I waited until dawn on a Saturday morning, when I knew she would still be in bed and there was no chance of meeting her. I didn’t know what to expect. The snow had melted and the air had warmed, but the woods looked bare in that stark late-winter way. If whatever she had left was still there, it must be in the hiding place. I pushed away the leaves and the board, and there above the tin was a parcel wrapped in brown paper shopping bags. I unwrapped the paper to find another package in bubble wrap. Inside was a black picture frame. A few summers earlier, Dad had said Sage could come with us one day to cut grass. Sage had brought her camera and treated it like a field trip, taking pictures and asking him about everything he planted or pulled. She’d framed a black-and-white photograph of us from that day, standing by the pickup truck, him in his white T-shirt and work trousers, me in jeans and a T-shirt. We were both smiling, looking sort of proud and shy. My head was tilted toward his shoulder, and he was looking toward the camera. We looked happy. In the bubble wrap was a small white card. I opened it.

I’m sorry. I loved him, too.

Ain’t life unkind?

In the picture we are both smiling with our mouths closed. I looked like him. Sage had quoted “Ruby Tuesday.” I’d recognized it straightaway.

14

It was Thomas who ended up meeting Barbie Man on the mountain first, even though he didn’t know who he was. We’d made a deal. I’d edge the what were supposed to be flower beds and pull weeds, and Thomas would walk up to the Griffiths’ to borrow a lawn mower. I used a spade, angling it to create a clean edge of earth between the grass and the beds that had no flowers. I was almost finished with the first one when Thomas came around the corner and down the street, pushing the borrowed lawn mower.