She closes her eyes and rubs her nose. “The reason I bring this up,” she says, “is because Nick made me think about it a lot. Here was a kid who was born into what, by most standards, would appear to be a very fortunate upbringing. Loving parents. High-end education. Then life dealt him really crappy cards—like, hardcore crap. He didn’t ask for that shit—and that is not the kind of self-serving drama my dad was talking about, trust me—but here’s the other thing: Nick didn’t martyr himself. He didn’t. Most of us probably would have. I mean, I got some crappy cards too, at his age.” She closes her eyes once again, and this time she holds up a hand, palm directed toward me in anticipation of my reaction. “Now, Robert. Let me finish. It’s okay. I’m fine.” She blows me a kiss and addresses a room full of spellbound faces. “Whatever. I saw some shit, okay?”

How can I rescue her without making it worse?

“And anyway”—she laughs—“yeah. For twenty years, I’ve carried sadness around, letting it get in the way, like my pain is unique. I don’t really know any other way to deal but to feel bad. See, this is what was so confusing and enlightening and irritating about Nick. He accepted his horrible, shitty, fucked-up life and went on to make good friends with good people.”

Tears light up her eyes. She doesn’t look at my son, but I do. He is stoic. He is strained.

Elizabeth continues, “And anyway, it’s just dumb, really. It’s dumb, the messes people make. This shouldn’t have happened to Nick. His life shouldn’t have ended like this. It’s so stupid, you know? So fucking sad.” The tears sink back into her face, and she pulls herself together. Miraculous. “So, anyway. Thanks for coming. Thanks for giving money to this cause, and—I don’t know. Maybe thanks in advance for never mentioning this toast.”

My guests laugh—clucks of anxious relief, a coop of hot air breathed back into the room.

I raise my glass to seal the frayed ends of my wife’s sort-of toast. “To Nick,” I say.

Everyone follows my lead, repeating “To Nick,” as though we’re embarking on some new journey together, forever changed by a young man who’s no longer with us, when in fact we’ll soon forget that he was with us, because he barely was.

We drink.

29.

I charge Elizabeth, post-toast. By the time I reach her, having dodged a few social obstacles on the way, she and Rick Lester’s new girlfriend, Bess, have been targeted by Luna Parks, who seems to be claiming, at high volume, that she invented avocado toast.