“I think I’m learning how to be.”
After we hung up, I continued searching.
At ten thirty, I found Dorothy’s blue notebook.
She carried one like it everywhere. Grocery lists appeared beside doctor appointments, recipes beside reminders to call the plumber.
Halfway through, the entries changed.
September 18.
Called county investigator. Asked again about dental report.
September 21.
Spoke with woman named Carol at St. Anne Rehabilitation.
September 24.
She says patient arrived from River County hospital. Approximate age matches.
September 26.
Calvin says I am hurting myself chasing possibilities.
I stopped.
Calvin knew Dorothy had been searching.
I called him.
He answered on the second ring.
“You knew.”
Silence.
Then, “About the notebook?”
“About Dorothy.”
“I knew she questioned the identification.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought grief was making her search for something that wasn’t there.”
I closed the notebook.
“You dismissed her.”
“Yes.”
There was shame in his voice.
“I did.”
“Did you go to St. Anne’s?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the detective told us the remains had been identified. Because your wife had just lost her daughter and was calling hospitals every morning. Because I was grieving too, and I wanted certainty more than I wanted questions.”
That answer landed harder because I understood it.
I had wanted certainty too.
When Dorothy mentioned, once, that she wasn’t comfortable with the sealed urn, I had told her continuing to question the police would only prolong our pain.
I had forgotten that conversation until that moment.
Memory is convenient that way.
It preserves the things we can live with and buries the ones we cannot.
“I’m going to St. Anne’s,” I said.
“The building closed three years ago.”
“Then I’ll find whoever worked there.”
“I’ll help.”
I almost said no.
Then I looked at Dorothy’s notebook.
Pride had already cost our family enough time.
“All right.”
By afternoon, Calvin and I were sitting at my kitchen table with the notebook between us.
It was the first time in years we had been alone together for more than a few minutes.
He looked around.
“Nothing has changed.”
“Dorothy would disagree.”
“She changed furniture every six months.”
I smiled despite myself.
“She believed sofas became bored.”
Calvin laughed.
For one brief second, we were the men we had been before the accident.
Then the silence returned.
He opened his laptop.
“I brought everything you asked for.”
