“You can’t know the answer until you ask the question,” Mom said with a smile, but Lucy was still looking at the man.
“Thank you,” she said to him as she took the card, though really, the words were meant for her mother; Lucy knew she’d figure that out, too.
All the next day, as they walked along the River Seine and explored the Left Bank, Lucy thought about the postcard that was pressed between the pages of The Little Prince. On the train ride home that evening, her mother slept in the seat beside her while Lucy chewed on her pen, staring at the blank space on the back. It wasn’t until she was home that night that she finally wrote something, the simplest and truest thing she could think to say: Wish you were here.
She didn’t have his address in San Francisco. For all she knew, he might not even be there anymore. They could have gone back to Tahoe or somewhere else entirely by now. The logical thing would be to e-mail him, but how could she ask for his address without saying all those things that had been building up since their fight: Hello and I’m sorry and I didn’t mean it and I miss you and Why couldn’t you just have kissed me? There was something far too instant about an e-mail, and the knowledge that he could be opening it only minutes after she hit Send and then choose not to respond—or worse, choose to delete it—was almost too much to bear.
She’d rather send the postcard floating out into the world and hope for the best.
After school the next day, she sat at the kitchen counter and dialed the main number to their old building in New York. As she listened to it ring, she pictured the front desk in the lobby and felt a twinge of homesickness. She closed her eyes, waiting for someone to pick up, and when he did, she was quick to recognize the voice.
“George,” she cried out, and there was a brief silence on the other end.
“Uh…”
“It’s Lucy,” she explained quickly. “Lucy Patterson.”
“Lucy P,” he said in a booming voice. “How’s my girl?”
She smiled into the phone. “I’m good,” she told him. “We’re in London now. I miss you guys.”
“We miss you, too,” he said. “Not the same without you around here. Any chance you’ll be back for the summer? Or what about those brothers of yours?”
“I don’t think so,” she told him. “Looks like we’re all going to be over here, actually.”
“Well, that’ll be nice,” he said. “Not often all five of you are in the same place.”
Lucy smiled. “I know,” she said. “It’s crazy, right?”
“So, what,” George said, “are you just calling to catch up on some of the gossip around here? Because I’ve got some great stories.…”
“I’m sure you do,” she said, laughing. “But I think my dad would have a heart attack over the phone bill if you told me even half of them. I’m actually calling because I have a favor to ask. You don’t happen to have a forwarding address for the Buckleys, do you?”
There was a brief pause. “That super?”
She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “Yup.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” he said. “Talk about gossip.…”
“C’mon, George.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, and there was typing in the background. “It’s in Pennsylvania.”
Lucy blinked. “Really? I guess they haven’t sold the house yet.”
“I don’t know. But it’s all I’ve got. You want it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Just let me grab a pen.”
As she searched through the drawer beneath the phone, she thought about the other possibility. That the house had been sold, and they just hadn’t updated the building with their new information. After all, it had been more than six months since they’d left, and it was doubtful they were getting much mail there anymore. She glanced at the postcard on the counter, suddenly deflated. Maybe it would never find its way to Owen, who could be anywhere by now. Maybe it wasn’t even worth trying.
But on the other end of the phone, George was clearing his throat. “Ready?” he asked, just as Lucy’s fingers brushed against a pencil. She took a deep breath and positioned it above the paper.
“Ready,” she said.
36
No car ride is ever truly silent. There’s always something—the soft swish of the windshield wipers, the rumble of the tires, the hum of the engine—to break it up. But here now, somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, with his dad at the wheel of a too-small rental car, there was a quiet between them that was as absolute as Owen had ever experienced.
On the trip out west, and then again on the way up the coast from San Francisco to Seattle, there’d been times when they’d switched off the radio, letting whoever wasn’t driving have a chance to sleep. Other times, they’d driven for long stretches without talking, simply watching the road disappear beneath the car. But those had been comfortable silences, punctuated by stray thoughts and occasional laughter, easily set aside with the clearing of a throat.
This, however, was different. It was a brittle quiet, sharp around the edges, and the stiffness of it had settled into every corner of the tiny car, making Owen shift uncomfortably in his seat. Back at the rental place, he’d offered to drive. He knew Dad hadn’t slept on the plane—a crowded red-eye from Seattle to Philadelphia—and he was slumped against the counter, rubbing at his bleary eyes. But he’d shaken his head.
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice gruff. “I’ve got it.”
As they drove out of the airport, Owen was thinking about the oddness of this trip. It was meant to be a good thing. When they’d learned that the house had finally sold, they’d toasted with mugs of apple juice. Afterward, in the backyard of their new home in Seattle, they’d circled the yard together, making plans and pointing out all the things they’d do to the place once they had money again.
But there’s no such thing as a completely fresh start. Everything new arrives on the heels of something old, and every beginning comes at the cost of an ending. It wasn’t just that they’d have to close up the Pennsylvania house, to sign the papers and collect their things; they’d also have to face their ghosts and say their good-byes. They’d have to look the past—the one they’d been running from all these months—right in the eye.