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I have the feeling he’s worked this speech into a familiar groove in his head.

—The press was saying our situation would become a cause for debate around the globe, he says. —I can only imagine what you’re going through.

—You’re serious, aren’t you? Unbelievable.

—I’m sorry. About everything. But not about meeting you.

—Jesus Christ.

Now he’s off on sap rap.

—What?

—Words can’t express it, I say.

He looks wounded. He’d make a lousy poker player.

But enough about Uber. Because I’m suddenly aware of this series of familiar sounds coming from the kitchen—the sounds Tommy typically made when he came home from work, when he put his sword and shield up and threw his keys and lunch box on the kitchen table.

—The Science Museum has offered to open the museum up one weeknight so we can visit. You know, so we can look around and people won’t be there to gawk at us, Uber presses.

Allison must have coached him on this one as well, hoping I’d say, Gee, Thad would love that!

—Gawk. Right. Excuse me, I say. —I’ll be back in a few minutes.

I push through the swinging door and find Tommy standing at the long kitchen counter in his jeans and a fresh tee, making up a plate of food for himself. He has both of his hands, all of his stomach, and I assume that bulge is his kneecap. Seeing him there, I slump to the linoleum floor, grazing my head on the mega freezer on the way down.

—You okay? he asks, his mouth stuffed with pineapple cubes.

Looking at the spread, he says, —What’s the occasion?

Tommy always did love to eat. I don’t know what to say as he heaps his plate with finger sandwiches and fruit salad, pull-apart rolls and smoked salmon, cheeses and rhubarb crumble, those neighborly foods that start at one end of the kitchen counter and go all the way to the other—the spillover on the kitchen island and table—lined up to make a thousand meals for the afterlife.

CHAPTER

14

—She must have left the Living machine on, I say aloud.

—Thad bumped into the on switch, Tommy says, taking a bite of cheese and cracker.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, I feel around at the back of my head. No sign of fresh blood, just a dull ache from hitting the freezer. The pain coils around my temples and slowly settles behind my eyes.

—Did he see you? I ask.

—I don’t think so. I was programmed to appear in the yard.

—Allison? She must have seen you.

—Nope. I’ve been out taking a tub in the bathhouse. You all right?

I feel truly dumb talking to him this way.

—You should try the Brie, it’s really good, he says.

There’s something about sitting here, watching him move about the kitchen with his I’m So Glad T-shirt, the slap of his bare feet on the linoleum. When he bites into the crackers, the crumbs that break free seem to drift down to the floor in slow motion. Like a rain that makes you aware of each individual drop and no rush to the pavement. He’s very filmic, this Tommy. More motion picture than video.

—I’ve lost my appetite, I say.

—What’s wrong?

He finds an open spot around the casserole dishes, sets his plate down, comes over and crouches in front of me the way he would sometimes, to console, to talk earnestly. Tommy could be in the middle of any number of things and he’d stop and pay attention to what I had to say or what I couldn’t say at all.

—You’re wrong, I tell him.

If it’s crazy to talk like this, the craziness is in finding something nearly comforting here. He reaches over as if he’s going to adjust the scarf at my neck, I’m certain he wants to, but then he seems to change his mind. And that’s the way Tommy often was with me, reaching out and then slipping back a notch, because he understood natural boundaries and respected them. I think we all did, the family.

—I guess you’d know. You are Lyn, aren’t you?

He tilts his head, scans my features. Maybe he’s concerned that his recognition system is on the fritz. Well . . . not that comforting.

—You look like Lyn.

—That’s me.

—The one who loves me the most, he says matter-of-factly.

That particular