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  “It’s not serious,” he repeats, even as I hear voices in the background. Two women talking. He’s not alone. “Just a little fall, but they wanted me to let you know. A broken wrist and a couple scrapes, nothing much.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “It happens.”

  “I’ll come up.”

  “No need—”

  “I want to.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “You’re my dad.”

  “Doesn’t make sense to lose work time.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to lose you.”

  “I’ll be here when you have vacation time—”

  “I’d like to take that vacation time now.”

  He says nothing but the silence is tense. I hold my breath, battling my frustration, bottling the confusion. He doesn’t want me. I don’t understand it. It was easier when Mom was alive. She was our buffer. She made us a family. “You’re important to me,” I say quietly. “I want to come see you. I need to come see you. Please.”

  The silence stretches again.

  “Fine,” he says, exasperation in his voice.

  I tell myself not to be hurt. There’s no point in being sensitive. This is Dad. It’s how he’s always been. It’s how he’ll always be. “I’ll fly up tonight, and if I take tomorrow off, that will give us a three-day weekend.”

  “Your front office will have to reschedule.”

  “It happens when there’s an emergency.”

  “Alison, I don’t want a fuss.”

  “That’s good, Dad, because I don’t fuss. That’s not my style.” My tone is brisk. I mastered professional crispness long before I graduated from dental school. It was the only way to survive life with my father. Now I’m grateful for the training. Grateful I’m not easily crushed.

  He sighs. “No. It’s not your style. I’ll give you that.”

  High praise indeed. “I need to book a flight, Dad, and I’m not sure when I’ll land, but I imagine it’ll be late, so plan on seeing me tomorrow. If not for breakfast, then by lunch.”

  “Don’t rush. Tomorrow morning is duplicate bridge.”

  “How will you hold the cards?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  I’m sure he will. Dad is remarkably resourceful. “Do I need to talk to a nurse? Is there someone with you waiting to speak to me?”

  “No. I think I’ve handled it just fine.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  I need a second to compose myself after the call. I use the time to make a list of all the things I need to do. Clear my schedule. Book a flight. Get a rental car or shuttle to the house. Maybe I should drive. Twelve hours driving. Too long. Book a flight. Get a car. Make sure I pack Dad’s new shoes.

  In the next exam room I see the mother in the corner first, and then the little boy in the exam chair, blue paper bib around his neck. His eyes are huge. His lower lip is trembling. He’s afraid.

  “I’m Dr. Alison McAdams,” I say, introducing myself before washing my hands at the sink. “But most of my patients call me Dr. Ali.”

  The boy says nothing. The mother gives me a grim smile. Maybe she had to take time off work, or maybe she has children at home, or maybe she’s not a fan of dentists.

  I dry my hands on a paper towel and sit down on my stool and roll towards the child. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He glances at his mom, brown eyes huge.

  “Tell her,” the mother says.

  “Brett,” he whispers.

  “James,” his mother adds. “That’s our last name. We’ve been patients of Dr. Morris for years.”

  I register the mother’s comment. That means she knows me. Or she knows about Andrew and me. Or just knows about Andrew.

  “Brett James,” I repeat, forcing myself to focus. He’s little. Can’t be much older than five. “That’s a nice name. And how old are you?”

  “Five.”

  “And that’s a good age.”

  He just looks at me. I keep smiling at him even though I suddenly want to cry and I never cry at work. Never. Ever.

  “So what are we doing today?” I ask, even though I already know. I glanced at the chart on the counter even as I was washing my hands.

  “I have a cavity,” Brett whispers.

  “Well, I’ll fix that up for you.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “No.” I pat his arm. He’s warm. His arm is small. I want to protect him. When you are a child you have no control. Everyone makes all the decisions for you. I can’t imagine not having any control.

  “Are you a kindergartener?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “He’s going to be,” his mom answers from her chair in the corner. “In September. He’s in pre-K now.”

  “You’re going to love kindergarten,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I have to wear a uniform. And a vest.” His sadness has changed to despair. “I hate vests.”

  “Why do you have to wear vests?”

  “Because it’s a Catholic school,” his mother says. “The children wear vests on Mass days.”

  Brett looks at her and then me. “I’d rather wear my Ninja Turtle shirt,” he whispers.

  “I would, too,” I whisper back.

  He smiles at me but there are tears in his eyes.

  I smile back because if I don’t smile, I’ll start crying.

  Brett leaves the office with thick cotton tucked between his cheek and gum and a shy smile for me.

  He has beautiful eyes, golden brown with long black lashes.

  Andrew had lovely lashes, too. So long they didn’t look real. I used to touch them lightly, wonderingly. What did you do to get eyelashes like these?

  And then suddenly I remember the note.

  Learn to park.

  Asshole.

  And I want Andrew back. I want him to make fun of the note. And me. I want him to make things better. He knew how to make everything better . . .

  Suddenly I can’t be here, in this office, anymore. I can’t handle the frigid temperature or the whir of the drill, or the sweet eugenol with its clove oil scent.

