1. EDDIE

Chapter one

EDDIE

T he captain's voice crackled through the plane's announcement system. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing shortly at our destination. Please fasten your seat belts and ensure that your tray tables and seatbacks are in their upright and locked positions."

The percussive sound of a hundred seat belts clicked through the cabin as we passengers prepared for landing. I was just another clicker, securing my own seat belt, but I held my breath. I have never liked this part of a flight. The descent has always made my stomach churn. Besides, I was not coming back in happy circumstances.

In fact, these circumstances were the unhappiest.

I decided to look out of the window. The southern landscape unfurled beneath us, somehow both dry and wet at the same time, endless yellow fields, then great patches of green forest, a patchwork quilt of gold and green. Beyond there, wider expanses of rough, parched terrain rose up to the mountains. This land had a spare beauty that suddenly became dramatic.

From above, I saw the meandering river that would go nearly dry in the next months as the summer heat finally took hold. It was already hot by that time of year, but the sun had not yet baked us dry.

Tiny townships dotted the landscape, clusters of houses and buildings standing out against the backdrop of sudden farmed greenery, but then began to give way to the fringes of the city in which I grew up.

This was an America that I had long ago left behind but to which I now had to return.

With my stomach in my mouth, nervous as the plane tipped forward, I watched as we flew down low over the city, heading down to its little airport.

This place was not quite small-town America, but it was full of what that phrase meant. It had once been part of my everyday life, but that was a long time ago. So much had changed. I had changed. And now, a tragedy was bringing me back.

As the plane banked gently to the left, I felt a surge of adrenaline. The ground below loomed closer as we came closer to the airport buildings and descended to the runway. I shut my eyes and gripped my hands to the seat.

And then, with a gentle thud that made me gasp a little, the wheels of the plane touched down on the asphalt. You couldn't quite hear a collective sigh of relief from the passengers. Somewhere behind me, a small group of tourists – Spanish, I thought – burst into applause, but no one else joined them.

So, finally, we were on the ground, safe and sound. I let my breath go. We had made it, and I had made it back to the place where it all began for me.

***

The first ten years of my career as a human rights lawyer in New York were a long, uphill struggle of hard work and relentless dedication. I had gone to the city to attend university, having gotten into Columbia on a full scholarship, recommended by my high school.

Fresh out of law school, I was so eager to make a difference in the lives of those who needed it most that sometimes I forgot about my own life.

In those early years, I worked tirelessly, taking on pro bono cases, volunteering on the weekend for human rights organizations. I spent my life in courtrooms and conference rooms, fighting for those who had been wronged by the system, both here at home in the States and overseas.

No one becomes a human rights lawyer as a get-rich-quick scheme. There is corporate law – or divorce law! – if you want that. But in the world in which I worked, I had a good reputation. But I was a lawyer. Inevitably, I have had financial success, allowing me to enjoy living in Manhattan.

I bought a spacious two-bedroom apartment in Chelsea. As an active single man in New York City, my social and cultural life was good, frequenting bars and restaurants with friends and colleagues, going to the theater, and sometimes the opera. I was never great at relationships, but otherwise, life was good.

I had come a long way from the young, unhappy kid who'd left this city. My circle of friends was eclectic and diverse. There were fellow lawyers, activists I met through my work, journalists, and even the odd artist.

But here was the truth about New York. It was full of things and people, but it was hard sometimes to find connection. Maybe that was why I wasn't great at relationships.

***

I was about to go out a couple of nights before my flight when I got a phone call. I looked at my screen. It was my uncle Frank. My mom had died quite a few years before, and Frank, her brother, had become the head of the family. He was the nicest guy, old-school, absolutely what you wanted from your sixty-something uncle back home: kind, no-nonsense, with something of the past.

I hit Answer, seeing his name.

"Hey, Uncle Frank."

I heard him take a long, raw breath.

"Eddie, it's Frank."

This made me smile as if he didn't realize I could see his name on my screen. Like I said, he was old school. He was bewildered by phones, by any technology.

"Yeah, I know. What's going on?"

Another long breath, but this time, I heard its darkness.

"Eddie, I have bad news."

I assumed it must be about his wife, Rita.

"What's happened, Frank?"

"There's been an accident."

Then maybe his daughter, my cousin Julianne.

"What kind of accident?" I asked urgently.

"Your sister, Megan."

