You’re good. Your heart is huge. Your love is amazing.
You are generous and forgiving.
He dialed.
Part Seven: Daisy
Your Chili Recipe
Just say hello. Hello, Francine, guess who?
One ring.
Don’t be cute. Just say who you are. Talk a little, feel her out, ask if you can have Daisy’s number.
Two rings.
She could quite possibly say no, or even hang up on you. In which case go jump off the nearest bridge.
Three.
No, don’t jump off a bridge. Fight. Get in your car and drive to Canad—
“Hello?” There she was, her voice a little breathless, as if she had run for the phone.
“Hi,” he said, relieved and terrified. “Francine?”
“No, it’s Daisy.”
He stood up, and his chair fell over backwards behind him.
“Hello?” she said.
“Daisy.”
“Yes, it’s Daisy. Who is this?”
He filled up his chest. “It’s Erik.”
“Who?”
He gripped the edge of the desk, steadying himself. “Erik.”
A few beats of confused silence. And then, “Fish?”
She still won’t say my name, he thought, swallowing against his dry throat. “It’s me.”
Silence again. He strained his ear, the receiver clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
“Hi,” she whispered finally.
“Hi,” he said. He felt a little light-headed. He sat on the floor.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.” He lay down. Better.
“Why are… How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I was calling your mother to try to find you. It didn’t even occur to me you’d be there.”
“I’m right here,” she said. “I came for Thanksgiving.”
“Is this a bad time to call? Are you in the middle of…?”
“No, no, I’m alone. I mean, everyone is passed out. I was just coming downstairs for some pie. And now… This is bizarre, just a minute.” Erik heard the scrape of a chair. “I’m sorry, I have to sit down.”
“I was sitting. Now I’m lying down.”
“Oh my God,” Daisy whispered.
He closed his eyes. Imagined her sitting at the long farmhouse table. Pictured the kitchen and its butter-yellow walls. Francine’s treasured cast iron skillets, copper pots and pans, brightly colored enamel. The milk glass pendant lights casting a warm glow over it all.
“You ruined my pie,” she said absently.
“What kind?” he asked.
“Apple. Mom made it.”
“How’s your mother?” What did she make for dinner, he longed to ask. Does she ever make pepparkakor? Will you cut down the tree tomorrow?
“She’s fine. She and Pop are fine.” Her voice seemed so small. Erik couldn’t tell if she was speaking softly out of courtesy for others in the house or if this was all the volume she was going to give him.
“How are you?”
“I’m stunned. Oh, you mean in general.” Now her voice rose up into a more conversational range. “I’m good. I’m doing well. Thank you.”
He sat up. “I saw the article in Dance Magazine.”
“Pardon?”
“The article in Dance Magazine. About you and Will and the company, doing your first Nutcracker.”
“You saw it? How?”
“Believe it or not, Kees showed it to me.”
“You saw Keesja? When?”
“Just last week. I went to Lancaster.”
“What for?”
“Because I’ve never been back and it was time.”
“Oh. I went back for the ten-year anniversary.”
“I know,” he said. “I heard the thing on NPR.”
“You did?”
“I heard it when I was driving home from work. I had to sit in the car until it was over.”
“What was that like?” she said.
“Surreal.”
“It was surreal being there. I hadn’t been back since graduation.”
“I couldn’t believe when Will sent my necklace to me.”
“Oh my God. We couldn’t believe when they moved the stove and it was underneath. I was so happy to see it. I knew you were heartbroken over losing it.”
“I was. I took the earth apart looking.”