“I, um. Don’t know.” The words were stilted, because I hadn’t known they were true until I spoke them out loud. “I kind of pulled away after she died. It felt easier to be alone, and better for everyone else. No one seemed to understand what it was like, and it was so exhausting wanting everyone else to understand, and I didn’t want to be a drag on other people just because I couldn’t get over it. But I guess the side effect of pulling away is that I haven’t really... talked about her. Out loud. I think about her. Irememberher. But always alone.”
“You could talk about her, if you wanted. To me, I mean.” Sunny’s fingers grazed my knee, softly, unobtrusively. “I promise it won’t be weird for me.”
“It feels weird tome,” I mumbled, keeping my eyes on the road. But there was a moment—there was something light and lifting behind my sternum—and I could almost imagine myself talking. Speaking. Telling Sunny all the things I’d remembered and all the things I was forgetting despite my frantic efforts not to. Bringing Brooklyn back to me not as a way to cling to her orhurt myself with her memory, but as a way to recall the simple gift her life had been.
But the words didn’t come. They stuck like half-chewed gummy bears in my throat, and the dull roar of the truck soon became its own response.
“It’s okay, Isaac,” Sunny said. “You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to use you like some kind of... dead-wife priest. That’s not fair to you.”
“That’s just silly,” she said. “Why is talking about important things not fair to me? Because we’ve been smooshing?”
“Well. Yes.”
“I think the real issue is that you’re out of practice,” she said, and while it probably wasn’t the only issue, it was still a correct diagnosis. I lifted my shoulders in ayou’re right, but what can a pop-star-turned-recluse do?shrug.
She sighed. Fed me a gummy bear, which I accepted, since it wasn’t yellow.
“I’m also out of practice. Charlie is the only one who shares so many of my memories of Mom and Dad, and I used to think that together, we could hold on to them somehow. But at some point, he decided that the only way to hold on to Mom and Dad was to ‘preserve their legacy’ through Bundles of Joy.” She leaned her head back against the battered headrest of the seat. “Ihatethat this company has become all that we have left of them. That it’s the only memory we share now.I hate it.”
“I’d hate it too,” I told her, and now it was my turn to touch her knee. She caught my fingers and pressed them against her leg.
We stayed like that until the potholed mountain road leveled out and we rumbled into a hamlet so tiny that it made Christmas Notch look like Paris.
“The retirement community should be just past the gas station,” Sunny directed, and sure enough, the oppressive trees eventually parted to reveal a long drive, freshly salted and lined with neatly trimmed shrubs. As we got closer to the building—a newish structure with multiple levels, two porte cocheres, and a pickleball court peeking from around the side—a sign announced that we’d reached Lucky Duck Acres and that all visitors needed to check in at the front desk. We parked, hopped out of the truck, and walked to the door. Our hands met and linked as we crunched over the salted concrete of the sidewalk.
Neither of us pulled away.
“Hello! How can I help you today?” chirped a short, bespectacled woman from behind the desk. She sported blue and green hair, a nose ring, and a busy cardigan that she was wearing with anti-ironic confidence.
“We’re hoping to speak to Bernice Dugan for an interview,” Sunny said intrepidly. We’d agreed on the way here that we’d be honest about why we wanted to see Bernice if someone asked, and that we wouldn’t be shy about dropping the Hope Channel name if needed.
But before we could even get to mentioning Wholesome Content Daddy, the desk lady’s face dimmed to a hesitant, regretful look. “Bernice just left us,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt as to what kind of leaving Bernice had done. “Late last year.”
“We were just at the cemetery,” I said, puzzled. “We saw the tombstone she shares with her husband, and there was no death date on it.”
“The tombstone company is still backlogged from the disaster at the maple syrup processing plant—but I’m afraid it’s true. We all miss her dearly, and it was so unexpected.”
Sunny’s eyebrows pinched together the smallest amount. “Well, she wasn’t young...”
“Oh, she didn’t die of old age,” the receptionist said. “Moose accident on the way to the store to get more vape cartridges. You have to be careful with the moose, because their eyes don’t shine in the dark—”
“Because they’re too tall!” Sunny finished for her, and then gave my shoulder a little shake. “I told you!”
“But at least she died doing what she loved,” the receptionist concluded.
Sunny gave a solemn nod.
“I am sorry you came here for nothing, though,” said the receptionist. “Bernice was a wonderful storyteller, and she would have loved to have been interviewed. Is this for the news?”
Sunny slumped a little, leaning her hip against the counter. “I’m writing a screenplay about a local legend, and we just found out that the local legend washer. I just want to get to the core of the real story so I can make sure that my screenplay is on the right track, you know?”
“A screenplay?” the receptionist said, eyes rounding behind her glasses.
“She’s working on a movie for the Hope Channel.” I leaned against the counter too. And then with an educated guess, I went for a second name drop. “They’re thinking Winnie Baker herself might play the part of a young Bernice.”
“Winnie Baker!” the receptionist whispered in awe.
