Page 25 of Coram House

When my phone rings, I stare at it, shocked, as if I’ve summoned a response. But it’s just Lola. I don’t really feel like talking, but I never called her back, and if I don’t answer, I know she’ll worry. I love her, but sometimes I get tired of carrying the weight of her worry. It’s like, once you’re broken, no one ever really believes that you can be whole again.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” Lola says. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just looking up the addresses of some dead nuns,” I say, forcing myself to smile, sound light. I tell her a little about my research, about Stedsan and reading the depositions. About Tommy and all the ways I’ve failed to find proof of his existence.

“Are you drinking right now?” Lola asks.

“No,” I say, not looking at my empty glass. “And besides it’s Friday, and it’s”—I glance at my phone—“5:03.”

“So tell me about this Tommy. Why is he so special?”

Lola does that—jumping from one subject to another so fast it catches me off-balance.

“What do you mean, Lola? He was a kid. They killed him.”

I rub at the headache forming behind my eyes. The bottle of wine beckons from the counter, but somehow I know she’ll hear it.

“People don’t just disappear, Lola. It’s like no one cared, so no one came looking. He doesn’t even have a grave. So when he died he was just—gone.”

My voice breaks and I stop, embarrassed. The silence on the other end of the phone is all I need to tell me Lola is worried. And this is why I didn’t want to answer the phone.

“Everyone’s gone when they die, Al. Grave or no grave.”

“I know that,” I snap. My throat feels tight.

“Do you think maybe you need to take a step back for a sec—”

“Lola—”

“I’m not saying give up. Just… move forward.”

I sigh. She’s worried that I’m losing my shit.It’s not like that, I want to say.Not like last time.But, of course, that’s exactly what I would say if I was in fact losing my shit.

“Circle back. Change the channel. Put a pin in it. Table that discussion.”

I laugh, despite feeling annoyed at her. “Okay, okay, stop please, before my ears start bleeding.”

Plus, I have to admit she does have a point. I’m stuck and, right now, I don’t have a way to unstick myself.

“You’re probably right,” I say.

“Forget work for a while,” she says. “Take a break. Do something fun.”

I promise I will. Lola tells me about the play she’s going to see later that night and, finally, we hang up.

I’m going to close my computer, go refill my glass, and maybe watch a movie, I decide. But, as I’m getting up, I hesitate. One more search.

Sarah Dale.

I don’t know why I do it.

No, that’s not true.

I have this twisting feeling in my guts—like I know I’m not going to like what I find. The search results come up right away. Sarah Dale, deceased in 2010 at age fifty-five. Six years ago. The article is short, but makes my throat ache. A car crash with her two-year-old granddaughter in the back seat. Both died.

I shut the computer and look up at the ceiling, blinking at the cracks until my vision clears. The unfairness burns. I take my empty glass into the kitchen and fill it to the brim. She’d earned an easier death. As if it worked that way. Before I know it, tears are squeezing themselves from the corners of my eyes. I’m glad there’s no one to see me blow my nose on the edge of my shirt.

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