“For Mommy?” I asked.
“No, Nana. It’s for you!” Now he had me whirling on the ballroom floor.
He’d been gone a week. The empty white shelves where he kept the miniature train and airport and cash register stared at me in the hall—a reminder of the emptiness I felt.
I had thought I would enjoy my freedom to rush right through my “to do” list without a pause—no lying about on the rug. But even when I managed to go all the way until lunchtime without thinking of him, I was not consoled.
My nightstand held the valentine he’d made me—two pages of red construction paper stapled together at the top, covered with misshapen color—marker circles and big black dots. Whenever I worried that our connection might be fading, I opened the drawer and felt his energy flutter up around me like a freed canary[10].
Late one rainy afternoon, pinched[11] by the unavoidable, I sat at my desk paying bills. The phone rang, I grabbed the receiver and wanted to shout, “Will you leave me alone so I can finish one thing!” but I hesitated.
All I heard was silence—maybe one of those automated phone calls gone bad. Then I heard some garbled[12] mumbling.
“That’s not English; it must be a wrong number,” I thought, and I reached over to hang up the receiver.
Then Andy’s clear treble boomed, “Nana!”
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