May We Be Forgiven

says.
    “Did she say that?”
    Ashley shakes her head no. “Not in so many words.”
    I call Amanda’s sister in Philadelphia. “I have your parents here and want you to know they’re fine.”
    “Who is this?”
    “Harold, I’m a friend of your sister’s. How was your weekend?”
    “In what respect?” she asks.
    “Your weekend with Amanda?”
    “I haven’t seen Amanda in years. Is this some kind of a crank call? Are you trying to get something from me—because I’ll tell you right now, buster …”
    “Never mind,” I say, hanging up and realizing that chances are high that Ashley is right—Amanda is gone.
    I text Cheryl, who is less than sympathetic. “I told you it would come to no good end.”
    “Do I call the police? What if she’s injured or dead?”
    “She’s gone,” Ashley says, “you have to let go. …”
    In a panic, I dial Amanda’s cell phone. It goes right to voice mail. And then I notice she’s left a message on mine:
    “I made you trustee of my parents’ accounts. You have power of attorney; there are a few papers that have all been signed by me that require a counter-signature—they are in a folder on your desk. I know you have questions. … I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think you were capable. This voice mail will be disconnected on the first of the month. I can’t be who any of you or anyone else wants me to be. I need out from under. P. S. Don’t bother calling my sister—she’s useless. If you don’t want them, just send them home. They’ll figure it out—they always have.”
    “I thought she would stay because she liked me,” I text Cheryl later that day. “I thought she would stay because I was nice to her parents, because I’m reliable—a good guy.”
    “That’s why she left them with you,” she says.
    “Do I have to cancel the trip?” I ask Cheryl.
    “Absolutely not,” she says, and because she is so definitive I believe her.
    “It’s late to buy more plane tickets, and I’m not sure I can manage two adults and three children—much less wondering if they’re up for the rigors of the trip.”
    Cheryl thinks I’m nuts. “They’re not going anywhere,” she says, firmly. “They’ve been here for a long time, and they’ll be here when you get back.”
    “Good point.”
    I arrange for the pet minder to bring his sister, a practical nurse, and the two of them will take care of the animals and the old folks.

    T he school year is winding down. Ashley shows me the draft of her extended meditation on the death of the soap opera—interwoven with her thoughts on staging Romeo and Juliet at the puppet theater. In her paper, Ashley writes about seeing herself in the characters, how she gets involved in their lives and thinks about them between episodes. I’m surprised at Ashley’s ability to find common ground between soap opera, Shakespeare, and the fine art of puppet theater. She’s got good ideas, but my professorial self kicks in: has anyone ever discussed structure with her? Multiple revisions are required. I share my thoughts, prompting hissy fits that blow through like severe thunderstorms. She storms off, and then ultimately the paper is revised, sometimes slipped under my door in the middle of the night. She wants to do well, and that is a good sign. I pretend I can manage the hysterics—but make a note to myself that, if/when I see Dr. Tuttle again, I need to ask him about the care and management of female adolescents.

    M eanwhile, Ricardo is often staying late at school, rehearsing for his class play, in which he’s featured as a young Benjamin Franklin, a busy man with something always up his sleeve—his almanac, his various inventions and proclamations. As part of his embrace of the character, Ricardo asks permission to take apart an old typewriter and attempt to make his own printing press; I say yes and am secretly pleased. His incentive chart is filled with check marks and gold stars—he’s working his way towards tickets to a Yankees game.
    And Nate—school ends the second week of June, but he’s elected to stay a couple of weeks longer for what’s called a mini-camp; this year’s focus is math, more specifically micro-finance.
    The truth is, despite how stressful it all is—not to mention the uncanny sensation that the minute you start to think it’s all going well something is bound to fall apart—despite it all, I am pleased with how well the children are doing.

    A s we get closer to departure, my