“I actually enjoyed many aspects of it. It was kind of like a puzzle, figuring out what content worked best for the company. Even all the organizational aspects of the job were a fun challenge.” Until I stopped doing the work, I don’t add. “But my hobby was always art, painting. I never took it seriously enough to pursue it as a profession, of course. I think I want to be part of that world, though. At least tangentially.”

Kelsey nods thoughtfully. “You know, my niece works for a company that basically does consulting for art-related nonprofits. It’s a quirky little place. She was telling me at Thanksgiving that they’re looking for a few new hires for their business development team. I obviously can’t promise you anything, but I can give you her email. Why not give her a shout?” She writes down the info on her own card and slides it across the desk. I dutifully put it in my purse.

“I definitely will,” I say, and it’s not a lie. Any lead is a good lead these days.

We go back to business, about my father’s literary estate, finalizing bank transfers, when Kelsey pulls out a folder labeled “Susanna 1993-1997” and hands it to me. “I found this buried in your dad’s file from when Greg Lipstein was his lawyer, before Greg retired. I’m not sure if there’s anything of importance. All I saw were some sheets of paper, essentially, probably records of some sort. But it’s rightfully yours.” I thank her, we end the meeting on that note, and I’m escorted back out by the assistant.

I feel lighter. I do. Checking off things on this to-do list is difficult, but emotionally rewarding, I’ve decided. It doesn’t make anything easier, but I guess I feel less cluttered, less like I’m drowning in chaos or despair.

When I exit the office building, it has started to rain, and I duck into a corner Starbucks to wait it out and send out a few more job applications. I order a hot chocolate and sit at a corner table, deciding to leaf through the folder Kelsey handed me.

As she predicted, most of it consists of photocopies of preschool tuition bills and pediatric vaccination charts. Until I get to a handwritten note and its xeroxed copy, and the Starbucks bends and snaps around me, patrons’ murmurs turning into a dull, insidious roar.

My eyes have traveled to the bottom of the note, before scanning quickly upward, my brain incapable of processing the words in their chronological order. Finally, only after the world around me seems to have slowed down, and the ambient chatter mutes back to its proper pitch, can I read what it says.

5/30/97

Suzy and I have left.