“What do you miss most, Erik? What do you miss most about him?” A question I had asked myself again and again since Hugh’s death.

“The hugs. That kid was a hugger. He’d grab hold of you tight as a vise and squeeze. Not many people really hug you.” He smiled sadly. It looked like his whole life these days was in that smile. “There aren’t that many people in life who really love you either.”

I felt my throat swell and I had to look away.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. I’m just talking. There’s the place. I’ll be out in a minute.”

We slowed and pulled into a large parking lot. The store was brilliantly lit. It glowed, and the vivid colors of the products on the shelves radiated out into the night. I watched Erik walk in. He stopped to speak with the man behind the counter and in a moment both were laughing. I looked around the lot. There was only one other vehicle parked there, an old pickup truck that looked like it had traveled to World War Three and back. I twisted the rearview mirror to have a look at myself and was surprised to see my head was still on my shoulders and I didn’t have big Xs over my eyes like some cartoon character that’s just been knocked out.

I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Far across the parking lot, a kid on a bicycle came weaving slowly into view. My first thought was, What’s he doing out so late, but as he got closer my mind froze. It was Erik Peterson’s son Isaac.

He was dressed in an orange-and-blue windbreaker and faded jeans. Riding in loopy circles around the lot, he got closer and closer to the car. I knew who he was, but since I could not believe it, I looked again at the picture on the dashboard. It was him. Inside the store, Erik had disappeared back among the shelves. Outside, twenty feet away, his dead son rode a bicycle.

I opened the door and swiveled to get out. The boy stopped abruptly and put his feet down to keep from tipping. Looking at me, he shook his head. Don’t move. I stayed where I was and he slowly rolled over.

“That’s my Dad in there.” His voice was high and sweet. He lisped.

“Yes.”

“He’s nice, huh?”

“He’s… He loves you very much.”

“I know. He talks to me all the time. But I can’t talk back. It’s not allowed.”

“Can I tell him you’re here?”

“No. He couldn’t see me anyway. Only you. Remember you saw me before? When you were driving the other way, I was racing you. I kept up with you pretty long. I mean, I’m pretty fast for my age.”

He was so sure of himself, this ten-year-old big talker out for a spin on his bike at night, checking to see if anyone was watching. It wrung my heart.

“You know Declan?” he asked.

“Yes.”

A green Porsche growled in off the street and stopped a few feet away. A woman wearing a man’s fedora got out. Looking straight ahead, she walked into the store.

“Women are the stones you use to build a house, men are the sticks you use to start the fire and keep the house warm.”

Distracted by the jarring noise of the car, I wasn’t sure I’d heard what he said. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what Declan’s father said.”

I stiffened. “You’ve seen him?”

“Sure. He and Declan are together all the time. He said that today when Declan asked the difference between men and women. They were talking about why Declan never got to be born.

“See you!”

Erik came out of the store carrying a brown bag and glancing over his shoulder. Pushing the bike backward, the boy came within two feet of his father. He looked at the man as he walked past. He reached out a hand and pretended to slap his arm.

Erik stopped. For a moment I was sure he knew who was there. Isaac watched him with calm eyes. Erik moved to the left, stopped, moved to the right. He was dancing! He turned in a circle. “Do you hear it, Miranda? From inside the store? Martha and the Vandellas. ‘Dancing in the Streets.’” He continued swaying back and forth as he approached the car. “One of my favorite songs. Isaac loved it too. I hear it all the time now. Funny. More than ever before, I think.” He opened the back door and laid the grocery bag on the seat. “You ready to go?”

The boy nodded at me, so I said yes. His father got in and started the motor. “I got everything. Some more cigarettes too if you want one.”

“Erik, if you could, what would you say to Isaac if he was here right now?”

Without hesitation he said, “I’d say I’m living, but I’m not alive without you.”

One of Hugh’s favorite quotes was from St. Augustine: “Whisper in my heart, tell me you are there.” I suppose it has to do with God and his unwillingness to show his face to man. But in light of what had happened, I took it to mean something entirely different. I was sure “Women are the stones you use to build a house, men are the sticks…” was meant for me, not Declan. I was sure Hugh was whispering in my heart, suggesting what to do. I had already come to the same conclusion by then but his words only strengthened my resolve.

When we arrived in Crane’s View and Erik dropped me off, I entered the house no longer frightened or upset. There is a calmness that comes with surrender. A peace that actually revitalizes when you know there is no other way. I knew what to do now, and no matter what happened to me afterwards, the child would be safe. That was all that mattered—the child would be safe. I would give it what I had, willingly!

The house was spotless, no sign of anything that happened there earlier. I walked into the kitchen and remembered it had all begun after I’d made myself dinner—how many hours, days, lifetimes ago? When I turned on the television and saw Charlotte, Declan, and Hugh by the swimming pool.

So what? It had to begin somewhere and that’s where it did. Move on. Other things to think about now. Hunger shook a scolding finger at me and I knew I would have to eat before doing it. Opening the refrigerator door, I was greeted by an incredible array of the most extraordinary and exotic food—Iranian caviar, a box of pastries from a place called Demel in Vienna, plover eggs, Tunisian capers, olives from Mt. Athos, fresh Scottish salmon, Bombay lemon pickle, more. I had bought none of it, much less tasted most of the food on those shelves, but it didn’t surprise me. The time for surprises was over. I sniffed and sampled a great deal before choosing a fresh baguette, prosciutto cut thin as tissue paper, and the most delicate mozzarella I had ever tasted. The sandwich was delicious and I ate it quickly.

There was a bottle of Lambrusco too, one of Hugh’s favorite wines. I opened it and poured some into a small glass that had once held creamed chipped beef. Odd as it may sound, I wanted to toast something. That’s what you’re supposed to do at the end of the banquet, aren’t you? Toast the host, the lucky couple, the birthday girl or the glorious country. But what could I toast on this, the last night of some preposterous part of my existence? My past lives? Here’s to all the good and bad times I had but forgot and learned nothing from. Here’s to all the people I knew and hurt—sorry folks, I can’t remember any of you. Or how about, Here’s to me—however many of us there have been.

Hugh taught me an Irish toast:

One toast came to me that was appropriate. I lifted my glass and said to the empty room, “Here’s to you and the lives you lead. I hope you find your way home faster than I did.” I drank slowly and emptied the glass.

On the floor in Hugh’s workroom was a cardboard box filled with tools and chemicals he used to restore things. I went through it, pulling out the many different bottles, reading the labels, choosing the ones that contained alcohol or any kind of flammable substance. Our house was made of wood. It would go up quickly. I went around the ground floor pouring the strong-smelling chemicals over everything. Hugh’s new chair, a couch, boxes of books, the wooden floors.