“I’m sorry,” I said again, coldly. “I don’t know what you are referencing.”

“Oh,” she said. “The Kindertotenlieder … You know what it means, don’t you?”

I stared at her.

“Yes,” I said eventually. “Well—”

I stood up to indicate that I intended to go, but as I turned toward the aisle I saw that it was still impossible; the old man was still refusing to be carted away, and obstructing the passage. Reluctantly, I took my seat again, hoping to pass the remaining moments in silence. The entire experience from start to finish had been a disappointing one, and— But I could not continue my thought, because I became aware that Kirstie, despite my hints, had not stopped looking at me, and with an intensity that had grown increasingly bizarre, as if something she read in my face warranted a thorough investigation. Her eyes had a moist look to them now, and I noticed for the first time that they were red-rimmed at the edges. If I had not known better, I would have said that she had been crying, or, worse, that she was about to cry.

I cleared my throat once, hoping it might rouse her, but her expression did not change. It was as if she hadn’t heard.

Just when I was about to make some meaningless remark, if only to break the silence, she said, in a quiet voice, lower-pitched than before, “I’m sorry, it’s just—I guess I’ve never noticed it before.”

“Noticed what?” I said.

“How much you look like him,” she said, with a faraway quality in her voice. “I guess…” she began, and trailed off.

When I spoke I had the impression that I heard my own voice very distinctly, as though all the other sounds in the busy hospital had dropped away.

“Like whom?” I asked.

Kirstie’s big eyes flicked up to meet mine, wondering, as if the answer should have been obvious. A long moment went by in which she struggled to find an answer.

“Like … him,” she said finally, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Like your dad.”

8

When at last I had made my way back to my office, the phone on my desk was ringing. “Hello?” I said cautiously.

“Hello,” came Gerry Van Gelder’s booming voice.

“Gerry,” I said.

“Listen,” he said. “Just wanted to give you the heads-up for tonight. Ann’s father won’t be able to make it, so you can come anytime after seven.”

Tonight, I thought. Tonight?

“Oh yes,” I said, automatically. “I see.”

Had I agreed to have dinner with the Van Gelders that night? It was unwelcome news. But to question it now, I knew, would have been fruitless. Gerry had a force of personality that brooked no protest.

“Excellent,” he said. “Looking forward to this.”