1
William
Seattle
2003
It was thekind of day my wife had often written about in one of her novels. The kind of day when, in my younger years, I’d have grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and headed to the beach for an afternoon of swimming, lounging, and sunning myself. Or, in my not-quite-as-young years, pulled a few towels from the linen closet, grabbed a plastic bucket and shovel from the garage, and whisked my daughter and wife out the back door, across our lawn, and through the little gate with its little bell to our stretch of rocks and sand, the navy blue water of the Puget Sound stretched out before us. We’d play in the sun until our noses and shoulders turned pink, and then pack up our things, and tread tired but happy back up to the house.
It was the kind of day when, should I allow it, I could be taken back to another time and place. A too-brief period that came now only in flashes of faded memories brought about by particular scents and sounds. The smell of the earth and wildflowers, the wind rustling the leaves on the trees, the warmth of the sun pressing against my skin. And the heat of the day undulating, almost visible, but not stifling—thanks to a breeze happening by to lift the hair from my head and cool my skin with a quick kiss of relief before flitting away again.
It was the kind of day you took notice of. Appreciated. Didn’t take for granted as you lifted your face to it, eyes closed, a small smile as you took in its simple perfection.
“Magical,” a voice from the past whispered in my ear.
A memory.
A ghost.
I grinned, lost for a moment as I allowed my mind to take me back. Just for a minute. I wouldn’t let myself stay there, or else the guilt would come. I’d had too good a life to let myself get pulled into the what-ifs and why-nots. But sometimes I liked to travel back. To imagine. I felt I owed it to the man I was.
I felt I owed it...to her.
“Dad?”
A hand pressed on my shoulder and I started and turned in my chair, looking up into the concerned golden-brown eyes of my daughter, Elizabeth. Lizzie. Named for her mother’s all-time favorite literary character.
“You okay?” she asked, her dark brow furrowed. “I was calling you.”
I chuckled and pressed my hands to the worn navy blue arms of my favorite deck chair. So many times Olivia, my wife, had wanted to have it repainted. But I liked it this way. We had bought the pair of chairs soon after we’d moved in many decades ago now, and while she’d had hers sanded and painted several times over the years, I liked that mine had weathered with me, each of us showing our age, my body forming to it, or perhaps it forming to my body. Who could know. Regardless, it was mine, and I liked the way life and age had changed it, as both had changed me as well.
I got to my feet and pulled my daughter into a hug, dropping a kiss on her head.
“I’m fine. Just enjoying the weather.” I stepped back and gestured to the familiar view she’d grown up with. Below the large deck where we stood, a pristine green lawn with flower beds bursting with color gave way to the Puget Sound beyond. It was an idyllic spot, perfect for long, lazy evenings in the warmer months, cozy fires at the firepit during the long-lasting gray months, and raising a family.
“Where’s Emma?” I asked, looking past her for my granddaughter.
“She just pulled up. But she was on the phone so who knows when she’ll grace us with her presence.” She shook her head and then turned, staring inside the French doors I’d left open to the boxes stacked against one wall of the living room. “You sure you want to donate them all?”
“It’s not what I want,” I said. “It’s what she wanted.”
The boxes were filled with books. Her books. From the very first to the very last, spanning five decades. Somehow, despite an aggressive cancer diagnosis, she’d managed to stay alive long enough to finish edits on her last contracted book, see it launch, and then pass quietly in her sleep a week after it hit theNew York Timesbestseller list.
“I did it again,” she’d said, her voice barely more than a whisper as she’d held up her phone with a shaking hand to show me the text from her editor.
“Of course you did,” I’d told her.
They all hit the list, and deserved to. She told stories like they were real life. Women and men alike saw themselves in her characters. She had a way of pulling you in, breaking your heart, and then building you back up with love and magical moments that, as one popular morning show host said, could feed you for weeks.
I’d often found it ironic that losing her could not be described. For a woman whose career depended on words, her death left me speechless. There wasn’t any one word that could express what it felt to lose her presence. The absence of her laughter ringing out down the hallway when she’d written a clever sentence. The way she’d side-eyed me when I took an extra-large helping of ice cream. The way her hand felt in mine.
It had taken months for me to stop calling out her name with a question on my lips. My sleep was often interrupted as my leg drifted toward her side of the bed and found it lacking the warmth that used to be there. I couldn’t seem to remember I was the only one drinking the coffee, and still, even now, a year later, made enough for two in the morning.
And her smell...the scent of lavender and vanilla...had all but ceased to exist in the house, time slowly stripping it, stealing it—and her—away.
The front door opened and shut with a small bang that sent a tremor through the walls. Lizzie shook her head and gave a little laugh.
“Apparently, Emma has decided to join us.”