Megan was ten years older than me. She left home when I was a kid, and then I moved to New York before we could really bond as adults. My mom died a few years later, and my dad had been gone more or less since day one, so things drifted between us.

Megan and I always got on well enough, but we were never really close, what with the age difference.

"Is she okay, Frank? Is she in the hospital?"

A few seconds ticked painfully by.

"I'm so sorry, Eddie. Megan didn't make it." He sighed heavily. "She died this evening, about thirty minutes ago."

I felt as if the whole world stopped. Pressure roared in my ears. I could feel my heart beating, its pulse in my throat and temples.

"My God, what ?"

"She was killed in a car crash."

I was speechless. Literally, I couldn't say anything. My sister was dead. I could hear only that loud drone in my ears.

"Eddie, are you there?"

I shook myself.

"I'm here. I can't believe it. What happened?"

"She was driving home from the store, and the road was slippery from the rain and the dust. She lost control of the car…"

"Rain?" I asked.

"Yeah, we had a sudden storm. We get them sometimes this time of year."

He sighed again as if he could not go on.

"How is Jared doing?" I asked.

Jared was Megan's only child. I hardly knew him, really. He was a regular boy, fourteen or fifteen, I would have guessed. I didn't send him birthday cards, anything like that; like I said, not close.

"Oh, you know, a bit shell-shocked. Like us all. He has his youth on his side, I guess, to insulate him a bit."

"Yeah," I said, but I was not concentrating. My mind was still reeling.

"With Megan gone, you're the closest family he's got, Eddie."

That seemed an odd way to look at it, but I understood what he meant.

"Sure."

"Are you gonna come home for the funeral?"

"Of course, Frank."

"Okay. We are looking after Jared for now. Can you come home tomorrow?"

I actually ended up coming the day after that, as it turned out.

"What about the arrangements for the funeral?" I asked.

"We can talk about all that when you get home, son. I can give you some names to arrange it, but I think it's something for you to sort out, with Jared's input, of course."

Megan and I had to arrange our mom's funeral. It was the last time we spent any real time together. However, with the passage of time, I lost that familiar knowledge of my old city, so I was glad to have Frank's offer to help out.

At first, I felt shocked and numb. But then I started to feel more overwhelmed, afraid that I might begin to weep for my sister. I wanted to get off the phone.

"Thanks for letting me know, Frank. I'll text you about my arrangements for coming back."

"Of course, son. I'll come pick you up at the airport."

"Thanks, Frank," I said. "That's good of you."

"We'll figure this out together, Eddie," my uncle said. "I'm here for you, okay, son?"

"Thanks, Frank. I'll sort out some flights. I'll be in touch."

"Good boy," he answered like I was eight years old. Maybe your older relatives always think of you that way, in part.

***

With the plane parked up, and the seat belts light going off, I stood up and gathered my bags from the overhead locker. I had two with me, one some regular clothes and one a dark suit.

I lined up to exit the plane, and I said, "Thank you so much," to the stewardess, who smiled at me. "Thank you," I replied with a smile. It all felt like a performance.

Walking through the airport, I turned my phone reception back on, and messages began to ping in. Some were from friends in New York, asking me how I was doing. Some were from colleagues who didn't know I was off work.

I had told my boss I would be going home for my sister's funeral. He told me to take some family leave, even though it wasn't really part of my contract. I said I hoped to be back within a week. He had given me a grim look. "As much as that?"

The city's airport was so small. There were only domestic arrivals. I couldn't help but observe the mix of characters: the businessman clutching his briefcase with a look of determination as he darted through the terminal as fast as possible, the family of tourists laden with suitcases and cameras, wide-eyed children trailing behind the parents, people who like me were traveling alone, without any obvious reason. Maybe we were all coming back to little tragedies. How can you tell?

I saw no one I recognized from the past. The terminal was abuzz with activity. Passengers were milling about, not sure what route to take to wherever they were going. Some people left the Arrivals exit and went straight to a burger bar.

Here and there, happy relatives hugged each other. I saw a young woman who looked like a student remonstrating with her parents, who had come to collect her because she didn't agree with them driving to the airport for environmental reasons. But she must have known they were coming…

I headed straight for the exit and stepped out into the airport and at once felt the heavy heat of that region at that time of year. Frank had said there had been heavy rain lately, and I felt it in the air.

The bustling energy of the airport interior was replaced by the gentle hum of parking-lot traffic and the soft sound of the wind blowing the trees that lined its walkways.

