Maisie let one leg fall into the pool, defeated.
“But it does get easier. I want you to remember that. Because you’re going to go home in a few weeks, back to your house and your belongings. And normal things, your toys for instance, might seem drained of their pleasure, of their ability to bring you joy. Games you played with your mom, maybe. And that’s okay. You’re both so big now.” He reached for Grant’s hand, too. “Maybe you’ve outgrown them. Maybe they will regain their powers over time. Either way, it’s fine.” Patrick sat up, careful to keep his balance. He leaned forward to unbuckle Grant’s bicycle helmet, and then likewise loosen Maisie’s. “Take these off. The sky is not going to fall. That’s what I’m telling you. The pain you feel, the disaster you think is imminent. Those feelings fade. And some days you even miss it. Some days you miss the pain, because you’re afraid. Afraid that as the pain softens so do memories of the one you lost.” Patrick thought how best to explain this in a way they would understand. “Do you guys have chalkboards at school?”
“We have whiteboards,” Maisie said. Patrick lifted the helmet off her head.
“But we have a chalkboard eathel at home.”
“Weasel?”
“He means easel.”
“Oh, so then—you know. It feels sometimes like Joe, whom I loved very much, is being erased. He’s just a smudge now on a chalkboard, smeared in an effort to get rid of him to make way for something new. And I hate that. So there are times I wished it hurt more, because it would mean the details of him would still be sharp. And then there are other days out here in the desert—especially if you go way out, to Joshua Tree or beyond—when you can see the Milky Way. A whole smudge of stars across the sky. And you think, there’s still so much in that smudge. So many gleaming, beautiful things that you could never erase them all.”
“Do you have a picture of him?” Maisie asked after taking this new information in.
“Of Joe? Many. I put them away. I don’t often look at them anymore.” Patrick eased back onto his float. “I have a letter.”
“That he wrote to you?”
“That I wrote to him. After he died.”
“Why did you write to him after he died?”
The question hit Patrick hard. Was it merely an assignment from a therapist whose credentials he questioned at the time? “It helped me. And I think it might help you. When we go inside, I think we should all write letters to your mom.”
They looked confused.
“We can’t send them, you understand. But really, they’re for ourselves. Years from now we can read them. You’ll see where you were. And you’ll see how much you’ve grown. And that will make your mother happy. Knowing, eventually, that you’ll be okay.” Patrick pushed Grant’s drink back in his nephew’s direction. “Finish your smoothies, kids.”
“Why?” Maisie asked.
“Why?” Patrick reached for his own beverage. “Guncle Rule number thirteen: Fun drinks make everything more interesting.”
They wrote their letters that afternoon.
“Cassie Everest’s office.” The voice was androgynous, bordering on bored. So much so, Patrick almost forgot to speak.
“Cassie?” Had she finagled an assistant out of this promotion? Or was she lowering her voice an octave to fake one? Either way, he was impressed.
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick . . . ?”
“Her client.” Patrick was immediately jealous. He liked to have people’s undivided attention. “Does she have other accounts?”
“Oh, Patrick!” There was a glimmer of light in the voice. This wasn’t Cassie after all; she wouldn’t take the charade this far. So who was this new being?
“Please. Let’s not stand on ceremony. Call me Mr. O’Hara.”
There was an awkward pause as this new addition to the team tried to assess if he was joking. “One moment, Mr. O’Hara.”
Patrick emptied the dregs of the coffeepot into his mug, took a sip, and spat it in the sink. Maisie insisted on making the coffee each morning, and while it was drinkable freshly brewed, it did not stand up to the morning. He peered into the living room; it was empty. The kids were reading quietly in their rooms. It was a rare moment of privacy, and he was taking full advantage.
“This is Cassie.” Her voice rang through the phone, serious, assured.
“Amy Adirondacks? Is that really you?”
“The one and only.”
“Neal really did right by you.” Patrick hoped to god this was true.
“Office. Assistant. Company credit card. And I have you to thank. He really listens to you.”
“Everyone listens to me.” The TV came on in the other room. Patrick screamed over the volume. “I said no television!” He could hear Cassie’s smile through the phone.
“I think he’s jealous of you, frankly.”
“Neal?” Gossip was the way to Patrick’s heart.
“He became an agent, but all things considered he would have rather been famous himself.”
“You tell that prick the only way he’s going to see his name in lights is if he changes his name to EXIT.” It was an old line, but Cassie was young and didn’t know all the old lines, and he punctuated it with a new panache, hoping she would later repeat it in the office lunchroom, allowing Neal to overhear. Sure enough, she laughed.
“What can I do for you, Patrick?”
All business, Cassie 2.0. “My Golden Globe is dented.”
“It’s dented?”
“It has a dent in it.”
“A dent,” Cassie repeated. The word was in danger of losing all meaning.
“A dent, a dimple, a depression. It fell. During the earthquake.”
“Oh. Okay. We’ll call over to the Hollywood Foreign Press and see about getting it replaced.” Silence. “Are the kids all right? Do you mind me asking?”
“They are and I don’t mind. Listen. I want you to look into something for me. Without saying you’re looking into it.”
“I’m not sure I understand, but okay.”
Am I going to have to do all the work? “I want you to gauge interest.”
“In?” Cassie asked.
“Employment opportunities.” Patrick
