“No, because I don’t believe in ghosts. And even if I did, you wouldn’t suddenly pop up now.”
“Wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I find some way to return when you need me the most? Give you the kick in the ass you need?”
I snort again. “By scaring the shit out of me?”
“Nah, just scaring the sense into you. Are you really ready to go, Mags? If you are, I won’t stop you, but I don’t think you are.”
Fresh tears well. “It’s not supposed to be like this. First, you. Then my sister. Then the damn dog.”
“Everyone abandoned you.”
I shake my head. “I have the kids, the grandkids, the great-grandkids…”
“But they’re okay, and you’re not.”
“I’m really not,” I say, my voice a whisper. Then I glance over at him. “Now you’re going to tell me to think of them. Of what it would be like for our family if I left this way.”
His brows rise. “Am I? I thought you knew me better than that. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. Your choice. I justdon’t want you making the wrong one.” He pauses. “It was pretty cool, though, as exit strategies go.”
I peer at him.
“Oh, I know what you were doing. I know you. A grand mysterious exit, one that you told yourself you were doing for the kids, a last promotional burst to sell more books. Bullshit. There’s plenty of money, and they don’t need it anyway. You were just being dramatic.”
I open my mouth to protest. Then I glare at him.
“So maybe Iamreally here?” he says.
Tears well and spill down my cheeks. He envelops me in a hug that I swear I can feel.
“Soon, Mags,” he whispers. “Soon you’ll come to me. But let’s not rush it.”
I let myself stay in that embrace for a few minutes. Then I straighten and wipe my eyes.
“So now what?”
He points at my phone. “Well, for starters, you go through those messages and pick a damn puppy.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling through my tears. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you go back inside, pick up your laptop and continue that story.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
He rolls his eyes. “I saw you writing. I walked right past you, and you never noticed. You have a new story. Write it.”
“Yes, sir. And then?”
“Then you find a new story for yourself. One last story.” He meets my gaze. “I know you have it in you.”
I nod, and lean forward to brush my lips over his cheek. He points at the dropped phone. I pick it up and flip to the puppy pictures my grandkids sent.
Time to start one last story. And I’m going to make it a good one.
The Way Lost
Every Halloween, one child in Franklin lost his way and never came home. The next morning before school, kids would circle the playground, trying to figure out who was missing, locating their friends with relief…and their enemies with disappointment. The bell would ring, and we’d file into class, and if every seat in the room was full, we’d nod, as if satisfied, but deep down, we felt cheated of the excitement that came with a missing classmate.
If the empty deskwasin our room, the teacher would start the lesson with “June is no longer with us. If anyone would prefer her seat, please move there after lunch. You may clear out her belongings at recess.” Come recess, we’d bicker over who got June’s fancy fountain pen or dog-eared copy ofCharlotte’s Web. Quiet bickering—anything louder disrespected the dead.