I scanned the area, searching for Uncle Frank amidst the sea of faces that milled about on the sidewalk. And then I saw him, standing by his car far out in the lot. He was dressed in a button- down shirt and beige slacks, the epitome of a man of his age and type. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed and oiled into place like he had traveled straight from the 1950s to be there.

He raised his hand to me, and even at that distance, I saw his warm, friendly eyes. I waved back to him. Despite what had brought me back, seeing Uncle Frank filled me with a sense of contentment and familiarity.

As I walked toward him, Uncle Frank went around his car and opened the passenger door, gesturing for me to get in. As I got to the open door, I tossed my bags round into the back seat and got into the front. There was no hugging. Uncle Frank was not a hugging kind of guy.

"Thanks for picking me up, Frank," I said as I pulled the passenger car door closed. He got in beside me and closed his door, too. There was no air-con. He probably didn't even know how to turn it on. Jeez, it was hot in that car.

"No problem, son. How was the flight?"

"Fine." The dead, heavy heat inside the car was oppressive. "Do you not have any air-con, Uncle Frank?"

He laughed gruffly to himself.

"It doesn't need it, Eddie. I didn't have air-con in my car for forty years. I didn't die or nothing."

He put the car into Drive, and we pulled away. We said nothing for a moment as he navigated the maze of turnings till we were out of the parking lot. Eventually, we were on the freeway that connected the airport to the city.

Uncle Frank spoke first, very solemnly.

"How are you doing, son? It is a lot to take in. I know with your mom, it's hard to lose your own sister. I was only in my fifties when she died, and you're what age?"

"Thirty-two," I said.

"Sure, thirty-two. It's no age to be on your own."

"Jared is fourteen," I said.

Frank made a low murmur.

"I think he is fifteen." I honestly didn't really know. I hadn't kept up. "None of us can believe it, son. She was a good woman, your sister."

Megan had had it quite hard. Jared's father had made off quickly after he was born, just like our dad had. She had struggled with work and ill health. On occasion, she had asked me for money, and I had been happy to help; I had money. But then I might not hear from her for months.

I never came to visit back home, and she didn't come to New York, although I did text her and offer now and then, especially once I was set up in my own apartment. We called maybe once or twice a year. And now it was too late. We don't think about these things until it is too late.

"What about Jared?" I asked. "What's going to happen to him now?

Uncle Frank sighed again.

"That's the thing, I don't know. With Megan passed, there's no one to look after him."

I frowned.

"But he's fifteen. Something has to be sorted out."

Uncle Frank let the comment stand unanswered. It was so hot in that car. I was only wearing a tennis shirt, but still I grabbed at the collar.

My uncle laughed.

"Let me turn on the air-con."

He reached for a button on the dash. The cold air started blowing hard.

"Thanks, Frank."

He laughed again.

"You're fancy these days, Eddie. Megan said it about you, that you were fancy."

He wasn't being mean, but it seemed an odd thing to say.

My hometown was a typical small American city, and its values were, for good and ill, small-town. But as we drove through its periphery and suburbs, I couldn't help but notice how little had changed since when I came regularly.

Freeways stretched out like vast veins of asphalt, cutting through the cityscape. Streets were lined with the same familiar storefronts, and in the distance, from the road, you could see the huge parking lots of new malls, but they were the same as the old ones, offering the same things to the same people. They had knocked the old ones down, built the new ones, and opened the same stores.

It had been more than a decade since I had last called this place home. Even before my mom passed, I didn't visit much. After I went to college, the cord was cut, and bang, I was in New York. Probably half my friends there don't even know where I come from.

But now, as I looked out at the familiar sights and sounds of the city, I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia, not for the place but for the fewer and fewer connections I had to it now. My mom was gone, and now so was Megan.

As we journeyed toward the center, the scenery began to change, giving way to residential areas beyond the fringe of downtown. Picket fences lined the streets, their white paint not quite as bright as it once was, no doubt, but then again, neither was the city. Bungalows nestled amongst towering trees typical of the region.

Eventually, we pulled up in front of a small, tidy-looking house, to which I had never been before. It sat in a sunny position, set back from the street by a deep, well-kept front yard. Uncle Frank put the car in Park and turned off the engine. When he looked at me, there was a somber expression on his face.

"This is Megan's place," he said. " Was Megan's place."

"How long was she here?" I asked.

