and stuck a small sunflower into it, and I was convinced I was a grown-up.
“At dinner, we were served steak medallions and potatoes au gratin. I concentrated on not spilling. I had half a glass of wine. Then a nice man came around to shake hands and when he got to me I gave him the handshake my father had taught me, firm but not rough, look the person in the eyes. He had nice blue eyes, very bright, or maybe it was just the light in the lodge. He said to me, ‘Lovely to meet you. What grade are you in?’ I told him, ‘Sixth grade.’ Then I responded how my father always did. ‘And what do you do?’
“The man laughed and my father laughed, and my mother turned bright red and clutched me to her. The man said, ‘A little of this, a little of that. Nothing of any great importance.’ And then he walked away. Later I learned he was President Reagan.”
Mrs. Schmidt smiled, but Elm was unable to tell what the smile meant. Had she passed the test? Ian, who had heard the story many times before, nodded encouragingly. Without turning to him, Mrs. Schmidt said, “Young man, would you please run out and get some half-and-half? This milk that the woman brings me is too watery.”
“I think I saw some in the refrigerator,” Ian said. “I’ll check the expiration.”
“Young man,” Mrs. Schmidt sighed, “I’m trying to get rid of you. Be a dear and run to the deli and get us some half-and-half. And go to the Korean one, not the Pakistani one.”
Elm thought she saw Mrs. Schmidt wink at her. The woman was a web of tics; no wonder she was so thin. Ian shrugged and stood up. Elm could hear him as he banged into the piles of paper and bric-a-brac, beating his way to the front door.
Mrs. Schmidt lifted her teacup to her lips. It shook, but she managed a loud slurp before it spilled. The teacup banged loudly as it hit the saucer, and, before she knew what she was saying, Elm sputtered, “My son died.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Schmidt said.
“Do you remember the tsunami two years ago? We were on vacation in Thailand. He was next to me, and then he was gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Schmidt said. A different old lady might have petted her arm and called her “dear,” but Mrs. Schmidt just reached for a sugar cube and dropped it shakily into her tea.
Elm didn’t know why she told Mrs. Schmidt about Ronan. There was comfort, somehow, in meeting people who didn’t know about him. Elm was allowed to explain the story to them. She was allowed to say Ronan’s name. It was a taboo word elsewhere where she had used up people’s willingness to sit still for the story. Sometimes she felt like even Colin wanted to sweep him under the rug. Though he patiently reminisced with her, she could see the slight knit in his brow that meant he was annoyed. He missed Ronan as much as she did, but it brought him no relief to say Ronan’s name. It didn’t fester inside him the way it did in Elm.
But what if she had told Mrs. Schmidt merely to shock her? Had she said it to get the woman to like her? Elm was horrified that she’d used her son in this way. His death wasn’t like the Ronald Reagan story; it was a sacred subject, and she had sullied it. She felt ashamed and put her head down, blinking back tears. What kind of mother was she? Elm knew the answer: she was the kind of mother who let her child die.
Intellectually, Elm knew that what happened wasn’t her fault, that it was an act of God, whatever that meant. The phrase suggested a divine malevolence Elm wasn’t sure she was comfortable with. She wished she remembered better her last few moments with Ronan. She was lying on the beach, half reading a magazine, half watching Colin play catch with Ronan, and keepaway from Moira. Ronan still threw like a child, all jerky elbows and stiff hips. Moira ran back and forth between Colin and Ronan, screaming with frustration that the ball was above her head. Colin was laughing, but Elm could tell a tantrum was imminent.
Finally Ronan turned to her. “Mom, can you make her stop?” He knew that Elm was the disciplinarian in the family, and any grievances must be expressed to her. Elm remembered