"Tori and Caleb left for Tokyo forty-five minutes ago," I said, holding out the red plastic folder. "They left these four children on my doorstep at six-thirty. They told me they would be gone for fourteen days."
Patrice took the folder by instinct, her manicured fingers closing over the red plastic. She looked down at it, then up at the car, where Maggie was currently waving wildly through the tinted rear window.
"Tokyo?" Patrice whispered. Her voice lost its sharp edge, replaced by genuine, bewildered shock. "Tori told me their trip wasn't until November. She told me she had a corporate retreat in Cincinnati this weekend."
"She lied to you," I said evenly. "Or she adjusted the truth to fit her logistics. Either way, they are on a plane to Japan. And I have a flight to Lisbon at one-fifteen this afternoon."
Patrice looked at the red folder, then at me. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. For the first time in the fourteen years I had known her, Patrice looked entirely uncomposed.
"Lisbon?" she repeated. "You're going to Portugal?"
"I have paid three thousand two hundred dollars for a tour of Sintra and the Algarve coast," I said, keeping my hands resting lightly in the pockets of my jacket. "My suitcase is sitting in my hallway. My friend Joyce is meeting me at Newark at four. I will not cancel this trip, Patrice. I canceled Maine when Chloe had the mumps. I canceled the Greenbrier when Finn broke his collarbone. I am not canceling Portugal."
Patrice stood motionless on her pristine porch. The morning breeze caught the hem of her navy housecoat, flapping it against her shins. A crow called out from the top of an oak tree across the cul-de-sac.
"She knew you had that trip," Patrice said. It wasn't a question. It was a cold, surgical realization that dropped into the space between us like an iron weight.
"Caleb certainly did," I replied. "I texted him the itinerary in April. He replied with an emoji."
Patrice took off her reading glasses with a slow, deliberate movement. The puffiness in her eyes seemed to harden into flint. She turned her head and looked through the glass of the SUV, where Finn had now pressed his nose against the window, creating a large, greasy circle of condensation.
"The girl," Patrice said, her voice dropping an octave into a register I had never heard her use, "has had her own way since she was six years old because her father gave her a pony every time she threw a tantrum. She thinks the rest of the world is an extension of her personal staff."
She stepped back from the threshold and swung the heavy front door wide open.
"Get them out of the car," Patrice said.
I paused, caught off guard by the immediate, unhesitating command. "Patrice, I didn't bring them here to dump them on you. I brought them here because you are their grandmother, and between the two of us, you are the only one whose life wasn't scheduled to cross an ocean today. If you need me to help arrange an emergency sitter—"
"I don't need a sitter," Patrice snapped, though the bite wasn't aimed at me. "I need my daughter to learn that the people who raised her are human beings, not infrastructure. Eli! Get your brother's bag!"
Eli opened the car door with an alacrity I hadn't seen from him in three years. He hauled Finn out by the elbow, grabbed Maggie’s pink bag, and practically marched the younger ones up the flagstone walk.
Patrice stood on her stoop like an admiral taking command of a battered frigate. She bent down, scooped Maggie into her arms despite the silk lapels of her robe, and tapped Finn on the nose with her glasses.
"Wipe your face, Finnian," she said briskly. "There is raspberry jam in the pantry, and you are going to learn how to make toast without burning the crust. Eli, take those heavy bags through to the guest suite. Chloe, put that rabbit on the bench."
She turned back to me. Her gaze was sharp, assessing, and for the first time since my son had placed a ring on her daughter's finger, entirely conspiratorial.
"What time does your plane leave Newark?" she asked.
"Six-forty for Lisbon," I said. "The regional out of here is at one-fifteen."
"Go home," Patrice said. "Drink your tea. Call your friend Joyce. If that boy calls you from Tokyo, you don't answer the phone. You let him wonder."
"Patrice," I said, feeling an unexpected prickle of heat behind my eyelids. "Thank you."
She waved a hand dismissively, though her chin remained held high. "Don't thank me, Myrna. Send me a postcard of somewhere expensive."
She stepped inside and kicked the door shut with the heel of her green clog. The deadbolt clicked home with a solid, definitive thud.
***
Chapter 3 - Thirty-Five Thousand Feet
The regional jet from our small regional airport to Newark was twenty minutes late boarding, which in the old days would have sent my heart into my throat.
Years ago, whenever Charles and I traveled, every delay felt like an impending catastrophe. Charles would stand by the gate counter, checking his watch every ninety seconds, jiggling the change in his pocket until I wanted to reach over and grab his wrist. But as I sat in the hard plastic bucket seat of Gate 4, watching the baggage handlers load luggage into the belly of the Embraer 175, I felt an unnatural, buoyant stillness settle into my chest.
My phone vibrated in my purse.
I pulled it out. It was a text from an international number, routed through an airline Wi-Fi portal.
*Mom, landed for fuel in Anchorage. Heading out over the water now. Make sure Chloe does her math packet before Sunday. Love you.*
It was Caleb.
I looked at the message. In the past, I would have replied instantly: *Packs are done, kids are great, have fun in Japan!* I would have smoothed the water before he even had the chance to look over the gunwale and see the waves.
I locked the screen. I slipped the phone back into the side pocket of my tote bag.
"Boarding Group Two," the gate agent announced into the static-filled microphone.
I stood up, adjusted the strap of my tote, and walked down the jet bridge.