Yet, it wasn’t the first time that I had sensed the presence of Carolyn, or felt a need for her. There had been other moments, like some strange and disturbing echo from a voice that had once been as music, a call so distinct that I could not hear the hollowness of the echo.

There was a summer when I went away to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, to Ocracoke Island, to paint in isolation. An exhibit had been scheduled for October at a major gallery in Washington, D.C., and the teaching had taken its toll. Too few paintings were ready with too little time to prepare. “You should do it,” Carolyn had encouraged. “Go. Forget about things here. It’s important.”

It was, at first, liberating. There was magic on the island, something that flowed like a mist off the skin of the Atlantic water. It was both energy and peace, long hours of work and quiet reflection. Images fluttered around me like playful and colorful birds. Each place I looked, I saw them and my hand remembered them for the brush.

Then one Sunday, almost two months after arriving on the island, I awoke with an overwhelming urge to pack quickly and to drive the long drive home. Carolyn could hear the longing in my voice when I called.

“Maybe you’ve been working too hard,” she suggested. “Why don’t you get away from it a couple of days? Just relax. Do nothing.”

“I want to come home,” I told her. “Now. Today.”

“Then come home. But, why? I thought this is what you needed.”

“I did, but I’ve been here long enough. I need something familiar.”

Her laugh was light, surprising. “You mean you miss home.”

I thought about her remark. Yes, I did miss home. I missed the chair that I loved. I missed the invasion of the children in my home studio. I missed the feel of my bed, the sound of Carolyn’s breathing in sleep, the taste of breakfast coffee at my table, the yelp of the dog, the slope of the driveway that led from the street to my house, the annoying bubble in the screen of the high bedroom window—the screen I had vowed to repair for five years.

“Is that it?” Carolyn asked. “You’re homesick?”

“I guess.”

“Do you miss me?”

“Of course.”

Her laugh was quiet, weak. “I’m part of the familiar, right?”

“Sure you are.”

“Well, I suppose being familiar is better than being forgotten,” she said. “Come on home. I think you just need a hug.”

I did not paint again for three weeks after I returned. There was no magic, no images like playful and colorful birds. My eyes saw nothing, my hand remembered nothing.

It was like the misdialed telephone call.

How’s everything?

Any mail?

Any calls?

Are the kids all right?

The familiar was too familiar.

I dreamed of the Outer Banks.