  Even though I have yet another patient waiting for me, I walk down the hall, out the door into the warm Arizona sunshine, squeezing my hands into fists, digging my nails into the skin to keep from making a sound.

  My heart is broken.

  It will never be the same.

  None of it will ever be the same again.

  • • •

  Dr. Andrew Morris finds me outside. Andrew, my Andrew, was named after his father. My Andrew is the third. His father, the founder of the dental practice, is the second. Andrew Morris the first wasn’t a dentist. I don’t know what he did but he isn’t spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. He isn’t spoken of at all.

  “Helene mentioned something about your father taking a spill,” Dr. Morris says, hands buried in his white coat. Unlike the new generation of dentists that prefer suits and ties and collared shirts, Dr. Morris still wears a white buttoned coat over his shirt. He’s old-school, and proud of it. “Is he okay?”

  I nod once. “A fractured wrist. He says he’s fine.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod again, more slowly, but no, I’m not okay. I’m not sure what I am.

  For a moment there is just silence. I want to go see my dad. Not Memorial Day weekend—two weeks from now—but now. I want to go now. Tonight. I need to. I need someone and something that is mine.

  “I think I should go see him,” I say quietly. “I would feel better if I could check on him personally.”

  Dr. Morris hesitates for just a moment and then nods. “That’s probably a good idea. When would you go?”

  “I’d like to go tonight—” I break off, take a quick deep breath. “I’ll be back in the office Monday morning. It’ll mean cancelling the rest of the week’s appointments.”

  “I could probably take some of them.�
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  “You don’t mind?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s good that you’re heading up to see your dad. But maybe you shouldn’t rush back. Maybe you need more time up there. Maybe you need more time for you.”

  “I’ll schedule some time this summer—”

  “I don’t know that you can wait.”

  I lift my head and look up into Dr. Morris’ face. His expression is focused, his eyes sad. We are all still sad. I’ve secretly begun to think we, who loved Andrew, will never be happy again. His father, his mother, me . . . we’re functioning, but not living, not the way one wants to live.

  A lump fills my throat, making it ache as I swallow.

  “Do you need a ride to the airport?” Dr. Morris asks, changing the subject.

  I shake my head, even though I haven’t actually thought that far. Can’t seem to think clearly right now. There’s so much white noise in my head. And this unbearable weight on my heart.

  “What time is your flight?”

  “I haven’t booked it yet.”

  “I imagine then that you probably won’t see your father until tomorrow.”

  “I’m hoping to join him for lunch.”

  “That’ll be nice.”

  “Hope so.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  I have to think. Since I didn’t make it Easter it was . . . it was . . . “Christmas.”

  It’s been too long. I’ve not been an attentive daughter. I should have been up to see him several times since. But Napa isn’t home, and his senior retirement home isn’t where I want him to be. After mom died, I thought he’d want to come live with me, in Scottsdale. He didn’t, choosing to move into the retirement home instead. It’s not close or convenient for my work. I’d give up my practice here, but that would leave Dr. Morris alone.

  I look up into Andrew Morris II’s eyes and see things I don’t want to see.

  He misses Andrew terribly. Andrew was his son, his heir. The future. Not just in life, but the next generation to run the dental practice. From the time Andrew was a boy, he was going to be part of the Scottsdale practice. It was going to be Morris and Morris.

  Instead it’s Morris & Associates.

  I’m the associate. Andrew’s fiancée.

  • • •

  I’m able to book a flight out while still at the office, and once home, I quickly pack for two weeks. Dr. Morris is taking me off the books for the first half of June as well, but I can’t imagine being gone that long. I’m not someone who likes to sit around. I prefer working. I need to be active.

  Andrew used to say I loved nothing more than a long to-do list. I’d make a face at him, rolling my eyes. But he was right. I’m most comfortable being busy, making plans, having places to go, even if it’s just to the grocery store. I have an ongoing list for that, too.

  Add on.

  Cross off.

  Accomplished.

  I’m all about the doing. And now Andrew is gone and I’m cracked. Broken. So broken I can’t even make a single list.

  Don’t know what to do anymore.

  Don’t know where to go.

  • • •

  The shuttle picks me up on time but traffic is terrible on the way to Phoenix International Airport. I’m panicking that we’re not going to get to the airport before they start boarding. It shouldn’t be this long of a drive. I close my eyes, stressed. Eyes closed, I focus on just breathing.

  Inhale to a count of ten. Exhale to a count of ten. Inhale . . .

  As I breathe my thoughts drift to Dad. I have his shoes in my suitcase. I hope he’ll like them. I hope I got the right size. I’m pretty confident he’s a size eleven. Or a ten and a half. Maybe he’s a ten and a half, and in that case the elevens would be too big, particularly with his balance issues.

  In the past I could have texted my mom and she’d text me back right away, giving me his size. She was good about getting back to me right away. Always. Mom was a former teacher turned principal. She died five months after Andrew. Had an aneurysm in August. It happened in her sleep. So glad she didn’t suffer. But nobody saw that one coming, either.

