Here So Far Away(71)

“You’ll never guess where I found it.” Sarah pointed to the far corner of the room, and I finally saw the too-obvious: the large trunk in the corner that held Rupert’s old bedding, his lottery tickets and silver dollars.

“I’ll put tea on,” she said. “And I’m going to make you eat some pie. I have a desperate need to put meat on those bones.”

I sat on the edge of Rupert’s bed and drank in the sight of my name as Francis had set it down. He always used a tidy, well-spaced mix of printing and cursive—a restrained curl on the G, a little extra on the W. The handwriting of someone who thought it mattered how pen met paper.

What was inside—a book? It felt like a book. Maybe it was the Elizabeth Bishop collection that had been missing from his bedside. That would be like Lisa’s father giving her mother Cooking for Absolute Beginners for her fortieth birthday, but I didn’t care. I had something, and that was all I wanted.

I peeled back the paper carefully, and there she was, Elizabeth Bishop. Not the collected poems; this one was called Geography III. It was an old hardcover, secondhand from the look of it. When I slipped it out of its clear plastic covering, a bookmark fluttered to the floor. I held the book by its spine to see if I could find the place it had been tucked. Seemed to be a poem called “One Art.”

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I read the whole poem and then I read it again, trying to make sense of why Francis had marked this particular one, if he’d marked it. It was as though he’d had a premonition that he would hit black ice that night and was telling me that I would get over him one day. The possibility that he had gone into the ravine on purpose briefly glinted, but no. Francis was too interested in the world to leave it sooner than he had to. He might have just tucked the bookmark at random, or it hadn’t been holding that page at all.

I flipped to the front of the book. No inscription. No, he wouldn’t want anyone else to read the message. But there, on the back of the bookmark lying on the floor, was that same tidy handwriting.

G— A memento. A promissory note. A ticket. xF

A teapot leaking steam, a store-bought rhubarb pie, and two forks were waiting on the kitchen table. I sat in my old place across from Sarah, who was in Francis’s chair, my wheels turning. If only Rupert weren’t sick; I had so many questions. Why hadn’t Francis given me the book himself? Why had Rupert tucked it away in his hiding place? Was it meant to be a birthday present? What had Francis said when he’d given it to Rupert? What I most wanted to ask was what the message on the bookmark meant. A memento I sort of understood, but not a promissory note, a ticket.

“How did you hurt yourself?” Sarah asked, pouring the tea. “Your face, honey.”

“Oh, just a carpet burn. I tripped.”

“Listen, I was sorry to hear about Mick—Francis, whatever his name was. Expect you knew him pretty well.”

“Sort of.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Dad said he wasn’t the best influence on you.”

I took a sip from my mug, burning my tongue, and hoped it covered any surprise I was reflecting back. “What did he mean by that?”

“Something he said in passing, never explained. But, hey, I’m grateful to the guy. Dad and I have always been like cats and dogs, for no good reason. I couldn’t have taken care of him like that. I’m grateful to you too.”

“I miss him. Rupert. I’ll go see him when he’s better.”

“Do you know how the French say I miss you? It’s tu me manques. Think about that.” She lifted a forkful of pie straight out of the middle.

“You—you are missed by me.”

“Literally, you’re missing to me. Isn’t that beautiful?”

It was exactly right. Losing Francis had been like losing part of myself, the best part—and I know that’s ripe cheese, but goddamn it if it wasn’t true, and if he wouldn’t have been thrilled to hear me admit it. He’d made my hard little heart swell and pulse, and now it was burning itself out like a charcoal briquette. If this was what phantom pain felt like, I thought, no wonder Dad medicated himself into a semicoma.

“Didn’t mean to upset you,” Sarah said, and I realized my eyes were leaking.

“Sorry,” I said. “My boyfriend and I broke up and I’m kind of a mess.”

“Say no more. My husband and I are separating, so I too have been feeling feelings. Who knew you could long for a man who flosses with his credit card?”

I laughed, and dabbed my eyes with the napkin she passed to me.

“Lonesome, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes.” The Bishop yes.

“Just remember, you were lonesome when you were with him too.”

All this time I’d thought of Sarah as Rupert’s nemesis and so mine by association. She was more like an insta-friend, or a psychic. Because she was right again, this lady forking the pie to death, being with Francis had come with a side helping of lonesomeness, though I hadn’t thought about it before. It wasn’t like I could bring him to the school dance, so I didn’t go to the school dance. There was a lot we couldn’t do together.

“How did you guess?” I asked.

“Relationships can be lonely places at the best of times.” She pushed the other fork across the table to me. “Do you mind if I ask what was in the package?”