“I’m here,” Claire said.
“I thought we lost the connection,” Dot said. “Anyway, he and his wife are coming and—”
“Dot,” Claire said, “I have to go, the nurse let me use the phone to call but—”
“Of course,” Dot said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Claire paused, trying to get control of the tears that had come on. Surely, Dot would know immediately that she was crying.
“Do you need me to do anything?” Dot was asking.
“I’ll call later,” Claire said.
“Darling? Are you crying?”
“Of course not.”
She said goodbye quickly and hung up. The nurse was still watching her closely.
“It’s an emotional time,” the nurse said. “Hormones make you emotional like this.”
Claire wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I need to find coffee,” she said, trying to collect herself. “And some Danish?”
“Are you all right to go on your own?” the nurse said.
Claire nodded.
“Down to the first floor, all the way in the back. There’s a little place for coffee and. If you want a more substantial breakfast—”
Claire waved her hand in the air, as if waving away the words. She mumbled a thank you, then walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. Alone in the elevator, she finally let her mind rest on the fact that her lover—and his wife—were going to be at Dot’s party. What if she had been there too? The idea of seeing him again made her tremble. Instinctively, her hands went to her stomach. She felt the slow waking-up of the baby inside, the rolling and stretching. If she had been at Dot’s party, as she was supposed to be, she would have seen him again. And he would have known.
The elevator doors slid open. The bright fluorescent lighting illuminated everything in front of her and for a moment Claire forgot what she was supposed to do. Then she stepped out of the elevator, just as the doors began to shut, pushing her way out. Down the hall, she saw people with paper cups of coffee and doughnuts in their hands. But she could not move toward them yet. Instead, she stood, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach, imagining first Dot, filling finger rolls with her famous chicken salad (I add grapes and walnuts, Dot had explained) and then Jackie dressing for church. What she did not think of was her lover, how he smelled like limes, or how he might look when she walked into Dot’s living room, or what he might do to see her like this.
8
The Obituary
VIVIEN, 1919
On the ride back to Napa, Vivien and Sebastian did not speak. The Ford truck he’d borrowed from Robert to come and get Vivien bounced uncomfortably. It was made for farmwork, not for long-distance drives. Vivien was relieved to not have to make conversation. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, inhaling the smells of leather and earth that filled the cab. Pamela’s face kept floating into her thoughts, startling her into remembering why she was heading north back to Napa instead of asleep at the Hotel Majestic in San Francisco.
Ever since that man had wandered grief-stricken onto her doorstep and launched her into her career as an obituary writer, Vivien had written hundreds of obituaries, too many of them for children. Just last year, when the Spanish influenza hit, not a day passed without a parent falling into Vivien’s arms, overwhelmed by grief. Vivien had struggled to honor a person so young that their character had not yet revealed itself. She had sat at her small desk, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to find the words to capture the child who had just taken her first steps, the boy who had loved his big sister or applesauce or his mother’s lullabies. Children who could only say a few words—Mama, doggie, bye-bye; who had learned to wave or jump or kiss good night; children who could recite the alphabet or count to ten or write their names in shaky oversized letters; so many children dead, and Vivien given the task to capture the thousand days or less they had lived.