I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t suppose Sam’s misremembering. So what was Abigail crying about? Was it guilty tears, if she already knew what she was planning to do?

“I wish I knew,” I say. On the kitchen table my phone lies face up, its silent screen like a taunt. “Mom, she’s turned off her phone. While you were out. I saw her starting to write something, and then she stopped, and then…she just turned her phone off.”

I think of all the messages and voicemails we’ve been leaving for my sister, trying to trigger her guilty conscience. I guess we did. And now this is Abigail’s way of dealing with it.

Mom blinks at me for a moment. But then she turns her gaze out the window and her face resets to a determined calm.

“She’ll be back any minute now,” she says, her voice firm. “She’s done this before. We just have to take it in stride.”

I look at her.

“And what about when she does come back?” I say. “I can’t see things just going back to normal. Not with her and Dennis, anyway.”

Mom frowns. “Well, perhaps they can try therapy or something.”

Mom thinks the world of Dennis. Oliver, on the other hand, I’d say she accepts rather than adores. His giving up a steady paycheck to become a self-employed brewmaster hasn’t exactly won him any bonus points, either. I guess she’s not willing to let Abigail’s “perfect marriage” go just yet.

She sighs, dabs at her mouth as though she’s been eating—she hasn’t, and her light, shell-colored lipstick is still perfectly intact—and looks at me.

“Well, I suppose I’ll get going. I’ll call you tomorrow, Gillian.” She picks up her bag from the table. “And by the way, we put flowers on your father’s grave for you.”

And with that parting line which I assume isn’t intended as a jab but somehow still feels like one, she’s on her way.

*

My sister was the last one to see Dad alive. Dad and his prodigal daughter.

It was last year. He’d been visiting her for the weekend. Abigail had told us she wouldn’t be coming up for Thanksgiving—surprise, surprise—so Dad had decided he’d go down for a short visit to Westchester. Mom didn’t go. She had a charity dinner for the library to go to, although I think it was mostly a question of pride. If Abigail couldn’t make the effort to come up, why should she go down?

The embolism came out of nowhere as Dad was on the road home, back to Birch Bend on the Sunday night. He was somewhere just outside of Albany. Mom got a call from an EMT.