Lost and Wanted(60)

“If you could do something with them, then maybe. Like put all the garbage in there.”

For some reason this is an idea a lot of people have with regard to black holes, in spite of the glaring practical hurdles.

“I’m sure Charlie would agree—about it being sort of esoteric.”

Terrence smiled. “No way. Charlie would love it.”

“You mean LIGO?”

“Just the idea of a billion trillion suns. The chirp, and the—what do you call it—ringdown?”

I thought that in my twenties and thirties I would have defended pure science more vehemently. I certainly had none of the trouble arguing with men that some women I knew seemed to have. I didn’t know what had changed as I’d gotten older—it might have had something to do with having Jack—but now I could see Terrence’s point of view. What right did people like Neel and I have to spend our lives answering questions about the universe—questions that (at least so far) did nothing to alleviate suffering here on Earth?

“I can see how it seems expensive and useless.”

Terrence nodded. “She loved expensive and useless.” He gestured toward the house. “Look where she grew up.”

I thought that wasn’t quite fair. “The Boyces were really adamant about giving back, though. She said she spent her whole childhood volunteering.”

“Community service,” Terrence said drily. “We used to get some of that. Volunteers in the school. And presents at Christmas, one year. Secret Santa. We were supposed to send them a picture, so the rich people could be like, ‘Look at the poor kids we helped.’ But my mom just threw that stuff away. She might not have been rich, but she had dignity, you know? Next year we’d be off that list, and Ray and I would give her hell about it. Now I get why she did it.”

    “Carl still works at that shelter, though. And Addie’s whole life is board meetings, after-school programs. They put their money where their mouth is. And their time.”

Terrence didn’t acknowledge that one way or the other. We sat there for a moment in silence.

“You’re just here through Christmas,” I ventured. “And then you’ll have your own place, and I swear we won’t bother you.”

Terrence nodded slowly. “I’m going to have some stuff shipped, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Not a ton—mostly Simmi’s things. The L.A. toys have gotten really important. We talk about it all the time, you know, like, ‘Is my stomp rocket still there? Is my play kitchen still there?’?”

“That seems normal.”

“Yeah, well, the stomp rocket is a lightweight plastic toy, but the play kitchen is this heavy wooden thing, and so I’m like, ‘You don’t play with that anymore.’ And she just looks at me. And I remember that it’s what she used to do when she was little, when Charlie still cooked sometimes. She’d stand there next to her, pretending—she loved that thing.”

“It makes sense to let her keep it.”

“Yeah?” He looked unsure, as if he really wanted my opinion, and also as if he might leap from the car at any moment. I thought of all the decisions he would have had to have made, as soon as they found out she was dying. How much should Simmi’s regular routines be disrupted? When should a tantrum be calmed, and when encouraged? And what should she be allowed to save? Photos and jewelry, no question—but what about a T-shirt? A toothbrush? Hair from a comb?

Terrence’s arm was resting on the passenger door and he was fiddling with the lock. “I was thinking, maybe we’ll be able to help each other—watching them?”

I tried to sound casual when I agreed that exchanging childcare would be practical. It was further than I’d ever imagined he’d go. I thought we were admitting a particular vulnerability to each other, the one shared by all single parents asking for help, and it made me feel close enough to ask the other question I had, to which I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

    “Did you ever find her phone?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t you explain to Addie that Charlie meant to write a letter, even if she didn’t have time?”

“I think she did write one.”

“To them?”

“Right. And if they want it, they should have their lawyer get it for them. It’d be the most useful thing that lawyer’s ever done.”

“But they won’t do that.”

“Because they don’t believe me.”

He had been staring straight ahead at the car parked in front of us—it was a Land Rover, with one of those decals that are supposed to represent their owners: two stick figure parents, three children with customized genders, a cat—but now he turned to me. His eyes were gray rather than green in the reflected light from the streetlamp outside.

“And none of us is really talking at the moment.”

“I’m sorry.”

Terrence shrugged.

I thought about the long Thanksgiving table, the garlands, and the bottles of wine. I thought of the producer seated to my left. I’d had an idea about Terrence—that Charlie had chosen him to piss her parents off a little. He represented, if not authentic blackness—he had, after all, grown up in a household with a single parent who was white—at least the world outside the privileged bubble where she’d always lived. Authenticity had never been important to Charlie, though; she’d never wanted to be part of a group. I thought now that it was more likely exceptionality, the feeling of not quite fitting in anywhere, that had united them.