“Ready?” the vet asks.

“Yes.” I bury my face in Chris’s neck and murmur, “We’re together in that forest and the air smells of evergreen and sap. There are birds, every color, and their songs float through the air. We listen to them; happy because we’re together . . .” Slowly, Christopher Robin’s eyes close for what I know will be the last time . . .

In the end, her death is peaceful and about her, not me. The vet leaves me to sit with her while Sylvie takes care of the paperwork. Chris will stay here, be cremated, and then I’ll take her ashes into the forest we imagined together so that she can be at rest outside.

On the drive back to the hotel, Moose puts his blocky head on my shoulder like he knows I just lost my best friend and I cry into his fur. When Sylvie turns off the car, neither of us gets out. Unsure, I ask, “What do we do now?”

“I guess you get your things from the room and we go our separate ways.”

“What if . . . What if I’d rather not? Go our separate ways.”

She firmly shakes her head. “One of my many therapists told me that I avoid intimate relationships because I believe intimacy, kindness aren’t deserved. Maybe she’s right and I should stop avoiding it, but I would rather be alone than judged.”

“What if I promise not to do that anymore?”

“Can we decide next steps tomorrow, when we can both think more clearly?”

I nod. “I’ll get my things and book another room.”

She opens the car door, gets out, then turns back to me. “It’s been a really rough day. We can stay together, if you want company.”

That night we sleep in the same bed. Before dawn Sylvie’s arms wrap around me while I cry for the pain and terror my dad and Deacan felt drowning, the truth about my mother, and the loss of Christopher Robin, whom I chose.

FORTY

Sylvie

The dream is much the same . . .

The ocean wave, ornate castle, and a treasure I don’t understand. Except this time when I free the snow globe, there are tendrils of blood inside it. The wave hits. The globe is torn from my hands . . .

When the water recedes, I’m on the familiar street of past dreams, the snow globe nestled in the crook of my arm. The honeyed scent of roses is carried on a warm breeze, but beneath their perfume I now smell rot . . .

I turn the corner, past the shingled house, the dog, Boone, and the neighbors. All watch with wet eyes as I continue down the sidewalk to the house at the end of the street, each slow step punctuated by the staccato of my pounding heart . . .

I stop in front of a gate fashioned from pieces of driftwood, unlatch it, and walk to a gray door, reach for a dented bronze knob. Terror snakes around my body, loosens my bladder. The globe slips. Before it hits the ground, invisible hands grasp my shoulders and the now recognizable woman’s voice beseeches: Come out . . .