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It was quite a departure from my usual routine and I welcomed its brief appearance. It was fun to have someone else do all the planning and, at a deeper level, to have someone looking after you. It would be easy, I thought, to grow used to having another person take care of you.

The truth is, I had lived alone for so long I sometimes forgot that the responsibility for running my life was solely mine. There was no sharing of duties and decisions in the life I’d chosen. Whether it was taking the car to the repair shop or hanging the screen door, it was up to me. Most of the time I liked being in charge of my life, thrived on it, in fact. But occasionally, when I was tired or unhappy, I’d find myself thinking how nice it would be to let someone else run the show, at least for a while.

On the morning of our last day together in London, Shelby and I lingered over coffee, talking about our plans. He and his group were on their way to Scotland, where Shelby planned, among other things, to do some research on our family’s Scottish heritage. I was staying on in London, but within a week or so would leave for Oxford.

Toward the end of our talk, Shelby leaned forward and said, “You know, you look more and more like Mother.”

“And you look more and more like Father,” I said, laughing. “So that’s what it’s come down to, has it? We’ve become our parents.” This time we both laughed.

But beneath the laughter I was thinking something else. I was thinking that, despite what I’d told my brother, the truth was I didn’t have a clear memory of what my father looked like.

What I did remember were like errant pieces of a puzzle waiting to be fitted together into a whole. The way my father tilted his head. The amused expression in his eyes. The pith helmet and white summer suits he wore. His youthful manner and easy laugh. I think he was handsome. At least he looks that way in the tailored white officer’s uniform he is wearing in the photographs kept by Mother in a leather album. Were the pictures taken before he went off to serve at sea in World War II? Or after? I had no idea.

I wondered: is what we remember more important than what we forget?

I could remember so little of that day when two men in uniform—or was it only one?—came to the house. They had with them a blue leather box that contained a medal of some kind. If I stirred the memory, small bits and pieces of that afternoon—or was it morning?—rose to the top:

I was in third grade and we were home sick with the flu, Shelby and I, when the men arrived. The two of us, wearing pajamas, stood in the living room with Mother and Grandmother, listening—but not understanding—the words being said: “His ship torpedoed … German submarine … only four survivors … we regret to tell you …” When the men left I went to my room, frightened, not sure of what it all meant: the way Mother put her hand to her throat as if to hold it together; the tears rolling down Grandmother’s cheeks; the brave look on Shelby’s face that threatened to dissolve before he could run out of the house and down the back steps.

At least that’s how I remember it.

What I do have a clear memory of, however, is going to my desk to retrieve a piece of paper. I see myself sitting down to trace some words from it: Dear Children, Brazil is a beautiful country …

After saying good-bye to Shelby and Pat, I decided to walk through nearby St. James’s Park. It was lush and green and very pleasant, and when I reached the lake that divides the park in two, I walked along its banks.

A man unintentionally fell into step beside me. I glanced at him. He resembled Harry, I thought, the man who’d been at the War Museum with Helen. Tall, sweet Harry, whom I would always think of as a young man standing outside on a clear night gazing at the stars; a sight that could have been, but wasn’t, the last thing he’d ever see. Thinking this, I stole another look at the man still walking beside me. This time, however, I couldn’t see the resemblance. It was as though I had imagined, not remembered, what Harry looked like.