Back in the car, Graham ripped through the tape to open his packages: more handcuffs and more equipment to stage more protests. But as he looked down at his wares, his heart sank. He was no longer sure if he had it in him to protest like that. He was no longer sure if he wanted to embarrass himself so profoundly in the wind and rain and sleet. What good was it actually doing? Hannah was dead, and his soul was worn thin.
Instead of driving back home, Graham went immediately to his mother’s house. She was out front, watering the flowers in a pair of leggings and a big white T-shirt. When he approached, she pretended to spray him with the hose and cackled. “There he is,” she said. “I heard a little rumor you were arrested yesterday?”
Graham knew that kind of gossip spread like wildfire. He didn’t like how his mother was looking at him—as though he’d gotten caught performing a prank rather than trying to do something good in the world. He took a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me James Bruckson died?”
His mother—whose name was Valerie—let her smile smear off her face. She cut the water and wiped her hands on her leggings. “Come on in, honey. I have scones inside. Patty dropped them off.”
Patty wasn’t anyone Graham knew, nor had he ever known, but his mother was an islander in this way: name-dropping people as though they’d just been there. Graham followed her into the one-story house, which was a far cry from the three-story place he’d once shared with her, his father, and his two sisters. After his father died, his mother had downsized in many respects, save for a garden that had quadrupled in size. She was famous for her flowers, her pumpkins, and her radishes. In summer, she had sunflowers as big as her hands.
Graham sat at the table in a kitchen flooded with light. His mother put a cup of tea in front of him and ordered him to take a bite of scone. He felt unwell.
Was she here? Was she somewhere on the island?
Graham laughed at himself. Did he think he was some kind of psychic? He couldn’t feel her here any more than he could see her. He didn’t know her anymore. She was a stranger, living her life on her own terms.
His mother sat across from him. “I didn’t tell you James Bruckson died because I didn’t think you’d care.”
Graham snorted. “That’s a lie.”
His mother sipped her tea. “Okay. Not fully a lie. But honestly, Graham, you’ve lived an entire life since then. You’ve…”
“I’ve lost someone. Yes,” he said.
“You had an entire life with Hannah,” his mother said. “You built a career. You lived in Chicago. You loved and lost.”
Graham’s already shattered heart felt even more busted. Now that he was a forty-year-old widower, was his life over? If so, was he happy with that?
Graham raised his shoulders. “You still should have told me.”
“You’re right,” his mother admitted. “I should have.”
There was a beat of silence. Graham felt bad for forcing his mother to admit he was right. He was never really right about anything. Maybe nobody was.
“Do you want to go to the funeral?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You have plans to lock yourself to another bulldozer?”
“No.” Graham stifled a smile.
“Let’s get dressed up and go,” his mother insisted, slapping her hand on the table. “We can go out to eat after. Or, if you’d rather, I heard a rumor that James booked out Hannigan’s for what he’s calling a ‘death party.’” His mother raised her eyebrows like it takes all kinds.
“A death party, huh?” Graham thought he might faint. “Why didn’t he just call it a wake?”
“You know how James was,” Valerie offered. “He was dramatic to his core.”
Graham’s thoughts raced.
But what if Sylvie was there?
What if she wasn’t there?
Graham drank the rest of his tea. His mother continued to stare at him. There was so much power behind her gaze.
“Fine, let’s go,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Go get your suit,” she ordered him. “And take a shower. You still smell like jail.”
