“What do you think?” Tom asked.

“It’s dark. We should have brought a flashlight,” I replied.

“I mean about Mary,” he continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think she really saw someone?”

We kept walking, and I moved ahead, farther into the dark, leaving Tom behind.

What’s Real?

You don’t come out of the room all afternoon. Tom makes us dinner, some kind of fish and green beans served on beautiful pottery plates that each have a small blue square filled with a red infinity symbol. I guess the diner leftovers are being saved for another time. The house feels empty as the three of us eat in the large dining room that opens up into an even larger living room. Expansive glass doors on the other side of the living room go out onto the deck and face the lake. I can’t imagine how lonely Tom must feel in this place, by himself, with Shirley recently passed.

You are quiet. I find the silence unnerving.

“Enjoying your room?” I ask you, and you nod, your mouth full.

You swallow and say, “The knives are scary.”

I recall a glass case of various knives hanging on the wall down the hallway from your room.

“I can take them down if you’d like,” Tom says, tilting his head.

“No, it’s okay,” you say.

“Which book did you start reading?” I ask, changing the subject.

You chew vigorously and swallow hard before speaking. “I read a little from both of the George MacDonald books.”

“Ah, yes,” Tom says with a smile.

“I love Mossy,” you say.

“And what did you think of the flying fish that they ate?”

“A little weird.”

“Yes, yes,” Tom agrees, his voice trailing off. “I always thought that was rather strange.”

The rest of the meal passes in relative silence. We learn that Tom was a psychiatrist, now retired. He and Shirley never moved away from Nysa. They never had any children. He started a successful practice in a neighboring state, opened five locations, and some years ago sold to a large hospital conglomerate. Thus the mansion. The car.

What that doesn’t explain to me is why, after all these years, he and Shirley remained here, in Nysa, so far from everything.

I notice three or four hallways that all branch off from the living room, as well as a stairway that leads downstairs from the kitchen. What possible use could Tom and Shirley have had for a house like this?

“May I be excused?” you ask.

“Where are you off to?” I ask.

“My room.” You don’t wait for an answer to your question, leaving Tom and I sitting over empty plates. I stand up and carry yours and mine to the sink, watching you skitter off into the expansive house, down the hall that leads to your room. It is nice being under the same roof while simultaneously giving you some space to explore, to be on your own.

“I guess we won’t see much of her,” I say as I set the plates in the kitchen and go back out to clear the rest of the table. Tom stands and joins me, and we go back and forth, table to kitchen, loading the dishwasher, neither of us saying anything. I smell coffee. Five minutes later, Tom hands me a mug.