possibly be headed? Sam thought of that when she read about the ever-worsening state of the country, when the members of her family who had always loved debating politics had to stop talking about the subject, or else stop talking, period. When so many of the things George had predicted came true.
Even though she did not name him in the story, Elisabeth acknowledged that her book wouldn’t exist without George. The Hollow Tree was dedicated to him.
Elisabeth crossed Sam’s mind again months later, when Sam was moving out of the apartment she and Maddie shared in New York. As Sam filled a box with books, a photograph slipped out of one—in it, Sam was holding Gilbert, the strap of her top obscured, the baby visible only from the waist up, so that it appeared both of them were naked. Inspiration for a painting she had never finished, never delivered. She wondered what happened to it and, in turn, to Elisabeth. Had she ever told Andrew the truth? Were they still together?
Sam was almost certain that was the last time she thought of her. The years passed faster, the older she got. There was less time to ruminate, less time for everything. Less time.
But now Elisabeth was in front of her, looking confused as to why some random woman was waving.
Until she seemed to realize. She rolled down her window.
“Sam?” she said. “I didn’t recognize you. You look fantastic. You’re all grown up.”
For a moment, it was just the two of them, as it had been years before.
Elisabeth turned and said, “Gil! This is Sam. She was your first babysitter.”
The boy in the back seat was tall and lanky. He wore a shiny green basketball uniform. His blond curls were gone. He had shaggy brown hair now.
“Say hello,” Elisabeth said.
“Hi,” he said, bashful.
Sam was a stranger to him.
She could remember what it felt like to cross a room with the weight of his body pressed against her shoulder; the sensation of popping Cheerios into his mouth, one by one.
“And this is Willa,” Elisabeth said. “Willa, you weren’t even born yet when we knew Sam.”
The girl looked like Elisabeth. The same slender build, the same eyes.
Sam almost expected her to explain. The Elisabeth she remembered would have blurted out, Willa was adopted, or I ended up getting pregnant by accident after all that. Can you believe it?
Instead, in a voice that was warm, but somewhat formal, Elisabeth said, “What are you up to these days?”
Sam felt flustered, as if she were not an authority on her own life.
“I’m here for my tenth reunion,” she said finally. “I opened my own gallery last year.”
“That’s amazing. In Brooklyn?”
“No. Providence.”
Sam had first gone there to visit her sister Caitlin when she was a student at the Rhode Island School of Design. She fell in love with the city—with its gorgeous old mansions and tacky Italian restaurants and proximity to the beach. She decided to stay. Caitlin stayed on too, after she graduated. They lived only a few blocks apart. She was making it as a painter now, almost. Supplementing her income by bartending a few nights a week. She looked like Sam had at that age, but for the sleeve tattoos of birds and butterflies. Caitlin was the artist Sam had almost wanted to be, but not badly enough. A more independent, self-assured version of the original. They met most mornings for a walk along the river.
Sam had lasted six years in New York, doing everything for Matilda—from helping her choose the art, to giving her Chihuahua his host of daily medications. That had set her on her path. Matilda promoted her twice, and would have done so again if Sam had wanted to stay. But Sam never felt she belonged in the city the way some people did.
Once, when her mother was visiting, they went to dinner at a bustling place in Tribeca. The tables were close together. A midwestern businessman sat alone beside them. Sam’s mother made small talk with the guy when Sam excused herself to go wash her hands. From then on, he kept interrupting their conversation.
Sam responded to his questions in short, clipped sentences, wanting her mother to herself. In her entire life, she had almost never had that. When their brussels sprouts arrived, the man said he had wanted to order them, but the portion was too large for one person.
“Have some of ours!” her mother offered.
Sam shot her a look.
After dinner, walking up West Broadway, her