same time stalling and wanting to go, like the last friend at a wake.
“No, you see, I had to do it. Kind of go to the bottom.”
He didn’t have to explain about going to the bottom. I understood, and knew I couldn’t follow him there. I said, “I’ll make the arrangements for Jessica’s body myself. Will you be taking her back to Michigan?”
“No, that was never her home. I guess she’s gotten used to this area. She should stay.”
I could have mentioned my husband was an ex-priest and could assist with a memorial service, but neither Zach nor I had believed in that for a long time. “When are you planning to fly back?”
“I don’t have a return ticket yet.” There was the same stoop to his bony shoulders I had seen when he arrived, but now his eyes had a kind of a glitter that unsettled me when he said, “Just leave me here for now, okay, Brigid?”
“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
“Like kill myself? There’s only a butter knife with that food you got me, and you put me on the first floor.” He almost smiled. “We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? You know me better than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Yes. I knew Zach long enough not to try saying lame things like, “God never gives you anything you can’t handle.” So instead I said, which was nearly as foolish, “Will you sleep?”
“No.” He smiled as if the question would have been meaningless at any point in the last seven years but now was utterly absurd. He pushed himself off the bed and went to the window and pulled aside the curtain to look out at the parking lot, spoke without turning.
“Brigid?”
“What, Zach.”
“Lynch made a deal, didn’t he?”
It was the one thing I hadn’t told him, and I should have known he’d notice the omission. I didn’t answer.
“I want to see him, too,” he said.
“No, Zach.” And this time I meant it. “I promise to call you when we get a date for sentencing, and you can read your statement in court.”
He could tell I would hold firm, and turning from the window, he stared at me as if he had seen nothing but his daughter until this point. “It’s been a long time, but you look good. The sadness is still there underneath, but falling in love has given you a nice glow. And the desert climate has been easy on you.”
“Maybe, but the cost of moisturizer is killing me,” I joked. I often joke when I feel awkward.
“You need to go,” he said.
“I really don’t,” I said, walking over to the tray that had been placed on the desk. “Look, I got you some coffee. I’ll pour you a cup. You like it black with fake sugar, right?”
He shook his head, unable to hide his mild annoyance at my attentiveness. “If you won’t go away I’ve got something to show you.” He tottered—good lord, he tottered and he was only fifty-three—over to the bed where he had tossed his black carry-on. Unzipping a side pocket, he took out a picture of Jessica and handed it to me. It showed her next to a multicolored image that took up two-thirds of the photo, leaving her a small figure on the side. “This was the last picture I had of her, taken at the hot-air balloon festival in Albuquerque. It’s not the best picture, but it’s the most recent.”
I studied the picture, a neatly laminated five by seven, without taking it from him, without knowing what to say. They say a woman is good at knowing what to say at moments like this, but that’s one of the women I’ve never been. After a few seconds he seemed to recognize that nothing more would be said or done about his photograph, and leaned it against the lamp next to the bed.
I thought that was all, but he went into the same pocket and drew out a dozen postcards. Now this, this I knew before he said another word. Zach had been getting these postcards periodically throughout the months and years after Jessica’s disappearance. There had been four of them: a picture of a grinning alligator from Florida, a lone trumpet player in New Orleans, Hello from Carlsbad Caverns, a close-up of a scorpion—I remembered them all. And all had the same message, “Having a wonderful time with my new friend. Wish you were here. Love, Jessica.”
I remembered all the time we lost with