Page 24 of In a Word, Yes

My final hours in Lucyland earlier this week sure felt like the last glorious inch of coffee in the pot. I’d been absolutely aching to hear her voice. Made it all the way to Wednesday evening before daring to cue up her number. Then drove Roger batty with all my waffling about whether to press the call button.

“Is it too soon to call?” I’d asked.

“’Course not. Stop wringing your hands. She’s still your daughter.”

“FaceTime is too presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“Just call. And put her on speaker, would ya?”

“What if it’s a bad time? Am I helicoptering? I’m helicoptering, aren’t I?” Lucy has always clung to her routines, and I’ve always maneuvered so as not to disrupt them. She’s always been so very, very capable. Which is why I struggle to know where I fit into her life. What could she possibly need from me? In some ways, sending financial help only serves to underscore the emotional distance between us.

“Hon,” Roger had said, tearing open a new bag of sunflower seeds, “you’ve got a long way to go before either of our girls would call you overbearing.”

“You really think?” Suddenly Lucy’s face was keenly before me, in that moment of anguish and admission. Her quivering chin.Mom, I’m stuck.

That’s when I’d finally pressed the call button. Lucy is a grown woman, after all. If it isn’t a good time, she’ll let it go to voicemail.

“FYI, hon,” I say to her now, “your father just came in.”

“Hey, Pop.”

“Hey, tiger,” he says, perching himself on the edge of the recliner.“Hope you don’t mind I’ve been eavesdropping off and on. Some business about interviewing a sheriff or something? Just wanted a chance to say how proud I am of you, honey. I’m sure you’ll nail it. And you’ll turn out a first-rate article. Like I said when you were little, someday everyone’s going to know your writing. You’ll see.”

The other end of the line goes quiet for a few moments, as if Roger’s words are hovering somewhere over central Oregon, struggling to find an entry point into our daughter’s heart.

“Thanks, Pop,” she says finally.

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

Can Lucy hear the squeeze of emotion in her father’s voice? I don’t see how she could miss it.

“Okay,” she says. “But Mom, seriously, about the vest...”

“Yeah, no. Don’t you worry about me, punkin. I didn’t really mean that.”

At least, I hadn’t meant thatexactly. Something may be rubbing me wrong lately, but I fear whatever it is goes well beyond my wardrobe.

After we hang up, Roger settles into the recliner, munching away. I better get on dinner. But then he has the nerve to say, “Well, hon, what’d you decide to do about your Bible study?”

All I can do is gape. “You say that as if I have a choice. Obviously Ihaveto start all over.” This should be obvious, considering that my bright-pink notebook, with all my work—research, notes, verses, prayers—is no longer in my possession. I can’t find it anywhere.

The only plausible explanation is that I left it behind for the United Airlines cleaning crew. Don’t even get me started on my experience with their customer service line.

“What?” I ask. “What’s that look on your face?”

“I don’t have a look on my face.”

“You do. You do have a look. See? There it is. Fess up.”

“Ah, babe,” Roger sighs, “it’s just that ... I mean, I know you’reunder contract. But more importantly, I knowyou. I know who you serve. And it’s not your publisher. At least, it never used to be.”

Ouchy.

And just like that, in my mind’s eye I’m back on my knees, wetness seeping through my black crepe dress, on a perfectly manicured green lawn under an elm’s weeping arms on a too-sunny day, draped over a too-shiny casket. Thinking,Lord, I am undone. I’m forever undone. Caskets this small do not belong in this place. Boys my son’s agedo not belong in them.

Come back to me, my love. How will I ever endure such an overlong road until I see your face? Come back. Or take meto you. How far away are you, my darling? Close enough to feel my love?

I drop my forehead to my hands. Massage circles in my temples. How is it I can still so easily voyage across an ocean of years, as if it’s only a step outside my heart’s front door? I will nevernotbe gutted by the remembrance of raw, gaping desolation. Unsoothable aching. The sting of eyes that have shed a river of tears. A vacuous hole no person or thing could ever refill.