When she stopped talking, Stefan read her letter out loud.
It said in part:
“My remorse is everlasting. When I could have saved Alice Hodge, I let selfishness rule me. I was literally asleep on the job on the night that my employer and my good friend froze to death in the snow. If you give me the chance, my renewal will be to try to help save someone else, someone who is fighting addiction the way that Alice Hodge fought. Although she lost, not everyone loses. Not every bright light has to go dark. I don’t flatter myself that it will be because of me that another bright light continues to shine, but if I can feel responsible for the smallest part of that light, maybe I will not feel so responsible for what happened to Alice.”
And as he read it, pity washed over me. Rebecca didn’t do something terrible. She just didn’t do something, and something terrible happened.
Suddenly I thought of the mysterious caller Esme’s claim, No one can help me. I was fed up with the caller’s games, but what if this person really did have no one else to trust? Rebecca’s project had opened a vein of empathy toward this troubled soul and a renewed wonderment at why the caller reached out to me, rather than to Stefan or to Jill. Even if I didn’t believe what she said, she still seemed tormented by it.
I excused myself for a moment. On the porch, I sent a text from my phone. This is Thea, Esme. Please call me or text. I do want to know what you know.
But I heard nothing from her. And there was nothing I could do.
* * *
A few weeks later, Stefan and Jep and I stood with the assembled Hodge clan, including Alice’s mother and her two daughters, her sisters and their families and my own parents, in front of the sign, hand-carved from Wisconsin red cedar, that read The Alice Hodge Safe Home. Rebecca was standing with us, a departure from the rules. Although she was technically the person who had done wrong and she was making amends to the Hodges, they were having none of it. They asked for her to be with them. They wanted the chance to publicly thank her for her sacrifice and ingenuity in deciding just what she—and by extension, Alice—would find meaningful for this big lakeside house that had already seen so much joy and grief. Not only did they gift The Alice Hodge Safe Home an operating budget that would be reviewed after six years, including a salary for Rebecca and money for home improvements as they were needed, they also independently gave a substantial sum directly to Stefan’s The Healing Project to be used at his discretion.
Just before the end of the ceremony, Alice’s mother, Alma, usually quiet in big groups, spoke up. “We accepted your letter, Rebecca, but I want you to know that none of us accepts its basic premise. You did not let our Alice down. No one did. Some people will fight and win. Some people fight and lose. Alice had a choice between the dark and the light of her nature. It seems cruel to say so, but she did have that choice. Your choice means that people will always be reminded of the best part of our Alice. You have brought a part of Alice back to us. And we thank you.”
Stefan, Jep and I stood there in the brave sunlight, moved by the free mingling of emotions that chased across those changed, familiar faces. I leaned heavily on Jep’s sheltering arm. As we walked back to the car, Stefan mused about how both things were true—Alma’s explanation and Becky’s account. Her inaction was an action; she was not guilty, but in a way she was responsible.
6
After his experience with Becky’s project, Stefan told me, “I feel lifted up by this. I think it’s helping.”
His conditional enthusiasm alarmed me, but I tried to paper over my misgivings. Life was not going to offer him a sustained emotional high. I wanted to talk to him about this, but I didn’t want to so pointedly burst such a fragile bubble.
One night, Stefan was getting ready to pick Will up; they were going out to a club to dance and Stefan was really looking forward to it.
“I used to love to dance, when I…well, before,” he said to me. “I almost said when I was young. Do you think I’ll remember how?”
“The way people your age dance, no,” I said.
“Geez, Mom, disco queen, do you have to be such a ger?” He’d called me this before, short for “geriatric.” In a withering parody of my own voice, he said, “Why, the way you young people go on, you never get a haircut, you never save a nickel…” He took a fork from the silverware drawer and sat down with me at the table, expertly plucking first the tomato peppers and then the Greek olives and salty cheese squares from my salad. Finally, I jabbed the back of his hand with my own fork. “Nice,” he said, and drifted to the refrigerator. “Oh! There’s another whole one in here!” He went silent and I belatedly realized he was making short work of the other salad.