‘Adagio,’ I say. This is ‘Juliet.’ Switch to six-eight. Over.
Sybil and I both stare into the static.
Roger, ‘Juliet,’ replies the voice. Roger six-eight. Over.
I scroll through the channels with the knob.
If you are signaling Mayday, I tell her, you don’t have to switch channels.
But she has already grabbed the handset. Hello, ‘Adagio!’
Hello, ‘Juliet.’ Am I speaking to the Captain?
No! She roars laughter.
You don’t have to shout, honey, I say.
My name is Sybil Partlow and I’m seven years old! Over! I’m learning how to use the VHF in case we start to sink. Over!
Hold on, ‘Juliet,’ the man’s voice responds. I have someone you might want to talk to.
Hello? says a new voice.
I prod her. Say something, Sybil.
Hello? This is the boat ‘Juliet.’ Good morning. Over.
Hello. My name is Fleur and I’m seven years old.
Sybil throws down the handset, runs across the saloon, and climbs on top of the settee. She does a pull-up to peer out the portlights, her bare feet clawing at the bulkhead.
Where are you, little girl? she shouts.
Sybil, I say, laughing. Use the VHF.
She drops, runs back.
Hello?
The other child is laughing, too. What’s your name again? she asks.
Sybil. Sih. Bull. Sybil Partlow. From the United States of America!
I’m Fleur and I’m Dutch. Fleeeeer. Do you want to come over and play?
Do you have any dolls? Sybil shouts. My favorite one fell overboard years ago.
* * *
—
I pull up to the house and sit behind the wheel for a moment. It is late afternoon. The topmost corner of the house is lit with sun, like a dog-eared page. I can see the row of arborvitae that line the backyard, also dipped in sunlight. The backyard was the reason we bought the house six years ago. I wanted to try to grow vegetables. There was plenty of room for Sybil to play. We liked the brook at the back edge of the property. All day and night it could be heard gurgling, reciting a watery rosary through the curtain of trees. And because of this brook, there was a surprisingly good show of bird life. I could sit beside the stream and watch starlings bathe among islands of mint.
Now, I drag myself out of the car and gather the groceries. I’m certain I’ve forgotten many items in the rush to get through the checkout after seeing my friend. The heft of the bags is reassuring. I must have bought something.
I walk inside and push off my shoes. My mother sits at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Her hair is wet.
Did you get a bath? I ask.
Mmmm, she says, rising to take the bags. Your friend Alison came over with another casserole, she says.
That’s nice, I say.
She left a note.
OK, I say.
Do you want to read it?
No thank you.
She stands next to me at the counter. Let me put these away, she says.
OK, I say.
But then she stops and looks at me. Are you all right? Did something happen at the grocery store?
I look at her closely. How in the world does she know this?
What do you mean? I ask.
Never mind, she says, taking out the groceries. The preschool called while you were out, she says. They say George has a slight fever. They say not to worry—it’s very slight. But he may be coming down with something. Do you want me to go get him?
The news hits me hard. I have lost my ability to absorb shock, even the smallest surprise.