He once read a story about a zebra that escaped from a zoo. For a few hours, it had a grand old time, zigzagging down the motorway and dodging the police. But eventually it was captured again, and that was of course considered a happy ending. Because there’s no way it would’ve survived on its own.
Besides, everyone knows zebras are pack animals at heart.
He decides to skip the sea lions.
Instead he walks until the bridge comes into sight—a brilliant shade of red, like something out of a postcard—and then he keeps going until he reaches a small beach that overlooks it. He sits on the cold sand and watches the colors fade, moving from gold to pink to purple and finally to gray. When the sun has slipped away entirely, he gets up and walks back to the hotel in the growing dark, tired and lonely and ready to fall sleep in a bed shaped like a boat.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, he wakes up, the imaginary movement of the train beneath him. He reaches for his phone, hoping for a message from Mae, but there’s nothing. Instead, there’s a text from Alfie.
Alfie: I’ve been elected to find out how it went with Margaret Campbell, Part Two.
Hugo: She left today.
Alfie: Wow. You must’ve really bungled that apology.
Hugo: No, her grandmother passed away.
Alfie: Oh—sorry to hear it.
Hugo: Yeah.
Alfie: So what now?
Hugo: Nothing. She’s gone.
Alfie: Right, but you like her, yeah?
Hugo: Yes. A lot.
Alfie: Then that can’t just be it…
Hugo: I think it is. She’s gone and I’ll be home in a couple of days.
Alfie: Hard luck, mate. I’m really sorry.
Hugo: Thanks. Me too.
Alfie: Did she feel the same way at least? Did anything end up happening?
Hugo pauses, staring at the glowing screen of his phone. After a moment, he writes,Long story.
But what he’s really thinking isEverything.
Everything happened.
They stop at adiner on the way home from the airport, where they all order blueberry pancakes—Nana’s favorite.
“The doctors said she probably didn’t feel anything,” Pop says. “She was taking a nap, and she just didn’t wake up.”
His eyes are damp, but there are no tears. He’s usually the crier of the family, but Mae can tell he’s completely tapped out. He gives her a weak smile, then returns to his pancakes, and Dad picks up the thread. This is what she loves best about them, the way they carry each other, silently and automatically, when the other needs it.
“But I think she knew somehow,” he says, putting a hand over Pop’s, who clasps it back. They exchange a look. “After the first stroke, the way she was talking, it was almost like…”
“Like she was saying goodbye,” Pop says.
Mae puts down her fork. “I wish you’d told me,” she says, her throat tight. “If I’d known, I would’ve been here.”
What she doesn’t say is this: that sheshould’vebeen there.
