Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Acknowledgments
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Also by Alison Gaylin
- About the Publisher
“Of course you don’t. It was so long ago. I’ve been keeping up with you, though. Your school and your career. Your mom . . . She is so proud of you.” Her face was wet against Robin’s shoulder, her arms warm and strong. At last, Nikki had pulled away, those otherworldly eyes sparkling with tears, and Robin had hung on to her hands, not wanting to let go of the only person here who seemed as hurt and as lost as she was.
“She is proud of you,” she had said, leaning on the present tense. “She is.”
“I wish I remembered you, Nikki,” Robin had said.
“We’ll catch up. When your mother gets better, we’ll catch up, and we’ll reminisce.”
Nikki was standing by herself now. She was holding a Bible and mouthing the prayer and Robin watched her, the memory of her like the pinpoints of light at the corners of her eyes, so close. Yet she couldn’t hang on to it long enough to see it clearly . . .
The rabbi finished the psalm. Workers lowered the coffin into the grave. “Al mekomo yavo veshalom,” the rabbi said. “May Mitchell go to his place in peace.”
The rabbi was a young man, rosy-cheeked and earnest. Robin’s parents never went to temple that much to begin with, but when Rabbi Isaac left last year and this one took over, they stopped going altogether. Nothing against him, Dad would say. He’s just too young to lead a flock. The new rabbi’s last name was Klein, which means “Little” in German—something Robin’s father had found hilarious. Mom and Dad had referred to him as the Bar Mitzvah Boy. And yet here he was, the Little Bar Mitzvah Boy, laying her father to rest. Life had a sick sense of humor.
Rabbi Klein beckoned Robin to the grave as the workers lowered the coffin. Eric put one hand on her waist and took her hand with the other, as though she were too frail to walk. He started to lead her to the grave but she shook her head. “I can do it,” she said, a little too sharply. “I can stand on my own.”
At the edge of the grave, the rabbi handed Robin the shovel. “As is tradition,” he said, “Mitchell will be buried by the hands of those who love him.”
Just as he was shot by the gun of his wife, who loved him.