“But you didn’t do anything wrong. She had COVID.”
He shrugged. “I was convinced it was my fault. Like I said, guilt is conniving. It befriends your ego and tries to convince you thateverything’s aboutyou—the past, the future. But it’s just not true. The only thing we ever have is the present, and we do the best we can with it.”
I look over at my father, who has slipped into a light sleep in his wicker chair.
Carl is right, of course. All these years, I’ve been so eager to punish myself, to somehow embody the tragedy and make myself the center of the story. I’ve been so focused on the fact that Seth died that I have failed to embrace the other truth: I lived.
I take a final sip of wine. “So how do we beat it? The guilt, I mean.”
“Exactly what you’re doing. Create something. Make the world a friendlier place. Allow yourself to have a little fun. And it couldn’t hurt to play tennis with Max.”
Chapter 38
The following week, as I put on a pair of shorts and my least-ratty T-shirt, I try to figure out why I’m so nervous. First, I worry that Max expects something from me. Then, I worry that I expect something fromhim. “It’s just tennis,” I say to my reflection, as I pull my two-tone hair into a long ponytail. “It’s just tennis.”
I repeat my mantra during my drive into town, and when I arrive at the community courts, Max is already hitting a ball against the backboard. His strokes are easeful, and I’m relieved that at least one of us is relaxed.
As I shut my car door, he stops and turns. “Hey there!” he calls, walking to meet me by the bench at the side of the court.
“Hi,” I call, my pulse quickening. Finally, it dawns on me that this is the exact spot where I first met Seth, so maybe that explains the nerves. This is the place where things begin; and we all know how they could end.
“Penn? Wilson?” Max holds up two new cans of tennis balls.
“Hmmm…” I say, as if making a weighty decision.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re a Dunlop girl…”
I laugh. “Let’s go with Penn.”
Max’s playfulness helps to put me at ease, and I remind myself that I am no longer an angsty sixteen-year-old. I’m twenty-seven now, and this is just tennis. Nothing more.
“Just FYI, it’s been a while, so go easy on me,” I say, heading to my side of the court. “Oh, and I grunt when I serve.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” replies Max.
With that, he feeds the ball to me, and we begin to rally. I immediately launch a forehand over the far fence, but before long, I am hitting competent groundstrokes and volleying with what could be considered sass. Max is good, but I am good enough to keep up—or at least he lets me think I am.
“Damn!” yells Max, impressed, after I rip a backhand past him down the line. “You’re an animal.”
He seems to delight in me in a way that feels oddly familiar, and I feel myself loosen up. By the time we decide to quit, I’ve forgotten what I was so nervous about. After all, it’s just tennis.
Chapter 39
When I get home, my father is at the piano, and Dominic is on the bench beside him, alert and watching my father’s fingers skitter across the keys. For all of Dad’s forgetfulness, he can still play a dozen or so songs by heart. This afternoon, it’s “Maple Leaf Rag” by Scott Joplin—not an easy song by any measure. I pause in the doorway and watch as he plays it in its entirety, his left hand deftly leaping between octaves, the muscle memory still there. It’s not uncommon for those with Alzheimer’s to retain musical abilities, despite losing ground elsewhere. Perhaps the songs live in a sacred part of the brain that is the last to be breached. Or perhaps the music has its own life force, and my father is merely the channel through which it runs. He plays the final notes with buoyancy and then looks down at Dominic.
“Well, my girl, I think that does it for today.”
Without noticing my presence, he gets up and shuffles out to the porch, where he settles into a chair. I consider following him out, but he looks so peaceful, I decide not to interrupt him. Maybe he is awaiting something, someone. Maybe Seth is on his way.
The heat of the July afternoon is starting to build, so I change into my bathing suit and make my way down to the pond for a quick swim. With the sun pressing down, I walk to the edge of the dock and lean over to check the underwater thermometer attached to the ladder. The water is a cool 68 degrees, just how I like it. I stand up, inhale deeply, and dive, cutting into the cold depths. I come up breathless and turn to see how far I am from our dock. Maybe twenty feet. I spin 180 degrees and look to the far shore, where the Seaveycamp, all but abandoned, sits still and silent. If I squint my eyes, the house and boathouse blend into the hillside, and it’s as if it was never there at all.
I hear a ding come from the dock, where I left my phone. As I swim back and pull myself up the ladder, I find myself hoping it’s Max. I quickly talk myself down, take a deep breath, and then calmly look at the screen.
I’m disappointed at who it isn’t and surprised by who it is: Gemma.
Her text reads:
Hey C! Super exciting opportunity for you. New investor in the mix, so I’m expanding our product offerings at Actualize. Here’s a crazy thought… a whole line of products from the oracle? Or maybe something even bigger… Can you meet next week? I’ll be in Locust.
