“I also came across Carson Roy’s obituary. His only survivor was his mother, which I already knew. The obituary mentioned he dreamed of opening his own garage. Apparently, he’d been rebuilding motorcycles since he was a kid.” Diana has never ridden on a motorcycle. Had Tom? She has no idea. “I wrote to Grace, too, with an update, but there’s been no word back yet. I figured a letter would be easier than a phone call. This way, she can decide when to read it. Orifto read it.”
Diana is relieved she’s told her mother what’s going on, but she’s still angry at Andrea. Sometimes families make things difficult.
“Will you ever tell the children?” Vivian muses. “Maybe when they’re grown, like I did?”
“Duncan knows.”
“Duncan? Wait, does that have anything to do with what happened when you were in Hamilton?”
In the past, Diana might have shielded herself against criticism about her parenting; tonight she holds her ground. “He figured some of it out, so I had to update him. I didn’t tell him all of it, only the details that are most relevant. He’s okay.”
“That’s why you’re not giving up,” Vivian says, understanding filling her eyes.
“Yes, for both Duncan and Phoebe. For me, too. And for Tom.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As Diana’s mother predicted, Andrea is full of regret after their fight and desperate for forgiveness. Diana, however, can’t stop rehashing what Andrea said:You’re consumed with finding out who he was and what he did. The truth is right in front of you: He was selfish and self-absorbed, and even after his death, he’s still dictating your life and your choices.
In the days that follow, Diana erases Andrea’s voicemails without listening to them. She ignores her sister’s texts, which include earnest apologies, accompanied by photos of the two of them as children or GIFs of people sobbing. Diana distributes the gifts Andrea leaves on her doorstep to others; the bouquet of tulips goes to Lakshmi, and she leaves the basket of homemade toffee brownies in the library break room for her coworkers to enjoy.
Soon,Diana thinks.Soon, I’ll be ready to talk.
Though she has nothing new to report to Duncan, one evening, as she drives him home from basketball practice, she updates him on her efforts to find Jessica. She tells him that she’s written to Grace and Jessica’s parents and found some old information online about Jessica. “I don’t hear back from her parents soon, I’ll call them.”
“What about her social media?” Duncan asks, holding up his phone. “She’s around your age, right? She’s probably on Facebook, or maybe Instagram.”
“Trying to say something about me being old?” Diana says with a laugh as she merges into traffic. He wiggles his tongue at her. “That’s a good idea, though. I should have thought of it.”
That night, after she’s locked the windows and doors and made sure her children are asleep, Diana sits at her kitchen table and opens the shared laptop. She wishes she still had access to Tom’s email. He deleted his email and social media soon after his diagnosis. “I’m doing this so you don’t have to,” he explained when Diana asked why he was even bothering. It would be helpful now to access his messages. She thought he took care of these details as a courtesy to her, but she’s not sure about that anymore.
A few clicks, and she’s on Facebook. She scans her news feed and finds posts announcing that the Spring Fling is sold out and those still in need of tickets can be added to a waiting list, missives about the upcoming presidential primaries, and a call for volunteers for Alcott Middle School’s teacher appreciation breakfast.
Diana enters “Jessica O’Connor” into the search bar, and dozens of options fill her screen. Thumbnail-size photos of women of all ages, young to middle-aged, smile back at her. Some cuddle fuzzy-haired dogs, others stand bikini-clad on sandy beaches, and some have replaced their avatars with images of Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Hillary Clinton.
“Which one are you?” Diana says, moving down the page.
After several dead ends, she clicks on a profile for a Jessica O’Connor from New Hampshire who has never turned on her privacy settings. Her most recent post is a four-year-old photo in which she poses with a young girl in front of a pink azalea bush. Both wear heart-shaped sunglasses and sundresses.Celebrating Ava’s birthday, reads the caption.
Jessica’s daughter is named Ava. This must be her.
Diana can’t get a sense of Jessica from the photo; her hair is tucked under a bandana, and she stands slightly behind the little girl. Who took the photo? Where were they? Why does it say she lives in New Hampshire when she moved out of the apartment in Nashua? Does she still live in the state? Why hasn’t she posted any updates since this photo?
Although this Jessica hasn’t maintained her profile, it’s possible she visits the site, lurking about to read friends’ posts, so Diana writes a private message she hopes will earn a response:Dear Jessica, My name is Diana Morgan. You and my husband, Tom, worked together one summer on your aunt and uncle’s farm in Hamilton, Vermont. I have some questions about that time and would appreciate talking with you. Thank you.Diana includes her phone number and hits send.
It’s then she allows herself to click over to Tom’s Team, the Facebook group she created as news spread about Tom’s diagnosis. She used the group to share brief updates, photos of their last vacation to Cape Cod for his fiftieth birthday, and, at the end, inform everyone he was gone. The group was easier to manage than fielding countless emails, calls, and texts. After he died, though, the thought of keeping it going distressed Diana. She didn’t respond to any of the sympathy messages decorated with broken-heart emojis; instead, she closed out of the site and deleted the app from her phone.
The profile pictures of old friends, neighbors, work colleagues, and a few of Tom’s former clients blend together as she reads their posts.Such a loss. What an outstanding man. May your memories be a blessing.
What memories of Tom do these people hold? Did they really know him?
Because after all, Diana hadn’t really known him, had she?
Grace’s response to Diana’s letter arrives the following week, the day before the Spring Fling, stacked in the mailbox with the latest issue ofThe Alcott Chronicleand the water bill. Diana finds the letter when she arrives home from work. Her worry manifests into yet another list:What Have I Done to Grace?
I’ve disappointed her by not yet talking with Jessica.
I’ve wrenched up the past and added to her grief.
