May We Be Forgiven

…”
    “How many of these are there?” I ask Amanda.
    “A lot,” she says. They go on:
    “Today was your funeral, you would have loved it. Everyone was there, even Mr. Krupatskini, who acted like he was in charge, and of course no one paid any attention to him, but your parents let him announce that there’s now a scholarship in your name. And your mom invited me over and took me into your room and asked if there was something special of yours that I wanted; I took the bracelet you shoplifted in seventh grade. ‘That was one of her favorites,’ your mom said. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I have a matching.’ And she gave my sister your old blue bike. Your dad looks like he’s going to have a breakdown; he keeps doing that thing where he sweeps his hair back off his forehead, but since he’s bald it looks freaky to see him sweeping invisible hair off his head over and over again.
    “Meanwhile, you’ll never guess who killed you: it was the guy with the bumps on his face who Adam thought you were going out with. The reason he knew so much about you was because he had your old journal, so he did kind of know you. Now I keep dreaming that he’s following me. I know this is supposed to be about you, and in the dream it’s like I’m second best.
    “Do you think there’s any chance you’ll come back—is that too weird to ask?
    “What’s it like there? Is it a real place? Are there other people?
    “Miss you.”

    A manda pushes the skip button a few times. “Sorry not to have called in a while. I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but Adam and I are sort of seeing each other. You’re not mad, are you?”
    “And then it stops,” Amanda says. “The phone got turned off.”
    “Who is she to you?”
    “I don’t know. Like someone I never was. I feel very close to her. I’m assuming these will stay on here as long as I keep the phone charged—or do they, like, vanish over time?” she asks.
    “I have no idea,” I say, uncomfortably mesmerized.
    We part company at the grocery store; she has shopping to do, and I need to get home in time to meet Ricardo’s bus.
    “Come for dinner on Friday,” I say as I’m leaving. “Bring your parents.”
    “Are you sure?” she asks.
    “Yes,” I say. “Six-thirty. I’ll make fish sticks and Tater Tots.”
    “I’ll bring a pound cake,” she says.

    F riday night, the children help set the table. We lay out a beautiful tablecloth and use the good silver, the good dishes, all the things that have not been out of the closet since Jane died. I have bought fresh flowers and teach Ashley and Ricardo how to cut the stems and arrange them. Ashley makes the salad, Ricardo helps me prep the fish sticks and Tater Tots. When Amanda and her parents arrive, the children are fixed like little ambassadors at the front door.
    “May I take your coat?” Ricardo asks, even though they have no coats.
    “Would you like a drink?” Ashley says while they’re still in the front hall.
    “That would be lovely,” Amanda’s mother, Madeline, says.
    I’m wildly proud.
    “What a treat,” Amanda’s mother says, shaking Ricardo’s hand.
    “Your hands are very soft,” Ricardo says. “Like velvet.”
    “Thank you,” Madeline says.
    As I’m finishing the preparations for dinner, I peek into the living room and see Madeline on the floor playing a game of jacks with Ashley, and Cy trying to explain the finer points of backgammon to Ricardo.
    Amanda sits on the sofa, alone, arms crossed in front of her chest—looking pouty.
    I call everyone to the table. The fish sticks and Tater Tots are a big hit. Waxing poetic during the meal, Madeline and Cy drift back in time and talk about great trips they went on, walking from vineyard to vineyard in France, adventures in Italy, how they found themselves hitchhiking through the mountains near Turin.
    Amanda recalls being left at home with her sister and an unmarried neighbor woman who knew nothing about children.
    Ricardo and Ashley share stories of the trip to Williamsburg, including some of the more “colorful” details—which cause Cy to laugh out loud.
    “He’s always loved scatological humor,” Madeline whispers to me.
    As dinner comes to an end, I find myself liking Amanda’s parents better than Amanda herself.
    After pound cake and berries with fresh whipped cream, Ashley, Ricardo, Amanda, and I are clearing, and when we come out of the kitchen, Amanda’s parents are gone. I catch a glimpse of her father’s