Cameron’s cheeks flush. “I don’t know how to thank you. And I don’t know why you’d have such faith in me. Not like I’ve earned it.”
There’s something else she must show him, of course. Something far more important. And where have her manners gone? “Please, come all the way in.” She ushers him through the foyer. “And I’d invite you to sit, but . . .” She sweeps an arm around the empty den.
“Wow. This is a nice house.”
Tova smiles. “I’m glad that you think so.” Regret stabs at her. The boy’s great-grandfather built this house, and this is the only time he’ll ever set foot in it. “Wait here a moment. I have another thing to give you,” she continues, before hustling off to the bedroom and her suitcase.
A minute later, she returns. She holds it out to him, then drops it in his upturned palm. He turns it over, and confusion knits his brow. That engraving, the one that flummoxed him. He thought it meant eels, like the sea creature. Why on earth would anyone put that on a class ring? At the thought of this, Tova suppresses a smile. Even the most brilliant minds are mistaken sometimes.
“His full name,” she says, “was Erik Ernest Lindgren Sullivan.”
Cameron’s lips part, soundless. Tova waits. She can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Erik was just like that, how it showed on his face when the gears were grinding in his brain, which they always were. There is so much about Cameron and Erik that is alike, but not everything. Not his eyes. Those must be his mother’s. Daphne’s.
They’re lovely eyes.
Tova has never been much of a hugger, but when Cameron’s face starts to break apart, she finds herself pulled to him like a magnet. His arms wrap around her neck, squeezing her against his chest. For what seems like a very long time, she rests her cheek against his sternum, which is warm. She can’t help but notice that his T-shirt appears to be stained and smells oddly like motor oil. Perhaps that’s intentional? Never again will Tova make assumptions about a T-shirt.
He stands back and says with a dumbfounded grin, “I have a grandmother.”
“Well, how about that?” She laughs, and it’s as if a valve inside her has been released. “I have a grandson.”
“Yup, looks like you do.”
“What happened to California?”
He shrugs. “Changed my mind. You were right about not quitting. I’m better than that.” Surveying the den, he gives an appreciative nod. “This really is a cool house. The architecture . . .”
“Your great-grandfather built it.”
“No shit?” A look of astonishment crosses Cameron’s face. He walks over to the fireplace mantel, the one that once held the row of frames featuring his father, and touches it tenderly, almost hesitantly, the way one might lay a hand on a sleeping animal’s flank.
Tova follows. “I’ve been fortunate to enjoy it for sixty-plus years.” She lifts her wrist, inspecting her watch. “And three and a half more hours.”
“Holy crap. That’s right. You sold it.”
“It’s okay. I need to let it go. Too many ghosts.” Tova isn’t sure she believes the words, but she’s becoming accustomed to them, at least.
Cameron studies his sneakers. “I guess I’m glad I caught you here, then. Before you moved to that retirement home.”
“Oh,” Tova says, swatting the air as if to clear away his words. “I’m not going there.”
“You’re not?”
“Heavens, no.”
“Where are you going, then?”
An unfettered laugh escapes from deep in Tova’s chest. “You know what? I don’t know. To Barbara’s. Or Janice’s. For a while. Until I figure out what comes next.”
“Good plan,” says Cameron. “I mean, that’s coming from a guy living in a camper.” He grins, and the heart-shaped dimple on his cheek indents, and for a moment he looks every part the impish grandson. Tova glances down, checking to make sure her slippers are still contacting the floor, because it feels like she’s aloft, floating, unfurling toward the ceiling with unwitting elegance, like Marcellus in his old tank. Her heart is full of helium, lifting her skyward.
She chuckles. “I suppose we’re both homeless, then.” She gestures to the hallway. “Would you like to see where your father grew up?”
ERIK’S OLD BEDROOM had been the most difficult to clean. Three decades, it sat empty. She swept the room regularly over the years, and even changed the linens on his bed occasionally, but after the men from the secondhand shop hauled the furniture away, she found herself balking at the ancient dust bunnies gathered in the corners. As if one of them might contain some fragment of him, still.