of the game. Her seat belt was already fastened, and her hand had wandered into her puffer coat’s right pocket, taking hold of the rope trick there. She held the rope in her lap, beginning the process:
Over, under, tug through and out.
The van rumbled forward through winter drizzle, wipers squeaking against glass. Streetlights caught on Murphy’s face, then flitted away. Eileen was keeping the van on town streets, no highways. Claire had said it would be a short trip.
It was. Minutes later the van stopped at the curb of a shadow-filled field. Murphy peered through the rain-speckled window, making out shapes of jutting stones that rose from the earth.
They were at a cemetery.
Claire got out of the van and opened the sliding door.
“What’re we doing here?” Murphy asked, clutching the rope.
Eileen appeared at the door. “Didn’t you say you wanted to see Dad’s grave?”
Dad.
John Sullivan.
Mark Enright.
Murphy had said that. She just hadn’t thought they’d noticed.
Murphy got out of the van, following her sisters up a dirt path edged by overgrown grass and fronds. Mist gathered on her coat, and the earth gave way easily beneath her Uggs. Ahead, Eileen’s flashlight cut through the night. Then, sooner than Murphy had expected, Eileen turned off the path, walking into the field—the graveyard.
Claire followed, Murphy keeping close behind.
They walked on for a while longer, passing through the ankle-high grass until, again, Eileen stopped, shining her light on a tombstone that rose from the earth in a perfect arc, like a well-filed fingernail.
For some strange reason, Murphy thought of A Christmas Carol, and the inscription EBENEZER SCROOGE. Of course, that’s not what was written on this stone. It was her dad’s name. His not-name: John Sullivan, a life with a starting date in 1982 and an end date before Murphy’s birth.
“You were technically here, at the funeral,” Eileen nudged Murphy. “I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember Mom being pregnant with you. She wore this long, billowy black dress.”
“And I was here?” Claire asked in a whisper.
“Yeah,” said Eileen. “Mom held both our hands.”
“Oh,” Claire said vaguely. Her eyes were stuck on the tombstone.
“So, we’re here,” Eileen announced. “We came to see you, Dad. Mark. John. Whatever you want to be called. And I wanted you to know, I get that you had a shitty life, and I hope there were good parts too. I hope Mom was one of those good parts, and me and Claire. And Murphy, even though you didn’t get to know her. And if there’s any afterlife? I hope you’re happy there, and you can see we’re getting it together on our end. Like, we’re family, and we’ll try to be better about sticking together. Because you didn’t really get that chance, huh?”
“Leenie,” said Claire, “you’re being bleak.”
Eileen swept the flashlight beam across the graveyard. “Uh, bleak’s the operative word here. What else do you want?”
“I don’t know. Just, I wanted to see it. To be here. We don’t have to make a speech.”
“Sure,” Eileen said. “No speech.”
Murphy studied the grave, turning her thumb over the rope trick. Claire could say what she wanted; Murphy had liked Eileen’s speech. She hoped that she had been, in fact, a really good thing in her dad’s life. The promise, at least, of a good thing.
She didn’t want to speak, but she was feeling an urge—an irresistible need to show him who she was. She walked closer to the grave, and she knelt into the wet, high grass. It felt only natural, what she did next: She set the rope on the grave, as she would a bouquet of flowers, and backed away.
The sisters were silent for a moment, and then Claire reached for something in her own coat pocket. She took Murphy’s former place, kneeling to set her object alongside the rope. Eileen’s flashlight revealed what it was: an iPhone, its screen shattered to smithereens.
“Well, damn,” Eileen said grittily, and then she was also at the grave, setting down a very small something: a wrapped piece of bubble gum.
Murphy felt like crying, and somehow Claire—Claire of all people—seemed to know, because she put a hand on Murphy’s shoulder and said, “Hey, we’re going to be fine.”
Murphy looked up. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“Nope,” said Eileen, slapping a hand on Murphy’s other shoulder. “We don’t know shit.”
“Anyway,” said Murphy, “you guys will leave soon. No one needs a spare tire.”