*
As soon as we got on the road, Mary put her iPod on and slumped down in her seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her head lean, then gently fall against the window. I knew she was worried and beyond tired, and I wanted to take her hand, reassure her, but that was a privilege I was no longer allowed. I switched lanes.
A few miles down the road, I checked on Ethan, who was happily sharing his photo album with Mindy in the middle seat.
“Pretty amazing, Dad,” Mindy said.
“What? You mean the book?”
“Incredible.”
I smiled. I had spent quite a bit of time putting a photo album together for Ethan, carefully selecting each picture, writing captions I knew other people would read. It was essentially a composite of his life, including photos of everyone and everything that was important to him: the local Dominick’s supermarket, his favorite place on earth, where people were particularly patient and friendly. The Wilton Panera, where he and I had breakfast every Saturday; Rafferty’s Bar, where we had dinner on Fridays; Auerilo’s pizza, where we ate on Saturdays; Denetha the deli woman, Chuck the bartender, Sally the waitress, all the people who made his life, our lives, a little easier. They were all in there, as well as photos of the Sals, Mary, me, the Bears, and, of course, Mindy and Karen. I had planned to give it to him at Ocean View, but decided to dig it out of a box that morning.
“How long did it take you to do this? There has to be, like, a hundred pages. It’s huge.”
“One hundred and four pages. I’ve been doing it for a while,” I said proudly. It took a lot to impress Mindy.
“Who are all these people?”
“Ethan’s friends. Different people. People who work at the supermarket, the restaurants, neighbors, people like that.”
“Who’s this, Ethan?”
“Denetha!”
“The grocery store,” I said. “We went there every day. She worked in the deli and gave him a piece of cheese. It was the highlight of his day.”
“And who’s this, Ethan?”
“C.C!”
“She was his aide at school. She watched him for years. She also came over to the house.”
“He’s going to miss them,” Mindy said.
I swallowed. “He can come home whenever we want and see them. And he’ll make new friends.”
Her comment stirred the Doubt and Guilt, so I stopped talking and switched my attention back to the road, passed another Honda van, then a beer truck. Signs for towns with Blue Highway names—Stafford, Garrisonville—flew by.
“Oh my God. Why do you have this picture?”
“What? Which one?”
“The one of Karen and me. Going to that dance. God, look at my hair.”
“It’s historic. Your big double date. She was a senior, you were a sophomore. See, you went on dates.”
“I couldn’t believe she let me go with her. She must have been doing community service or something.”
“She wanted to go with you.”
“We had fun I think. Something happened though.”
“You got drunk and threw up on your date.”
“Right. Tom Murphy. I knew it was something highbrow.”
“See? That picture is proof positive that you two can get along. Exhibit A.”
I expected some kind of cutting response, stings like a butterfly, but Mindy fell quiet. A minute later I saw her still studying the picture, her brow furrowed.
“Why. Mad?” Ethan asked her.
“She’s been crying,” Mindy said.
“What?” I turned down the Christmas carols. “Who’s crying?”
“Karen. She’s been crying a lot. I’ve heard her. Our rooms are right next to each other. Most of the night, she never stops. I hear her.”
“Karen? Crying? Are you sure? Karen?”
“Yeah, I hear her,” Mindy said. “She’s crying. A lot.”
*
The rest of the way to Washington was a blur. Whether Ethan behaved, whether he stomped his feet, shrieked, or quietly conjugated verbs on the legal pad that Karen had given him, I no longer recall. All I could think about was Karen.
“Slow down,” Mindy said.
“Just keep him busy.”