  To lose both Mom and Andrew in less than six months . . . Still trying to wrap my head around life. How it happens. How it ends.

  I don’t even feel as if I’m grieving. I’m not sure what grieving is supposed to feel like. I’ve no one to talk to about this. Certainly can’t discuss it with Dad and I don’t have friends who have lost anyone other than a grandparent yet, and now I’ve lost my fiancé and my mom in short order.

  Maybe the fact that I am just here, present, but not able to feel a damn thing is grief.

  If that’s the case, I’m good with it. I don’t want to feel more pain. And being numb has actually allowed me to be a very good dentist.

  God knows patients are nervous enough coming in as it is. They don’t need me weeping as I drill and fill their teeth.

  • • •

  The airport is cordoned off when I arrive. The shuttle can’t even get close to the terminal entrance. I pay and grab my bags and join the crowd outside. Police empty the terminal and everyone mills about the parking area while a bomb squad goes through an abandoned backpack found inside.

  A businessman next to me said all flights will be delayed hours, if they even go out tonight. No flight has been allowed to land for the past hour.

  I take this in without comment, watching the swarming police and SWAT team, but not seeing the SWAT team. Rather I see Andrew. I’m back there on that last day.

  I’d gone to the store to get ice cream.

  That’s where I was when he did it.

  The police, his parents, his sisters, his friends, they all wanted to know what had happened that week, that day, in the hours leading up to Andrew’s death.

  Everyone had the same question—had there been a fight? Were you two quarreling?

  No.

  And then immediately the other questions: Was he unhappy? Had he expressed concerns about the wedding? Were there money problems?

  No, no, and there is always debt and bills after college and dental school, and we had just bought our first home so things were really tight, but not the kind of tight finances that make one want to die, the kind of tight that means one must work, and save, and plan.

  For the record, Andrew and I never fought. You had to know Andrew to understand. He wasn’t argumentative. There wasn’t a mean or petty bone in his body. He was kind and thoughtful. Sweet. Funny.

  He’d be goofy just to make me laugh.

  He loved to make me laugh. I loved it when he did.

  We were good together. We fit. His mom used to say we were two halves of a whole, and I agreed.

  So why would the love of my life take his own life?

  And just weeks before our wedding?

  I don’t know.

  I’ve spent the past year analyzing the last year we had. I’ve pulled the months apart, examined each week, each day, and I’m still no closer to an answer. What went wrong? And when did it go wrong? And why did I—of all people—not know?

  I would have done anything for him. I would have been there—

  Hell. I was there.

  We lived together. We worked together. We drove to work together. We trained together. Worked out together. We were together pretty much twenty-four seven.

  And it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough . . . not to keep him here, anchored to earth, to life.

  He would have rather died than be with me.

  A muffled boom comes from across the street.

  The bomb squad has blown up the backpack. False alarm. There was nothing inside.

  People around me cheer.

  I’ve been told it’s wrong—selfish, narcissistic—to make Andrew’s death about me, but what else could I do? I was his partner, his lover, his best friend. I was going to be his wife and the mother of his children. If he was so unhappy, why couldn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t he?

  Why couldn’t he
give me a chance to help him? I would have.

  Now all I’m left with is that last day.

  It had been a perfect day.

  We’d just recently moved into our new house. We’d gone for a long run that morning, waking early to beat the desert heat. It was a good run, seven miles, which was a lot for me, but nothing for Andrew, since he was already running marathons. I’d agreed to run my first marathon after our honeymoon so we’d been training together, getting me used to the distance.

  After running we worked on the house, and then walked to Fashion Square where we ate a late lunch—or early dinner, depending on how you’d call it—at the Yardhouse, our favorite place since we both loved the ahi dishes. Then we walked home, holding hands, talking about the wedding and the future and a couple hours later, I had a craving for ice cream, and I ran to the store.

  So why did he do it?

  Why, when it had been a good day? Why make me be the one to discover him in the entry, hanging from our new reproduction Spanish Colonial Revival chandelier, to match our authentic Spanish Colonial Revival dream home?

  Why take one of the best days of my life and make it the worst day?

  Love is supposed to be patient and kind.

  It’s not.

  TWO

  The flight to Oakland ends up being delayed nearly three hours, but it looks like we’re still going to be able to get out tonight.

  I’m sitting by the gate flipping through one of the professional journals I never have time to read when Dad calls. He’s heard about the bomb scare through CNN and he’s phoning me to see if I’ve been blown up. Those are, mind you, his exact words. As a little girl I was baffled by my dad’s dry humor. I’ve finally come to understand it.

  “No, Dad, I’m fine. A lone backpack was blown to bits, but everything else is intact.”

  “That’s it?” He sounds disappointed.

  “That’s it. Well, and my flight’s delayed a couple hours, but all the excitement is over and I’ll still be there in the morning.”

  “Maybe this is a sign that you’re not supposed to come.”

  “Maybe you need to just embrace my visit.”

  “I just think it’s a mistake for you to take time off work because I made a mistake and tripped over my own big feet.”