“He’s just worried being here would stir things up for you.” She waves a hand and somehow conveys that “things” mean the Manse, my father’s disappearance, even my relationship with my mother. Though perhaps I’m overinterpreting. There’s an uncharacteristic anxiousness around her eyes. She doesn’t want to upset me, I realize; she’s choosing her words carefully, and the thought warms me. “Maybe it’s not healthy to revisit it. What’s done is done and cannot be undone and all that.”

“Macbeth,” I say reflexively.

“Mmm. And look how that turned out.”

“You’re right. Absolutely right. Most likely any minute the wood outside is going to up and march and overthrow our dear monarch.”

We’re both laughing now. “Yeah, okay, it’s not the best analogy,” she admits.

“Nope.” I’m still smiling as I start to wash up the pans in the kitchen sink, looking out over the back garden. It’s twilight again, the same strange light in which I saw the cat. And the figure at the window upstairs. And in fact I can see the cat again. She’s on the wall, just like before, padding softly along the top, circumnavigating the garden. Her head is turned like before, too, to focus on the same spot, but this time I can see that there’s something there: a small bird, something like a jay perhaps, though I can’t really tell in this light. It’s far away, but from its jagged movements I get the impression that it’s injured. It keeps hopping as if trying to take flight, but doesn’t seem able to actually take off.

I start to turn to Carrie, to point out the peril that the bird is in, then I’m suddenly gripped with a fear that I’m imagining the entire tableau. But I must have grown still enough to catch her attention. “Is there something out there?” asks Carrie.

“I’m not sure . . . I thought I saw—”

“Look, a cat! There on the wall.”

The relief is unexpectedly staggering. Carrie can see it. There is a cat and she can see it. “Yes! That’s it. I guess it’s stalking the bird.”

“What bird?”

“At the end, not far from the gate. Look.” I’m pointing and she’s following my finger with her gaze, but she shakes her head.

“Your eyes must be keener than mine; I can’t see anything.” She turns away, then adds slyly, “I expect you’re going long-sighted in your old age.”