letters to himself in
a journal? It was all I could do to make him go to the sessions.”
“But you wrote them?”
She shook her head.
I don’t remember
. I could tell from the shift in her eye that we were about to loop the conversational
cul-de-sac.
“Did you write about your father?”
She looked down and stirred her shake with the straw. “Probably.”
“What was his name?”
“Paige?” She let go of the straw and put her hand over mine. “We don’t need to keep
his memory alive.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Know where what are?”
“The journals.”
“No.” She said this with finality—her mouth shutting as soon as it possibly could
in a way that settled it for me: if I wanted to learn more about the lost years, I
was on my own.
“I don’t really remember anything from that year,” I said.
“Good. It’s better that way.”
“I don’t remember Sloane much at all. What was she like as a kid, aside from those
bursts of creativity?”
My mother sighed. “Serious. Focused.”
“Give me more examples.”
“Listen, the best thing we can all do is get to know her again. It’s a blessing, Paige,
to not remember the bad. I wish I didn’t.”
“That dark, huh?”
She was silent.
“Why?”
She didn’t say anything, just pretended to admire the yellow bag of the woman at an
adjacent table. “Do you like that one, the maize?” She pointed her head toward the
table.
It was the same ugly color we’d seen in the shoes, and I frowned in its direction
and shook my head.
The front door slammed behind me, and as I put down the shopping bags in the hall,
Dave emerged from his office. “I just had a great talk with Herb. I feel good.” He
indicated the shopping bags. “Whoa. You did some damage.”
“It’s for you, actually. For back-to-work when it happens.” He bent down and peered
in the bags, holding the sides apart with his fingertips. “All shirts and ties.”
He slipped his hand inside the neck of his shirt and mimed a beating heart—
thump, thump
. “No one’s sweeter than you.”
“So, what’s the latest?”
“Herb told me they’re not concerned anymore. It’s almost over.”
“That’s great.” The phone rang and I ran to check the caller ID. “It’s Lucy. Did he
say anything else?”
“No. Go ahead—take it.”
“Do you mind? We’ve been playing phone tag.”
“It’s fine. I’ll finish up my stuff.” He went back to his office, leaving the bags
in the hall, and I picked up the phone.
“Hi, Lucy.”
“So, when are you coming out?” she said.
“Ha-ha.”
“You sound so far away,” she said. “Oh wait—I have to give Antonio directions. Sorry,
I’ll call right back.”
“Who’s Antonio?” In that moment before she hung up, I heard a splash and a peel of
laughter, and I pictured her outside by her parents’ pool. I could be there now, sunbathing
on one of the landscaped rocks, its warmth soaking through my towel, my toes dipped
into the water. I’d visited her there every summer since college until this one.
When the phone rang again, I raced to pick it up. “Who on earth is Antonio?”
Silence.
“Luce?”
Pause. “Is this Paige?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Brian Lochlyn. From Dave’s office. We met at that dinner last year? The
one honoring female corporate lawyers?”
“Oh yes. Brian.” What I mostly remembered was that more than half of the speakers
had been men, but I could conjure a vague recollection of a pale associate at our
table with a bright green bow tie, talking earnestly about the firm’s “mommy tracking”
options. “Sorry. I was expecting another call.”
“From Luce,” he said helpfully. “I gathered. Am I tying up the phone?”
“Not at all. How are you? Happy belated Fourth of July.” I walked the phone down the
hallway to Dave’s office door.
“To you too, you too. Is Dave there? I just missed his call, but his message said
a journal? It was all I could do to make him go to the sessions.”
“But you wrote them?”
She shook her head.
I don’t remember
. I could tell from the shift in her eye that we were about to loop the conversational
cul-de-sac.
“Did you write about your father?”
She looked down and stirred her shake with the straw. “Probably.”
“What was his name?”
“Paige?” She let go of the straw and put her hand over mine. “We don’t need to keep
his memory alive.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Know where what are?”
“The journals.”
“No.” She said this with finality—her mouth shutting as soon as it possibly could
in a way that settled it for me: if I wanted to learn more about the lost years, I
was on my own.
“I don’t really remember anything from that year,” I said.
“Good. It’s better that way.”
“I don’t remember Sloane much at all. What was she like as a kid, aside from those
bursts of creativity?”
My mother sighed. “Serious. Focused.”
“Give me more examples.”
“Listen, the best thing we can all do is get to know her again. It’s a blessing, Paige,
to not remember the bad. I wish I didn’t.”
“That dark, huh?”
She was silent.
“Why?”
She didn’t say anything, just pretended to admire the yellow bag of the woman at an
adjacent table. “Do you like that one, the maize?” She pointed her head toward the
table.
It was the same ugly color we’d seen in the shoes, and I frowned in its direction
and shook my head.
The front door slammed behind me, and as I put down the shopping bags in the hall,
Dave emerged from his office. “I just had a great talk with Herb. I feel good.” He
indicated the shopping bags. “Whoa. You did some damage.”
“It’s for you, actually. For back-to-work when it happens.” He bent down and peered
in the bags, holding the sides apart with his fingertips. “All shirts and ties.”
He slipped his hand inside the neck of his shirt and mimed a beating heart—
thump, thump
. “No one’s sweeter than you.”
“So, what’s the latest?”
“Herb told me they’re not concerned anymore. It’s almost over.”
“That’s great.” The phone rang and I ran to check the caller ID. “It’s Lucy. Did he
say anything else?”
“No. Go ahead—take it.”
“Do you mind? We’ve been playing phone tag.”
“It’s fine. I’ll finish up my stuff.” He went back to his office, leaving the bags
in the hall, and I picked up the phone.
“Hi, Lucy.”
“So, when are you coming out?” she said.
“Ha-ha.”
“You sound so far away,” she said. “Oh wait—I have to give Antonio directions. Sorry,
I’ll call right back.”
“Who’s Antonio?” In that moment before she hung up, I heard a splash and a peel of
laughter, and I pictured her outside by her parents’ pool. I could be there now, sunbathing
on one of the landscaped rocks, its warmth soaking through my towel, my toes dipped
into the water. I’d visited her there every summer since college until this one.
When the phone rang again, I raced to pick it up. “Who on earth is Antonio?”
Silence.
“Luce?”
Pause. “Is this Paige?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Brian Lochlyn. From Dave’s office. We met at that dinner last year? The
one honoring female corporate lawyers?”
“Oh yes. Brian.” What I mostly remembered was that more than half of the speakers
had been men, but I could conjure a vague recollection of a pale associate at our
table with a bright green bow tie, talking earnestly about the firm’s “mommy tracking”
options. “Sorry. I was expecting another call.”
“From Luce,” he said helpfully. “I gathered. Am I tying up the phone?”
“Not at all. How are you? Happy belated Fourth of July.” I walked the phone down the
hallway to Dave’s office door.
“To you too, you too. Is Dave there? I just missed his call, but his message said
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