The Beginning of After

morning. Every time I blinked, I could see David’s face changing from earnestness to regret, sliding away from me in a second. And I’d let it. I’d let it go.
    I hadn’t told anyone about David coming. Not Nana, who came back from the Mitas’ just five minutes after he tore off, whose day I just could not complicate any further. Not Meg, who seemed preoccupied as usual with something of her own.
    I remembered that I did have somewhere to go , David had said. His voice and face, open and honest, and trusting. I cringed at the thought, and tried to be happy he’d come in the first place. It was like he’d opened a window. Maybe in his rush to leave, he’d forgotten to shut it.
    I took my Coke and sniffed it. The rum made it smell like the ARCO station. Mrs. Dill, at the big table across the room, stood up and raised her glass.
    “Before we dig in, I’d like to thank all of you for coming. Every one of you means so much to me in your own way . . . and seeing your faces here in my house . . .” She started to choke up, and Mr. Dill reached out his hand to her elbow, but she shook it away. “I’m fine, honey. I’m just . . . happy. So happy! To being together and being thankful!”
    Everyone took their cue to clink, then drink, although I only took a tiny sip of what tasted like gasoline with bubbles. To being together. I thought of David, eating a chain restaurant turkey platter somewhere near Washington, DC. I hoped he was with people he liked.
    As Mrs. Dill sat down, neatly wiping a tear from each eye, I noticed that Meg was staring at her, frowning.
    “Is she okay?” I asked.
    Meg shrugged, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hope so. She just went on new medication, and I think it’s making her a little loopy.” She glanced at me with a look of relief, and added, “She’s being treated for depression.”
    Then she turned away and began to eat, knowing that what she’d said just created more questions.
    After dinner, I offered to help Meg load the dishwasher while everyone else took a pre-pie break. I wasn’t going to let her drop some major info in my lap and then leave it there for me to stare at, like something gross that fell from a tree.
    “I had no idea your mom was depressed. How long has that been going on?”
    Meg stood rinsing at the sink and handed me a plate to rack. “I don’t know. Awhile. It’s only gotten bad in the last few months.”
    If we were running this conversation by the book, my next question would have been, Why didn’t you tell me? But I knew the answer to that. Besides, I had my own secrets. What could I say to make things feel less icky between us?
    I thought of Mr. Dill, his firm hand on his wife’s elbow, the flat line of his mouth as he looked at her, like he was bracing himself for something.
    “How’s your dad handling it?”
    “Not well.” Meg handed me another plate without looking at me, and I knew the subject was closed.
    That night, back at the house, Nana wanted me to sit with her and watch The Wizard of Oz on TV. When she fell asleep sometime before Dorothy met up with the Tin Man, I went over to the computer and opened my email. David’s last message was still there, although it had slid dejectedly to a spot halfway down the page. It felt like by just clicking on it I could open up a hole to climb into, shout to the bottom of.
    So I hit reply and told David about Thanksgiving dinner, about the old uncle with the sweet potato in his mustache all night and the friends from Connecticut, a married couple, who wore identical green sweaters with turtles on them. I told him about the cornucopia centerpiece that smelled like rotten fruit, and the plates with turkeys dressed like Pilgrims on them. I started to tell him about Meg’s mom, too, but then changed my mind.
    Finally, I just ended the email with this:
So I’d like to hear how Cracker Barrel matched that in the Weird Holiday department. Next time you come back to town, call first, and we’ll be expecting you.
Laurel

    I hit send before I could tinker with it, and went back to the couch, and to Oz.

Chapter Thirty

    H ello? Is this Laurel?”
    My cell phone rang at 9:07 the morning after Thanksgiving, while I was walking Masher in the woods.
    “Yes. Who is this?”
    “It’s Robert? From the animal hospital?”
    As soon as he said “hospital” I heard barking, far away and hollow, on his end.
    “Oh, hey.” I tried not to make it sound like, Why the hell are you calling