I hesitate. It’s my job to tell her that her grandfather has died. But Jack has to give a reason for rushing her home, and either he lies about that or … what? What would be best for my daughter?

“Tell her he collapsed,” I suggest, but even in such a short time, seeming by instinct, he gets Joy all too well.

“She’ll ask more.”

“Tell her the paramedics are here.”

“What do I say if she asks if he’s dead? Kids jump ahead. I would.”

“What would you tell her?”

He considers it for only a beat. “I’d tell her the truth. But I’m not you, Mal. You’re her mother.”

“Okay. Tell her if she asks.” Joy may not be a full adult, but she’s halfway there. A straight question warrants a straight answer. And while I have no reason to trust Jack to give it with the sensitivity I would, I trust him completely.

It makes no sense—not my trusting Jack, not the anticlimax in the potting shed as the paramedics load up, not Tom Aldiss leaving the house on the bluff for the very last time.

It makes no sense that Bill Houseman should be Anne’s strength, or that I’m the one to snatch up a missed scrap of gauze from the potting shed floor, or that the ambulance is barely gone when several townsfolk drive by to lay flowers on our front steps in honor of a man whose honor they had once seriously doubted.

It makes no sense that while Margo insists that her husband and sons not cut short their trip, I am eternally grateful when, after delivering Joy into my arms, Jack stays—and that Anne says nothing.

It makes no sense that when Mike Hartley arrives with a truckload of switchgrass, beach plum, bayberry, and goldenrod, we insist he plant them, at least, Margo and I do. Living and green is what we need. Anne only comes around after Bill points out that Tom wanted it.

Taking Joy with him, Jack goes to the bluff to direct Mike and save us those questions, at least. There are so many others we can’t answer—like where and when to bury Dad and dressed in what—like whether the funeral should be at the funeral home, the church, or the graveside and who should eulogize him—like whether he even wants a wake—and even before all that, there’s the urgent issue of organ donation. Death isn’t a topic we ever discussed with Dad, and if Anne doesn’t know, who will?

One name comes to mind and, suddenly, having him here is a must. Paul Schuster is a grown-up. Technically, we are, too, though right now it doesn’t feel that way. It occurs to me, as I key in the call, that when it comes to the death of a parent, a child is a child regardless of age.