“You do?” I ask.
“Well, it’s not just that I believe it—Iknowit.” Carl nods. “I’ve seen him do it.”
This is the story he tells us.
Before Carl moved to Locust, he lived near Albany. His mother suffered from dementia, too, and he had spent the better part of his forties caring for her. Though he has two siblings, it was Carl who stepped up and took responsibility for his mother’s well-being. It took a toll on him, as caregiving often does, but he stuck with it until he couldn’t anymore. His mother had become paranoid and erratic. She escaped their home multiple times, and she regularly woke in the night and got into trouble—turning on the stove, turning on the car, wandering the sidewalk in the dead of winter.
Eventually, Carl had to admit to himself that she was more than he could handle, and he secured her a spot in a home where he could visit her every day. He was torn about the decision, but she settled in, and after six months, it seemed they were both doing better than they had in years. Carl began to allow himself the odd indulgence—weekend fishing trips, a new truck. The future began to open up for him, but then, talk of a global pandemic began to spread. Before he could comprehend what was happening—beforeanyonecould comprehend what was happening—the first wave of the virus swept his mother’s nursing home. She tested positive on a Sunday and died two Sundays later.
Carl’s grief was so immense that he initially wished he could follow her, either by accident or by design. His guilt led him in all directions. First, he leaned into vices—alcohol, gambling, whatever pills he could get his hands on. Then, after bottoming out, he leaned into virtues—sobriety, exercise, meditation, vegetarianism.
Finally, he moved to Catwood Pond, determined to start over and lead a quiet life. But still, he was plagued with the feeling that his own decisions had led to his mother’s demise. His rational mind could not outmaneuver the part of his psyche that wanted him to shoulder the blame.
Around this time, Carl met my father. Whether consciously or not, he saw in Arthur an opportunity to make amends, or at least to make conversation. He began visiting every once in a while, and then more regularly. Preoccupied with her PhD, Nina wasn’t interested in getting to know Carl in any depth, but she was happy to have him occupy Arthur for a few hours now and again.
At first, that was all it was: keeping company. But eventually, Carl opened up and told Arthur how much he missed his mother. He felt able to reveal his secret shame, knowing that Arthur wouldn’t remember it the next day. There was something comforting about being able to tell and retell his story—first one way, then another way. He divulged it over a dozen times, with Arthur listening intently and compassionately each time. Eventually, the past began to lose its sting. Carl started to feel unburdened.
One afternoon when he stopped by, Arthur seemed preoccupied. He said he had just been chatting with a woman—older, frail, with ice-blue eyes and a raspy voice, wearing earrings made of seashells.
He was describing Carl’s mother to a T; there was no doubt about it. But Carl had never talked about her in this much detail, and Arthur had certainly never known her. Arthur’s account was vague at first: they had talked about the weather, about global warming, about how the loons had all gone north, and about Harry Belafonte. This made Carl smile, because his mother had loved the singer like none other.
He left that conversation feeling puzzled but exhilarated. He wanted more; he wanted to apologize. The next few times he visited my father, there was no mention of Carl’s mother. He assumed it had been a fluke, never to be repeated, and he felt he had lost her all over again. But then one day, a few months later, when he and my dad were sitting on the porch, my father said, “That woman keeps coming back. The one with the seashells on her ears. A real spitfire. We have a wonderful time together.”
“What do you talk about with her?” Carl asked eagerly.
“Oh, this and that,” said my father. “But she talks about you mostly.”
Carl’s heart leapt, and he held his breath as my father continued. “She says you are a wonderful son. She says you want her to forgive you, but that there’s nothing to forgive. She is having the time of her life. And she says you should get a dog.”
If it weren’t for the Alzheimer’s, Carl would have assumed Arthur was messing with him. But Arthur was guileless and sincere, and had no reason to know that these were the exact words Carl needed to hear. No, Arthur wasn’t a prankster—he was a channel.
The next time Carl visited, my father had absolutely no recollection of this conversation, and he never mentioned Carl’s mother again. But it was enough. Whatever he had transmitted had been sufficient to heal the gaping hole in Carl’s heart. Ever since, he hadfelt a peace that he hadn’t known since long before his mother’s death, and even before her illness.
So, no. Carl doesn’t think I am crazy, and neither does Paula. On the contrary, they think Seth is visiting my father for a reason.
I tremble to think what that reason might be.
Chapter 23
January 2016
My mother was livid when she found out that my father had taken me to Catwood Pond for New Year’s. She cut her Nicaragua trip short and demanded that we return to the city, all but grounding me. Somehow, she felt that the tragedy proved a point she had been trying to make for years: the wilderness was dangerous, lawless, not to be trusted—and I was the same. We were all better off in the city, especially me.
A few weeks later, there was a memorial service for Seth in Lake Placid. I had planned to attend with my father, but on the night before, a nor’easter blew through New York state. When we woke up and checked the roads, it was clear we wouldn’t make it in time for the service. I refused to go to school that day, and my parents knew better than to fight me. Instead, I holed up in my room, listening to Adele and sobbing as the snow filled the city below.
One night that winter, I overheard my parents arguing, which was not out of the ordinary, but this time, the conflict had more teeth. They were in the bedroom they had once shared, before my father permanently moved to the sofa in the den. I sat in the hallway by their door and closed my eyes so I could better focus on their conversation. Since the accident, I had become a detective, diligently hunting for confirmation of my culpability.
“You know I always deferred to you when it came to Cricket,” my mother said. “Because you understand her, and lord knows she likes you better than she likes me.”
“Tish,” my father said, sounding tired.
“Cricket isyourdaughter, through and through.” She said it like an accusation. My mother claimed Nina as her own on a regular basis, but she was quick to foist me onto my father, as if all my errors were somehow his fault. “But I thought you had her under control. I thought she was at least safe,” my mother continued. “What if she had been on that snowmobile?”
“I’ve thought about that every day since it happened.” My father was quiet for a moment. “We’re very, very lucky.”
“Luckyisn’t good enough. Something needs to change. You give Cricket and her friends way too much leeway. They’re not harmless kids anymore—they’re hazards to themselves.”
“I just try to treat them like humans.”
