When We Collided(69)

“Part of it.” Carrie turned to look at me, watching my reaction. “I thought it was depression last year—we all did. We got her on meds after that. And it was depression, but that’s just not all it was.”

“So they didn’t work?”

“They worked for the depression. She was happy again, sewing and painting. I caught her drinking, smoking pot, taking my credit card, sneaking out. But I thought it was teenager stuff. Acting up. A sign that she was definitely okay. I had no idea they were symptoms until it got really bad. Then we got her help. And different medicine. There’s a lot I didn’t know.” She turned her gaze to the ground. “There’s a lot I still don’t know.”

Her mom was clearly torn between wanting to be honest with me and wanting to protect Vivi’s privacy. I told her that it’s okay, that Vivi can tell me more when she’s ready. Really, I needed some time to Google it.

Now I’ve read a lot. Irritability, sexual behavior, disjointed thought and speech patterns. Bipolar I, bipolar II, mixed, rapid cycling, cyclothymic. They seem pretty clearly defined, in separate boxes with definitions. But I honestly can’t even guess which one Vivi has.

I sat in front of the computer, head in my hands. She’s been different the past week. Should I have known? Did I take advantage of her, without knowing it? I absolutely didn’t mean to. Will she feel different about me now? I know it’s not about me, but I’m the only person I’m in charge of. And I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

So I let the restaurant consume me.

The new menu debuts in three days, and we’re having a party to celebrate. It’s not fancy or anything—just a celebration for all the people who have helped us with changes.

So many people have chipped in. Felix and I ripped up the remaining carpets in the dining room, and our sous chef refinished the hardwood floors. Silas painted over the red walls with fresh white. That’s what we need. Simplicity. The local florist sold us these things called “bud vases” for practically no money. Bekah stuffed them with wildflowers. Harvey Berman, our town electrician, switched out some outdated brass light fixtures with modern ones. He didn’t even charge us for labor—only the parts. The whole kitchen staff collaborated on the new recipes, and Ellie designed the menus. The printing place gave us a huge discount.

And the reason everyone gave for helping us? My dad. I’ve heard it over and over again this week. When I thank people, they say things like, “It was my pleasure. Your dad was a good man.” I start to say, “You didn’t have to—” and they cut me off by telling me about my dad. About how he was Verona Cove. How they miss seeing him around. Mr. Hodgson told me that his wife was on bed rest for the last two months of her pregnancy. My dad delivered meals to them without being asked. “He always said they were ‘leftovers,’ ” Mr. Hodgson told me, chuckling a bit. “But they were always warm and always her favorite meals, so somehow I doubt that.”

Their son is ten now. I never knew. I accepted the long wooden planter the Hodgsons brought by for the patio. Mrs. Hodsgon built it herself, and Mr. Hodgson filled it with bushels of basil and cilantro and parsley and mint.

After the patio floor is clean, I water the planter. It takes me a second to notice someone waiting in the alleyway.

Ellie looks hesitant. I don’t blame her. I’m sure I look like someone who’s dangerously close to being unhinged. Welcome to Jonahville.

“Hey,” she says. “Just wanted to let you know that Mr. Thomas is almost done installing the letters out front. Thought you might want to see.”

“I do—thanks.” Mr. Thomas has enjoyed our renovation more than anyone. He hasn’t been able to stay inside his hardware store next door. He’s over here every day, lending us supplies and jumping in to help.

The letters were a special find, and we needed an expert to get them onto the brick front of the restaurant. Silas went to an antique place a few cities over where they specialize in old architectural stuff from building demolitions and estate sales. He took Isaac with him, and they brought home letters to spell out BISTRO. They’re all wrought iron, some of them a bit rusted.

Out front, Isaac and Bekah are standing with Silas and Felix. Isaac actually chose to spend his morning cleaning—baseboards, bathrooms. Bekah tore lettuce and mixed salad dressing with the prep cooks. The universe feels very disturbed.

Mr. Thomas is perched on the ladder, using his leveling tool to make sure the “O” is straight. He calls down, “Look okay?”

“Looks good!” Felix yells.

When Mr. Thomas starts down the ladder, I can see the new letters clearly. The fonts don’t match, but they look great beneath the TONY’S letters. Ellie was right. Adding BISTRO gives a new feel, a casual sophistication. The antique letters are perfect because they’re not too perfect. That’s how my dad liked his restaurant and his recipes—inventive but classic. Real, never precious.

Silas drapes his arm over Isaac’s shoulders. “Those letters were a great find, bud.”

Isaac looks silly with pride.

“You did good,” Felix says quietly, squeezing my arm.

“Silas and Isaac found the letters.”

“I know,” he says. “I meant . . . all of this. It’s not so easy for a rigid old tree like me.”