The table went still.
“I don’t want to talk to her,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. We don’t talk. That’s the whole thing.”
Anna looked at him. Of course he hadn’t called. Tyler, who had survived Sam by hiding in the darkroom. Tyler, who had learned that the easiest way to deal with something painful was to not deal with it. Of course he hadn’t picked up the phone.
“Nobody wants to talk to her,” Anna said. “None of us do.”
“But you’re not going to let Stella walk into that house without Sam knowing she’s coming,” Meg said. Not a question.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.” Tyler set his glass down. “I just—I keep picking up the phone and putting it down.”
They were still. Anna watched her brother’s hands on the table—flat, steady, the hands of a man who had spent his whole life being steady for other people and couldn’t figure out how to be steady for himself right now.
“Do you want us to be here when you call?” Anna asked.
Tyler met her eyes. Something moved across his face. He pressed his hands against the table. His eyes were wet and he didn’t try to hide it. He reached across and took Anna’s hand, then Meg’s.
“I didn’t know it would be so hard to come out of the darkroom,” he said.
Anna squeezed his hand. Meg squeezed the other one.
“You’ve been coming out of hiding for a while, Tyler,” Anna said. “Since Stella showed up. You’re good at it. This is just the last hard part.”
Tyler took a breath. Let it out. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. But not tomorrow. Now. Before I lose my nerve.”
“Now?” Meg said. “Tyler, it’s ten-thirty.”
“If I wait until tomorrow I’ll talk myself out of it again.” He pulled his phone from his jacket on the back of the chair. Looked at it. “I don’t even have her number.”
“I have it,” Meg said. “She sent it on a postcard last spring. I wrote it down.” She pulled out her own phone and found it and held it out.
Tyler took the number. Typed it in. His thumb hovered over the screen.
“Just hit it,” Anna said.
“I’m going to.”
“Tyler.”
Meg reached across and pressed the green button.
“Meg!”
It was ringing. Tyler put the phone to his ear. Anna could hear the rings from across the table—one, two, three, four. Meg gripped the edge of the table with both hands. Then voicemail. A recording of Sam’s voice, warm and easy, the voice of a woman who didn’t answer her phone at ten-thirty at night or possibly any other time.
Tyler closed his eyes.
“Hi, Sam. It’s Tyler.” His voice was steady. Anna watched him hold it steady. “I know Bea is coming to visit you next week. And she’s bringing someone—her cousin—my daughter. Her name is Stella. She’s seventeen. She’s a photographer.” He paused. “I should have called sooner. I’ll text you the flight details. Okay. Bye.”
He hung up and set the phone on the table.
“She didn’t pick up,” Anna said.
Tyler exhaled. “Thank goodness for voicemail.”
