“No, what’s that?”
“I’m going to butcher the science of it, but essentially, they discovered that people who take a dose of ibuprofen report less emotional pain when recalling negative feelings than individuals who were given a placebo.”
“So, what are you saying? I should take some more Advil?”
“No,” Rose laughs. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that your pain is real, even if you can’t see it.” We are quiet as we stare out the window. Lottie’s nook looks less empty somehow. The sunlight is hitting it directly, making patterns out of the tassels on the pillow.
“I love you, Mom,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry.”
“I love you, too, honey. We’ll be okay.” Rose reaches out her right hand to squeeze my arm. “So, what do we do now?”
I look at the yellow envelope on the counter. “Did you read Lottie’s note? The manuscript?”
Rose nods. “I read the letter, but I have only just started the manuscript.” She smiles softly, and it somehow contains both sadness and happiness. “It’s good.”
“Of course it is.” A thought occurs to me. “Hey, is the pickleball tournament still tomorrow? Can we skip it now that we know Lottie doesn’t care about the bucket list?”
“It is,” says Mom. “But actually, that gives me an idea.”
Chapter Thirty-SixRose
July 31
We pack the car with everything we’ll need: paddles, beach towels and chairs, running sneakers, a change of clothes, and binoculars.
First off is the pickleball tournament, which starts at nine. Item four on Lottie’s bucket list.
We slather ourselves with a thick layer of sunscreen, tie our hair into tight ponytails, and put on white visors.
“Ready to crush the competition?” Lily asks, coming out of her room wearing eye black. The streaks look comically out of place with her white tennis skirt.
“Is the war paint really necessary?”
“It’s supposed to reduce the sun’s glare,” she says in an academic tone. “Plus, it’s really intimidating.”
I smile. “We’re going to do so well. First place, for sure.”
“We’re going to crush the competition, obliterate them. When we’re done, everyone on the island will know the infamous story of the Gardner duo.” We high-five.
Two hours and three defeats later, we are back in the car, out of breath.
“Okay, so I guess we need more than a few weeks of practice to win a tournament,” Lily admits.
I take a long drag from the water bottle. In the rearview mirror, my face is flushed. “No kidding. That other team was really good.”
In the shade of the clubhouse, our opponents take a break, waiting for their next match. They’re both white-haired and look around Lottie’s age.
“Beatrice is a killer,” says Lily, still struggling to get air in. Her eye black has smeared off from the sweat. “They were totally cheating, though.”
“They were not.” I pull out of the dirt parking lot.
“I’m just saying, Beatrice’s ‘bad eyesight’ was a little convenient when it came to her line calls.”
“Lily,” I chide. “We lost eleven to three. And Beatrice has glaucoma.”
On the drive to Nobadeer Beach, we regain our energy. A cappuccino later, and Lily is a whole new woman. “I think we could’ve had them,” she says, referring to our last game. “Actually, they were a little slow.”
We drive up a sand road and pull over to the side, practically in the brush. My father and sister are waiting in the parking area when we arrive. My dad is in some ridiculous swimming getup that looks like it’s from the twenties. There’s a matching blue-and-white-striped shirt and swim bottoms. My sister has on a large, floppy hat that keeps almost flying away. In her arms is an elaborate cat carrier, Mrs. Clay inside.
