The attic reached the entire length of the house, and was built around the big brick fireplace, which stretched up from the living room. It was relatively bright for an attic, with big windows on either end, one looking over the side lawn, and one looking out on the driveway and street.

Boxes of Dad’s stuff made a kind of wall on one end of the room. His clothes, the books from his office. Boxes of Mom’s stuff created another wall on the other end of the room. Her clothes, her perfumes and lotions from the bathroom. We didn’t want to throw it away. It was as if we thought she’d come back and want it again. We’d packed everything neatly and brought it up here.

Behind the chimney were old pieces of furniture: a futon, three ladder-back chairs with broken rungs, an armchair, a wicker patio set missing cushions. The furniture leaned all up against itself like pickup sticks, like kindling laid for a fire. Two boxes were open on the armchair. I peeked inside. Photographs, paper, an old paperweight one of us had made in grade school.

In an old wooden filing cabinet, I searched for information about the house, the bank account. I discovered a file entitled COLIN. It was a thin little manila folder. There couldn’t be much inside, but still, my heart began to pound as I opened it.

Inside I found three things. The first was a half-page program from Colin’s memorial service. I hadn’t known there’d been one. I envisioned my mother, tall and well dressed, greeting each mourner with regal finesse, the way she had at my father’s service. Where had Lucas and I been during Colin’s memorial service? Who had taken care of us? Who had attended the memorial service? My mother and father had only just moved to the island. They wouldn’t have known very many people yet.

There was also a letter from my mother’s mother, who had died twenty years ago. I’d met her only once. I opened the envelope and drew the letter out.

Dearest C, it said.

God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, so I know you’ll be all right. You may come home whenever you need to. You know they’ll never forgive you. But we will.

Love and condolences,

Mother

At first I thought the letter must be meant for Colin, or for Cole, but I quickly realized C was also for Cecily, my mother. I imagined my stern grandmother, basically a stranger to me, and wondered what she meant when she said they will never forgive you. For what? The letter was so brief, I thought it might be the culmination of a longer correspondence. But if so, the rest of the letters were somewhere else.