I hung up and sat on the kitchen floor for a while.
Third, I called my brother, Daniel, who is a paramedic and the calmest person I know, and I told him everything, and I waited for him to tell me I was grief-crazed.
He didn’t.
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “Claire. Did you ever see her? With your own eyes?”
“No,” I whispered. “Grant said it would be too hard.”
“Do not tell Grant you called anyone,” Daniel said, in a voice I’d never heard him use. “I’m coming over. Don’t say a word to him tonight. Act normal.”
I have never acted so hard in my life as I did at dinner that night, passing Grant the potatoes, while a jar full of my son’s lunch money sat upstairs, slowly buying back a truth I was only beginning to see.
