dear Roxie,
As happens with a woman of a certain age, I have accu-
mulated a lot of experience sitting with friends griev-
ing all kinds of losses. Sometimes a pet, sometimes a
spouse, sometimes a parent, sometimes a friend, in the
worst times, a child. In my crowd I’ve become the go-to
gal for grieving. I’m not saying I’m good at everything.
I can’t cook or sing or knit. But I know how to listen. I
don’t mind tears. I’m comfortable with silence.
The problem is I have a friend who won’t admit
she’s grieving. A month ago she lost her husband of
fifty years yet she insists on acting like nothing hap-
pened. In the thirty days since her husband’s passing
she hasn’t cried once. She acts what could best be de-
scribed as cheerful.
We’re worried about her. Worried that she’s stuck in
the first stage of grieving, denial. Worried that she’s on her way to being stuck in the fourth stage, depression.
She’s already started to withdraw. She won’t an-
swer my calls. She won’t answer any of our calls. It’s
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confusing because she’s not an uneducated person.
Why is she refusing our help?
Can you help me help her heal?
Yours,
Helpful Healer
Dear Helpful,
I applaud your big heart and unusual capacity to sit
with sadness. How comforting that must be for some
of your friends. But, yikes!!! Who died and made you
head of the Grief Police?
Sorry to break it to you, dear helpful one, but we’re
not all copies spewed out of a printer. The Kübler-Ross
“stages of grief” model, which you quote like it’s the