“I was sorry to hear about your family’s…troubles,” he said. He seemed hesitant, concerned that he might be offending me. But he clearly wasn’t looking for information, or passing judgment in any way. He really sounded like he was sorry to have heard. “I always liked all of you so much.” He frowned and looked into his wineglass. “I guess it happens now, these days. But it must be sad for you and your sister.”
“It’s fine,” I said, feeling as adamant as my mother had sounded when she said the same thing. But there was real sympathy in his eyes. I didn’t want him to think that he had gone too far, saying something too personal. It wasn’t too personal. I had known him—we had all known him—since I was girl, and when his wife had died, I remember not knowing what to say to him, and not wanting to even look up at his bewildered face. I knew he meant well now, and that he cared about us. But it really was fine—the divorce, everything. “Really,” I said, touching his arm. “Thank you. It was bad for a while. But I think it’s starting to be fine.”
On the way out, my mother apologized for staying so long. “I didn’t even see Elise and Charlie go,” she said, walking with me back to the van. She sounded a little dreamy, and she seemed surprised to see that it was getting dark. She’d only had one glass of wine, and she hadn’t even finished it. She was just happy.
She wanted to drive, she said. When she started the van, the radio came back on, playing a wordless version of “Good King Wenceslas.” “Hey!” she said, pointing at the dashboard, and I knew what she meant. It had been the first song on the program when we’d gone to hear Marley play just a few weeks earlier at Vespers. Actually, we didn’t hear Marley play—or at least I didn’t. There were four other French horns in the orchestra, and I heard only a general horn sound coming from their section, which was really just background for the choir. When I realized this was how it would be for the entire concert, I was a little startled, considering how much Marley practiced, all the time and effort she put in. I knew she was good—she was only a sophomore this year, but she’d told my mother she was second chair. For some reason, I assumed she would have at least one solo. But she didn’t. She did all that work and practice just to add to something beautiful, a sound so big that she herself couldn’t be heard. When it was over, she seemed happy, smiling out at the clapping audience. I don’t know if she saw that I was there or not.
My mother hummed along with the radio, pulling the van away from Mr. Wansing’s. She tapped the rhythm on the steering wheel for a while and then reached up to turn on the heater. When we neared the entrance to our old cul-de-sac, she slowed.
“Okay if I just pull in real fast? Will it upset you to see it?”
I shook my head. She was hunched over the steering wheel, already peering past me. “Will it upset you?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She turned on her blinker, though there was no one behind us. “Guess we’ll find out.”
We saw the changes right away, even in the fading light. There was no way to know, in the middle of winter, if my mother’s rosebushes had really been killed. But they’d painted the door red, and the shutters, too. New trees, their spindly trunks held fast with ropes, followed the slope of the driveway to the street. An Irish setter sat placidly on the porch. The window of the room that had been my father’s office was covered with superhero stickers. A light was on in my old room.
“Weird,” my mother said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “It is.”
“But not that weird,” she said, now maybe talking to herself. Her chin was raised, her head tilted. She was still wearing the scarf and hat. “I mean, people move. People move all the time.”
I waited for her to say something else, something sad. But she was just quiet for a while, her hands resting at the top of the wheel. When she did talk, she said, “I hope Miles is awake when I drop you off. I’ll just come inside for a minute.”
With that, she took her foot off the brake and followed the curve of the cul-de-sac back to the street. There wasn’t anything more to say. It was just the house where we used to live, and we didn’t live there anymore.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the women and men at Children’s Learning Center in Lawrence, Kansas, for taking such great care of my daughter during the weekdays while I wrote this book.
I am very much indebted to Lucia Orth, Mary Wharff, Mary O’Connell, and Judy Bauer for their thoughtful responses to drafts. I feel fortunate to have met fellow writers whom I can learn from and also call friends. And thank you to Ben Eggleston for being such a positive presence in my life as well as Vivian’s. It must be good for my head, and therefore my work, to spend time with someone I admire so much.
I am also grateful for the honesty and intelligence of my excellent agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. Ellen Archer’s kindness and support have been constant. My editor at Hyperion, Leslie Wells, is a discerning reader and a thoughtful advisor, and her enthusiasm has been so encouraging.