Then, four months before the “Big Day,” there came a cyber-silence (not that I was stalking her or anything). Five days later, she posted that she appreciated all the concern and kindness, but she and Noah were going their separate ways. No one was to blame, and they’d stay friends. He was wonderful, and she wished him only the best.

I clicked off immediately, shoving aside the shameful rush of satisfaction. Their breakup was too personal for me to read about, even if she’d posted it for all to see. Noah didn’t have a Facebook page, except for his business: Noah Pelletier Fine Carpentry, on which he posted pictures of kitchen cabinets and decks and, in one case, a rather magical tree house made for one of the summer people.

I didn’t send a card this time. Somehow, some way, even though we hadn’t spoken for years now, I felt responsible for his heartache.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

John

Here are the things he knows.

The old man in the house . . . it’s him. He finally understands how the mirror works, and that old man is him. He’s gotten much older. He looks like his father.

The big man who helps him is named LeVon. He is a friend, but not really, because he works for John. But John thinks of him as his friend and would like to talk to him, but talking isn’t happening.

He has had something called a stroke and a BLT. Or not a BLT, but something like that. A BLT is a sandwich with bacon, and John likes bacon. But the thing he has means his brain has been hurt. His little daughter tells him not to worry about this because he’ll be better soon. His big daughter says less. She is less happy than his little daughter, even though she has very pretty little girls herself. This means she is a mother now. John doesn’t remember that, or the little pretty girls, and that makes his eyes wet and sloppy.

When the little pretty girls are here, he likes it. Their voices are like birds, chirping and fast. He can’t understand most of the words they say, but sometimes it clicks. Grampy. Nana. Upstairs. Cookies. These he knows. They run to him and kiss him and are gone, like the . . . the . . . the flower-bugs that float and drift. Flutter-bugs. Flutter-byes. Something like that. He knows he is close with the word, and also wrong with the word.

John also knows his wife doesn’t love him anymore. She is important in some way, and she doesn’t like him very much, but she isn’t unkind. John tries to remember why she doesn’t love him, but he can’t remember or understand why that would be.