I thought about the deepest losses in my own life, Kathleen and Jess, and about how suddenly and strongly the wounds could be reopened by some slight, unexpected trigger—catching a whiff of the perfume Kathleen wore for years, or seeing Jess’s signature on an autopsy report in a case file.
“I don’t think we finish crying until we finish living,” I said. I was reminded of something I’d read about joy and sorrow, about how the two are inseparably linked, like the opposite sides of an old-fashioned balance scale, one rising as the other falls. “But if we’re lucky,” I added, “we don’t finish laughing until then either.” I nodded at the teapot on the counter, a sleek, glossy vessel that would have looked at home in an art gallery or the Museum of Modern Art. “Any chance we could have that cup of tea now?”
She smiled, and I thought I saw a mixture of relief, gratitude, and sadness in it. “Of course. I didn’t mean to make you work so hard for it.”
“Nonsense, Carmen,” I said. “I’m proud to be your friend, too. I’ll go see if Miranda wants to join us for tea.” Retracing the path to the front door, I turned down the hallway and then called up the staircase.
“Miranda?”
“Yes?”
“You want some hot tea?”
“If there are juice boxes, Tomás and I would prefer juice boxes,” she called down. I heard her make loud smacking, slurping noises as she clumped down the stairs, and Tomás giggled as she rounded the landing with him slung on her hip again, his head thrown back in burbling delight as she nibbled noisily on his neck. Miranda would make a splendid mom, I realized, and the notion hit me with surprising force. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never imagined Miranda having a baby or raising a child. Graduate assistant, Ph.D. candidate, promising young forensic anthropologist—these were all hats I regularly pictured on Miranda’s head. But the mantle of motherhood, that was a new one. It was an idea I should probably get used to, I decided.
Miranda froze with one leg in midair over the safety gate and looked at me sharply. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” It was the very question she’d asked me half an hour earlier in the truck.
“You’re looking at me funny,” she said, echoing my earlier response. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, my face breaking into a big smile.
Over tea and juice boxes, Miranda and I talked with Carmen about Eddie’s weeks in the hospital and his despair over the latest damage to his right hand. “He’s very discouraged again,” Carmen said. “He tries to sound positive when he talks to me, but of course he is devastated by this.” She hesitated. “And afraid.”
Miranda posed the question I was loath to ask. “Afraid of what?”
“Afraid he is too damaged to be whole again. Afraid he cannot accept his disfigurement and limitations. Afraid he cannot do his job adequately.” She looked down, studying the contents of her teacup. “Afraid he cannot love me adequately.” She closed her eyes. “Afraid I cannot love him still.”
Miranda reached across the table and took one of Carmen’s hands in both of hers. “Can I tell you something, Carmen? I admire you tremendously. You have such a big, brave heart. No wonder Eddie loves you so.”
Carmen gave Miranda’s hands a squeeze, then refilled her cup and my own and then turned the conversation to more pragmatic talk of Eddie’s job. She asked how critical his absence was becoming, and I did my best to reassure her. The state medical examiner’s office in Nashville had contracted with several pathologists in Johnson City and Nashville and Chattanooga—Jess’s former office—to perform the autopsies that ordinarily would be done in Knoxville. “They’ll be glad to have Eddie back whenever he’s able to return to work,” I told her, “but they’re fine for now, and for months, if need be. If he wants to ease back into it, even for just a few hours a week, that’ll be fine. Eddie was injured in the line of duty, so his insurance and worker’s compensation benefits will take care of him and the family. His job is safe, so you can cross that off your list of worries.”
Talk turned to the Garcias’ house, and to a few maintenance needs that had arisen during the past month. The tall cedar structure tended to take a beating from the sun, the rain, and the wildlife—the high, heated walls made it an attractive nesting place for squirrels and woodpeckers, Carmen explained—and the structure’s height, forty or fifty feet at the roofline, tended to scare away contractors. Miranda recommended a handyman she’d used for various carpentry and plumbing jobs. “He can fix anything,”
she said, “and he goes rock climbing and rappelling for fun. He’ll love working on this house.”
Soon Tomás grew sleepy, so Miranda and I said our goodbyes. Carmen walked us out to the driveway.
“Drive boldly,” she advised as we clambered into the truck. “Get a good, strong start down here, because it gets steeper as you go up.”