Joan is telling me about the final time Sydney visited the Sullys.
Last night was so pure and gratifying, such a culmination, finishing our song, hearing it come to life. But now, this morning, I feel the natural comedown of having accomplished this big thing we were building toward. There’s an emptiness again and I’m not sure I’m feeling sturdy enough to tackle what I know is Joan’s only remaining memory of Sydney. At first I was hesitant to hear her recollections. Now I’m anxious at the thought of having no more left to hear.
I start out on the studio couch, sitting up, but once Joan begins, I feel the need to lie down. Resettled, I ask, “When did you see him?”
“The next morning,” Joan says. “I come out of my bedroom and pass my parents’ bedroom and Dad is still sleeping because he was up late in the studio. I get to the kitchen and I see Mom and Sydney sitting at the table with a laptop and Sydney says—”
“Wait,” I say. “Would you mind going a little slower? What does he look like? Tell me about his face.”
“Okay, well, he has brown eyes like me and his hair is short and gray and his chin is a little bit like a ball.”
“What about his ears? Do you see his ears?”
“No.”
“He had very droopy earlobes. They were so long they’d almost swing.”
Joan examines her own ears with her fingers.
“Sorry,” I say. “Go on.”
“Sydney says, ‘Good morning, Miss Joan. Quick, what’s today?’ and I say, ‘Saturday, January twenty-sixth,’ and he says, ‘What day of the week was January twenty-sixth last year?’ and I say, ‘Thursday,’ and he says, ‘What about the year before that?’ and I say, ‘Wednesday’ and he says, ‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, you should go on Ellen, she’d love you,’ and I ask, ‘Who’s Ellen?’ and Mom and Sydney tell me who Ellen is and now I’m excited because I would love to go on a TV show. But then they forget all about Ellen and they go back to staring at Sydney’s computer screen.”
“Can you see the screen?” I ask.
“No.”
I’m grilling her way more than usual. I have this savage thirst to squeeze every last drop of him from her mind. I know he’s not really here—he’s been gone for nearly two months now—but in a way it feels like I’m watching him leave a second time.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“I go into the fridge to get a drink,” Joan says.
“What is Sydney doing?”
“Talking to Mom, but I’m not paying attention. I’m too busy thinking about how cool it would be to go on TV. I pour myself some orange juice and I ask Mom to tell me more about the Ellen show, but she says, ‘Excuse me, I’m in the middle of a conversation.’ Now I’m paying attention to their conversation because I’m waiting for a space so I can speak. When I find a space I ask Mom again about the Ellen show and she says—”
“Hold on. What about their conversation? What are they saying?”
“I have no idea,” Joan says. “It’s very weird. First Mom says, ‘Personally I like wolf den,’ and then Sydney says, ‘Me too, wolf den or breakfast time. I’m also considering D and D.’”
It sounds like Joan is speaking in tongues. “Can you repeat that again slowly?”
She recites the same terms: wolf den, breakfast time, D and D. The words still don’t register. I’m not sure if they’re names or phrases or titles or what. But Joan is already moving on.
“And then Sydney walks into the living room to make a phone call. Mom asks me what I want to eat and I tell her I’m not hungry yet. I ask her what we’re doing today and she says she’s thinking about taking me ice skating.”
“Do you hear Sydney talking on the phone?” I ask.
“Only the very last part. Sydney says, ‘Perfect, see you at eleven. Looking forward to it,’ and then he comes back into the kitchen and—”
“Stop.” I’m sitting up on the couch now, hands out. This could be my best and last chance at figuring out what Sydney was up to in New York.
I make Joan repeat the whole thing and then I ask, “When he was on the phone, was he over in the corner, talking quietly? Did it seem like he didn’t want you and your mom to hear?”
“No,” Joan says. “He was walking around the living room, talking normally.”
“And you’re sure he made the phone call? Or did the other person call him?”
She takes much longer than usual to answer. “I don’t know. All I know is that his phone didn’t ring.”
It wouldn’t have rung. It wouldn’t have made any sound at all unless it had been resting against a hard surface. He always kept his phone on vibrate.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“I ask Mom about the Ellen show again and she tells me Ellen’s last name. I take my glass of orange juice to the computer and I look up information about Ellen and I watch some of her videos on YouTube.”
“What are Sydney and your mom doing?”
“They’re talking, but I’m not listening, and then Sydney goes down to the studio and that’s the last time I see him.”
“Wait, you mean… ever?”
Joan doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. I already know from her silence.
I sit on the couch, feeling impossibly tired. It’s as if I’ve been made to stay awake for the past two months, and only now do I realize how badly I need sleep.
But Joan isn’t finished. “He came back to the house later that day. I was out with Dad, I never actually saw him, but I did eat one of the mini-cupcakes he brought for us. It was the best cupcake I ever had because it had crushed Reese’s Pieces on top and there was even one cupcake in a special container for Mom that didn’t have any gluten in it because that was the week she was convinced she was allergic to gluten.”
“And you have no idea where he went?”
She shakes her head.
“Joan.”
“Yes?”
I fear the answer, but I have to ask. “Is there anything else? Anything at all you can tell me?”
She lowers her eyes, shakes her head again.
I sit there, staring. I feel an itch on my cheek but I leave it unscratched. I couldn’t lift my arm if I tried. My mind has abandoned its post, rendered me motionless. All I can do is stare forward, past the girl in her father’s desk chair, across the room, through the walls of the house, into open air, into space. I’m still here, my body is, but I’m so far away.
When my mind reconnects with my body, I rise up off the couch and head for the stairs. Joan follows me up to her apartment. We find Paige stuffing a book into her bag.
“I was just going to call you,” Paige says. “Can I leave Joan with you? One of my students was supposed to come here, but now she needs me to go to her. I can send Joan next door, but I know she’d much rather be with you.”
Joan is nodding. “That’s fine,” I say, barely computing. “Are you leaving right now?”
Paige fills up a water bottle, screws the lid on, slings her bag over her shoulder. “Yeah. I’ve got to run.”
“Before you go.”
She pauses at the door.