"Eight years or so." I hadn't been home in that time. "You'll be staying here with Jared for a few days, okay?"

"Jared is back living here?"

Frank nodded.

"He was with us a couple of nights, but I think it's good for the two of you to spend some time together. He's the nicest kid. Can you feed a fifteen-year-old boy for a few days?"

I thought he was joking, but Frank, being Frank, was not.

"We'll be good."

Frank nodded.

"He isn't a small boy. He can wash and clothe himself."

I nodded and turned my gaze back to the sight of the house that had been my sister's home, to which I had never been. It was a strange feeling, being here now, in the wake of her passing.

It was a long time since I had even thought about "family" so much. I had run away from the place where my family had lived, and now I was here, back in that place, mourning my family's end – at least for me, it seemed.

Frank asked me if I was "all good," and I said yes. We got out of the car. I retrieved my bag and followed him up the path toward the front porch, the kind that all the houses around had.

The front path was lined with neatly trimmed bushes, their colorful blooms filling the air with a sweet, floral scent.

"This is nice," I said.

Frank hummed crisply.

"Megan didn't have much, but she had green fingers. The back yard is very nice here, but it needs a lot of work. Are you any good with, you know, the green fingers?"

I laughed a little.

"I don't even have a balcony."

Frank looked at me very solemnly.

"Oh, dear. It will need a rake and a water in a few days. The back yard, I mean."

I really wasn't thinking that far ahead, and what did I care about the plant life of a house my sister was only renting?

We stepped up onto the front porch, its painted wood a little blistered by the sun. Uncle Frank didn't knock on the door. Instead, he simply pulled open the screen and then pushed the door itself open, its hinges creaking softly.

It made me smile nostalgically. Who would leave a door open like that in New York? I knew where I was. I grew up in this place. To leave the door open was a sign of hospitality, a gesture of welcome to those who wished to pay their respects to the person who had passed. And besides, this was not the kind of area where one feared a gunman walking in. It really was picket-fences country, a slice of the past.

Stepping inside, I was greeted by the scent of sympathy flowers and the soft murmur of voices drifting from another room. I followed Uncle Frank through the hallway. He hadn't told me that there was company, but of course, there was.

As we entered the living room, I saw various relatives and family friends, their faces pale with grief. They were dotted around the living room, some dressed casually, some in somber, funereal black.

Aunt Martha, my mom's older sister, Frank's too, was seated on the couch, her eyes red-rimmed from tears. She lived more than an hour away, and we had not been close with her growing up.

She rose from her seat as we entered, her arms outstretched in a silent gesture of welcome. Uncle George, her husband, stood beside her, offering a solemn nod of acknowledgment.

Sarah, their daughter, approached me. She wrapped me in a tight embrace, totally at odds with how intimate we were – or rather, weren't.

Joe Wheeler, whom we as a family had known since childhood, greeted me with a firm handshake and a sorrowful word.

"Very sorry for your loss, Eddie," he said mournfully.

I smiled and thanked them all, because that's what you have to do, and because their condolences were sincere.

As I engaged in conversation with Sarah, who was telling me she had only had lunch with Megan a few weeks before, Uncle Frank's voice called me to come into the kitchen, which I could tell wrapped around from the living room into the back of the house.

"Excuse me," I said to Sarah.

As I stepped into the kitchen, I saw Frank and, sitting at the kitchen table below him, a teenage boy, his features so strikingly familiar to my own that it almost took my breath away.

I was five feet nine, slim, with blue eyes and a mop of blond, curly hair, and the boy was just the same, although maybe not yet quite my height. Anyone looking at us could see at once that we were family.

Uncle Frank gestured toward the boy seated beside him.

"Eddie, this is Megan's boy, Jared." Then he said to him, "Jared, you remember your uncle?"

Jared shrugged.

"Not really."

I smiled.

"It's been quite a few years since I was home."

I approached cautiously, uncertain of how he would react to me. After all, quite clearly, I was a stranger to him. I kept smiling, but he remained aloof in return, staring at his phone, which had been placed flat on the tabletop.

He didn't rise from his seat to greet me, nor did he accept the hand I offered for him to shake. Sometimes, boys like to play the man. Glancing up very briefly, he gave me a half-smile and murmured, "Yeah," before looking back at his phone.

Despite the awkwardness of the situation, I knew I should persist. I was the grown-up. I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him.

"Anyhow, Jared. It's good to see you again. I am so sorry about your mom."

