He shrugged. “I used to volunteer with a wildlife rescue in high school. My mom is a huge animal lover.” Apparently, so was her son.
“What can I get you?” She could feel Linus levitating behind them. “I want to help, but we probably shouldn’t do it in here.”
“I know,” Oliver assured her. “I could use a dish towel, if you don’t mind. Something soft to wrap him in?”
From a drawer Greta plucked the softest, thickest hand towel she had, in red tartan.
Even Linus hovered as Oliver wrapped the baby opossum in plaid.
“He looks rather Scottish,” Greta said.
“Once I get him warm, I’ll see if he seems strong enough to leave him by the gate, in case the mom looks for him. If not, I’ll try to locate an animal rehabber.”
When Oliver left she found a little box. Then she put two dish towels in the microwave to warm them.
“Look at you.” She’d forgotten Linus was still in the kitchen.
“What?” She didn’t have time for sarcasm. She had dinner to prep, and now she found herself wondering what baby opossums drank. Maybe pet formula?
Linus was shaking his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”
“Linus, I have a lot to…”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“What?” Greta turned, glaring. “I like animals.”
“And Oliver.” He tapped his chin. “Though you’re right, he’s also kind of a big…”
“Out!” Greta barked, pointing to the door.
Linus obliged, his snicker still audible as the door swung shut behind him.
In the sudden quiet of her kitchen, Greta put a weary hand to her head. Linus wasn’t the only thing that was out now.
Ezra
He dipped the tip of his paintbrush into the old coffee mug he used to clean them and swirled it around.WORLD’S GREATEST DAD, the mug said in cheerful block print. It was from the Mayflower Shop in town, before it became a high-end home goods store, back when Main Street in Chatham boasted more toy stores and five-and-dime shops than designer boutiques and galleries. The mug was a gift from his daughter, Amy, given on Father’s Day, many moons ago. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more than five minutes of Amy’s time on the phone. His daughter was always so busy, far away in Seattle. Since she’d broken the news that she and the grandkids weren’t coming out this summer to visit, the distance seemed almost unbridgeable.
Ezra sighed. From the edge of his patio the morning light was golden, the bay below mesmerizing. Both should have been ample inspiration for his painting, but inside he felt nothing but gloom. It was translating to his canvas. That morning’s acrylic was a careless series of gray strokes, interrupted only by tingesof blue and brown. All of it morose. None of it representative of the pristine view before him.
Ezra understood that his strained view of the outside world had more to do with what was going on inside, particularly in his mind. As a neurosurgeon, he was well acquainted with the science of the brain, at least what had so far been discovered. And he held too much esteem for the mighty organ to assume that they’d even scratched the surface of that science. With its complicated map of neurons and synapses, all of which controlled the body’s deepest inner workings, the brain was as marvelous as it was mysterious. But the mind—well, that was another animal entirely. And that’s where Ezra’s problems lay. The mind was where the memories were stored. The feelings that kept him awake at night. The sad thoughts that floated into consciousness and hovered like a raincloud. These things could not be measured in electrical waves nor detected on a scan. Still, the evidence was there.
Lately Ezra had been forgetting the lyrics to his favorite Sinatra songs. Then there was the painful tingling sensation that radiated through the soles of his feet any time he contemplated his future. Most recently, and probably most distressing, Ezra had stopped tasting food. It was as if the food had a volume button and someone had muted it. Whether Ezra doused his eggs with hot sauce or squeezed too much lemon on seafood, it all tasted the same to him: bland and sad. It was why he’d given up cooking anything different or eating out at a restaurant. Why bother?
Painting, it seemed, was all he had left. But lately even that was fading. His older works, paintings done while Rachel was still alive and that she’d insisted on hanging up wherever there was wall space in the house, were wholly different. They, too,were landscapes, but how bright the color choices, how vivid the details. Once, a visiting friend of Amy’s who ran a gallery on Newbury Street had offered to show his work. “You’re quite good,” she’d told him. Ezra had chuckled self-consciously before politely declining her offer. “If you ever change your mind,” she’d said, handing him a business card before she left. He had not. Ezra saved the occasional bout of ego for his work in neurosurgery. He had never liked a fuss, never sought the limelight whether handling a delicate surgery in the OR or seated before a homemade birthday cake; he much preferred to bask in the light of those he loved. Painting was something he did for himself; it was the one place he expressed his joy with abandon. When he looked back at his earlier pieces he saw where he’d once poured his bottled happiness onto the canvas.
Now, standing before his easel, there was no denying he’d entered a new period. Unlike the masters he admired, this was not a period of artistic experimentation or social expression. This was about his state of mind. It was about shadow and shade and an impenetrable darkness he could not shake. It didn’t require his medical degree to diagnose: Ezra was depressed.
As a doctor, he comprehended the protocols. Medically, he could,should, schedule an appointment with his general practitioner. He could request a psychiatric evaluation or seek a prescription: oh, the candy-land of drugs available these days. Therapeutically, he could try counseling. Companionship. A walk in the woods, or in his case,outof the woods. These practices were sound and backed by science. At the very least, in his most basic humanness, Ezra could simply get out of his house for the day. He could drag himself into town and among the living. Grab a nice seat and a cold beer at the Squire and starta conversation with the person on the next barstool. Attend a Chatham A’s game and cheer with the crowd. Join the Eldredge Library book club he’d seen advertised in the paper. After all, he was living in New England’s tourist hub during its highest season. There were people and places aplenty for a lonely man. The thing was, Ezra didn’t want to do those things.
He’d already met the best person of his life, his wife, Rachel. Together with their daughter, Amy, he’d already lived a life so full of beautiful ordinary things: noisy family dinners, elementary school soccer games, sitting through dance recitals so eternal he once thought,If one more tiny dancer twirls onstage for another solo I will die right here, right now. There were also less ordinary things: skipping off for a weekend in Paris, their first trip without Amy. Building their dream home in Newton, and then selling it to retire. And here, running down the steep wooden steps to the water for late-night skinny-dipping. Rachel’s idea, of course. When was the last time Ezra had taken those steps down to the water? He could not recall. The treads were probably rotting now; he could picture the wood warping, the nails pulling away from the stringers. How symbolic, he thought.
No, Ezra did not need to seek new happiness. He liked the old happiness he’d had, and he’d made peace, mostly, with the fact he could not get it back again. He would not seek to reinvent himself or reimagine his life. Such foolish thinking, ripe with disappointment. The only reason Ezra had survived this long as a widow, beyond his stubborn German heritage and his unavoidable penchant to preserve life, thanks to his medical training, was his daughter, Amy. Amy and those beautiful grandchildren. But now Ezra had a new plan.
If she were not already dead herself, Rachel would kill him. If she knew what he was planning, and he feared she might, she would have none of it. But Rachel wasn’t here. And neither was Amy, really, anymore.
When Ezra thought about it (and he really had, oh, howhardhe’d thought), Amy’s life would not change that much without him. Already she was living it largely without him, all the way across the country, and living it well. She was educated, employed, happily married, and a wonderful mother. He tried to convince himself that he had invested all he could in her, and as for any financial uncertainties of the future, he’d arranged for her to inherit comfort and security aplenty. Ezra did not want to hurt his daughter; truly, he could not bear the thought of that. But, despite the bottomless depth of his love for her, the terrible truth was that Ezra could not bear to be on this planet any longer.
