Lost and Wanted(27)

“She thought I wouldn’t come?”

He shook his head, in frustration rather than denial. For a second he looked like he was going to throw the mug against the wall. It was a mug my friend Vicky had made in a pottery class, which I now saw clearly for the first time. Painted a speckled turquoise color and heavily glazed, it was hideous.

“I’m sorry.”

Terrence put the mug down lightly in the sink and shrugged. “She said that’s how she would act, too, if it were someone else. She just didn’t want any of it.”

“I get that.”

“We’d just seen Carl and Addie—they were out in May and the visit almost killed her.” Terrence laughed humorlessly. “Charlie felt like she’d said goodbye then, but she knew they’d be devastated. Her idea was that she’d write a letter—to try to explain.”

“And that’s what you can’t get.”

He gave a sharp, affirmative nod.

Maybe because of Terrence’s reticence, or Addie’s formality, the full force of Charlie’s decision hadn’t hit me until now. She had denied her parents the opportunity to be with her in her death. She had written a letter to explain—but the letter had gone missing. If I were Carl or Addie, that would undo me, too. I would have all kinds of doubts, and I wouldn’t hesitate to blame anyone who could have borne responsibility, especially if that person had been the one who had taken my place at my child’s deathbed.

    “She didn’t show you the letter.”

“She said she’d email it.” Terrence was leaning back against my kitchen counter. Now he closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger into their sockets. “We didn’t have time. It was—it was crazy. We would start things, and then there would be something else to talk about. Money, or the different palliative care doctors. The one at Cedars versus the one at UCLA. What we were supposed to say to the nurses. And then everything for Simmi, keeping it as normal as possible—which wasn’t very normal. I kept making lists, and then starting them over. She was going to handle her parents on her own, and so I let her do it.” Terrence looked at me, almost imploring. It was like my usefulness as a potential ally had just occurred to him. “She did do it—I’m sure. It must be in her drafts.”

“And if you had the phone, you could get it.”

“It would be easy.”

“Someone has it,” I blurted out.

Terrence looked at me as if I were a little simple. “Yeah,” he said. “I told you—it was stolen.”

“But I mean, they’re using it. I got an email, too.”

“You mean, after that phone call?”

I picked up my own phone from the table, and searched for the message. My hands felt slower and clumsier than usual; I could feel him watching me as I looked at the screen. When he took it, though, it was with less urgency than I would’ve expected. He looked at the screen, and sighed, as if it confirmed what he’d expected. He scrolled down to be sure.

“That’s all there is,” I said.

He handed back the phone. “This is common, as hard as it is to believe. I run the website for Zingaro, and so I read a lot of tech blogs. A spammer can spoof the ‘from’ address without even having access to the account.”

“Except that it was right after you told me—the same day. And then I got this, a few weeks later.” I showed him the text—Luvya lady—but didn’t mention which morning it had come.

    Terrence was nonplussed. “It’s possible someone’s screwing with you, whoever took the phone. But it could also just be standard-issue spam. It may have gone to a bunch of people in her address book, and you’re the only one who told me.”

“But if a spammer can get in—”

“Not in. It’s the difference between holding a book open in front of you and actually reading. Getting in officially is another thing.”

“There’s a lot of security?”

“I’m still on part one of the process,” Terrence said drily. “Google needed my driver’s license, her death certificate, a copy of an email she sent to me—so I got to, you know, go through lots of our emails—that was fun. Part two involves a court order. If I even get that far.”

“Jesus, Terrence.”

Terrence shrugged. “It’s not Google’s fault. They have to do it, or people would break into accounts this way all the time.”

“They could make it easier for you, though. Given the circumstances.”

“So could her mother.” He shifted his weight from the counter and faced me. “That’s the thing about this family—you know? Birth plans, life plans, estate plans—they can’t even fucking die without a plan.”

There was a pounding on the stairs, and then the children were in the kitchen.

“We’re hungry!” Jack said. “Is Simmi staying for lunch?”

Simmi looked at her father. “Can I?”

“Not this time.”

“Please,” Simmi said.

“We’re having lunch at Nana’s.”

“Okay,” said Simmi, “but I want to come another time.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Terrence said, not looking at me.