Patrick touched his forehead between his eyebrows gently, as if after all these years it might hurt. “Sadly, as much as I’d like it to be otherwise, I’m just not a boy wizard.”
“When was this?” Maisie asked.
Patrick had to do some quick math in his head. “Before you were born.” He reached out and intertwined his fingers with hers, further anchoring them together. “So, I’ve been at this grief thing a while.”
Maisie fiddled with her helmet, sweeping her hair back underneath so it wouldn’t stick to her brow. “When does it get easy?”
He thought about lying, but what was the point? Greg didn’t send his children to Palm Springs to be lied to, and even if he had they deserved better. Instead, he squeezed her hand and said, “Any day now.” And then he smiled to show them that grief wasn’t the end of the world.
Maisie let one leg fall into the pool, defeated.
“But it does get easier. I want you to remember that. Because you’re going to go home in a few weeks, back to your house and your belongings. And normal things, your toys for instance, might seem drained of their pleasure, of their ability to bring you joy. Games you played with your mom, maybe. And that’s okay. You’re both so big now.” He reached for Grant’s hand, too. “Maybe you’ve outgrown them. Maybe they will regain their powers over time. Either way, it’s fine.” Patrick sat up, careful to keep his balance. He leaned forward to unbuckle Grant’s bicycle helmet, and then likewise loosen Maisie’s. “Take these off. The sky is not going to fall. That’s what I’m telling you. The pain you feel, the disaster you think is imminent. Those feelings fade. And some days you even miss it. Some days you miss the pain, because you’re afraid. Afraid that as the pain softens so do memories of the one you lost.” Patrick thought how best to explain this in a way they would understand. “Do you guys have chalkboards at school?”
“We have whiteboards,” Maisie said. Patrick lifted the helmet off her head.
“But we have a chalkboard eathel at home.”
“Weasel?”
“He means easel.”
“Oh, so then—you know. It feels sometimes like Joe, whom I loved very much, is being erased. He’s just a smudge now on a chalkboard, smeared in an effort to get rid of him to make way for something new. And I hate that. So there are times I wished it hurt more, because it would mean the details of him would still be sharp. And then there are other days out here in the desert—especially if you go way out, to Joshua Tree or beyond—when you can see the Milky Way. A whole smudge of stars across the sky. And you think, there’s still so much in that smudge. So many gleaming, beautiful things that you could never erase them all.”
“Do you have a picture of him?” Maisie asked after taking this new information in.
“Of Joe? Many. I put them away. I don’t often look at them anymore.” Patrick eased back onto his float. “I have a letter.”
“That he wrote to you?”
“That I wrote to him. After he died.”
“Why did you write to him after he died?”
The question hit Patrick hard. Was it merely an assignment from a therapist whose credentials he questioned at the time? “It helped me. And I think it might help you. When we go inside, I think we should all write letters to your mom.”
They looked confused.
“We can’t send them, you understand. But really, they’re for ourselves. Years from now we can read them. You’ll see where you were. And you’ll see how much you’ve grown. And that will make your mother happy. Knowing, eventually, that you’ll be okay.” Patrick pushed Grant’s drink back in his nephew’s direction. “Finish your smoothies, kids.”
“Why?” Maisie asked.
“Why?” Patrick reached for his own beverage. “Guncle Rule number thirteen: Fun drinks make everything more interesting.”
They wrote their letters that afternoon.
* * *
“Cassie Everest’s office.” The voice was androgynous, bordering on bored. So much so, Patrick almost forgot to speak.
“Cassie?” Had she finagled an assistant out of this promotion? Or was she lowering her voice an octave to fake one? Either way, he was impressed.
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick . . . ?”
“Her client.” Patrick was immediately jealous. He liked to have people’s undivided attention. “Does she have other accounts?”