He met my gaze, again only for a moment, but I saw how his eyes were flickering with a sad uncertainty.

"No problem."

Uncle Frank squawked a little.

"No problem? What do you mean ‘no problem,' son? Speak properly."

Tension hung thick in the air.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "It's a weird situation." Jared kept staring at his phone. "So, how are you doing?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"Okay, I guess."

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say next. I reached out tentatively.

"Do you remember the time we went ice-skating, you, me, and your mom? You must have been about six or seven."

For a fleeting moment, something flickered over Jared's eyes, a hint of warmth. And then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his cool disinterest.

"Yeah, I remember."

I sighed and glanced at Frank briefly.

"It was a long time ago."

My uncle was a good man but not one to think of the soft, gentle thing to say.

"You should have come home more often, Eddie," he said gruffly. "Why didn't you come home more often?"

I shrugged.

"I have a different life now."

Jared glanced at me briefly.

"In New York?"

Frank was having none of it.

"Huh! New York…"

I smiled softly at my nephew, determined to persevere in my efforts to break through a little. In the quiet of the kitchen, I watched him, apparently lost in the world of his phone screen, but I knew he was listening to every word.

I couldn't help but feel so much empathy for him. To be fifteen years old and faced with the loss of your mother, in a house full of strangers talking about her death – a kid that age shouldn't have to deal with that.

I tried to imagine what he must be feeling. It had been a heavy burden when my mom died when I was in my early twenties and living away, let alone what it must be like for a teenage boy suddenly with no one.

I felt such compassion for him then.

I watched him for a moment longer, noting the furrow of his brow as he concentrated on the game, the way his fingertips moved across the screen. But beneath the facade of uninterested composure, I wondered at the lost, frightened child who was sitting there, too.

My uncle started talking.

"Hey, Eddie, there's a spare room upstairs next to the bathroom. You can put your stuff in there. Might be better than sleeping in Megan's room."

Yes, the idea of sleeping in my recently dead sister's bed didn't appeal much. I smiled at him.

"Cool, thanks, Frank. I appreciate it."

Heading upstairs, I found my room next to the bathroom, just as Frank had described. It was small but pleasant, very neat, which was Megan's way, bathed in a soft, yellow light from its large window.

It was simple yet cozy, with a comfortable-looking bed and very few personal touches in the way of a space that is not really used. I guessed that if I had spent more time with my sister over the years, it might have been a familiar place to me. But it was not.

Walking up to the window, I peered out through the curtains to take in the view of a big backyard with high, thick trees that screened it off from neighbors behind. It was a peaceful place. Close to the glass, you could feel the heat of the day.

I turned around to check there was air-con. I was relieved to see that there was.

I set my bag down on the bed and headed back down to the living room. As I descended the stairs, I saw my cousin Julianne, Frank's younger daughter.

A similar age to me, she was always a lively presence, slim, tall, and graceful. But she was always mischievous and looking for gossip – meaning she had an edge of trouble.

"Hey, Eddie!" she exclaimed, seeing me. "Look, the big fish is back from the big city!"

She wasn't being cruel. Her tone was naturally irreverent, her voice loud, probably not exactly suitable for a wake.

"Hey, Julianne."

I returned the hug she offered me.

"Oh, Eddie," she said. "I guess you flew here business class, now you're a big New York lawyer."

I shook my head.

"Just coach."

She blew through her teeth and rolled her eyes.

"Man, I would fly business everywhere if I had money."

Her father shushed her.

"It's okay, Uncle Frank," I said. "Thanks for being here, Julianne."

She rolled her eyes.

"I've been here loads of times, Eddie. Have you ?"

"Julianne!" my uncle hissed, but I shook my head. It was just my cousin's way.

I made my way into the kitchen. My nephew was sitting at the table, his eyes still fixed on his phone.

"Hey, Jared, do you need anything?"

He shook his head without looking up.

"No, I'm good."

"Okay," I said. "I am going to get a glass of something cold. Uncle Frank's car is like an oven."

As I opened the refrigerator, I heard him laugh. He must have suffered the air-con embargo, too.

I pulled a bottle of lemonade from the shelf. It was ice-cold, and I set it down on the counter to pour it into a glass.

As I did so, I heard him draw breath as if to ask a question behind me.

"So, do you like living in New York, Uncle Eddie?"

I twisted the top off the lemonade bottle and reached for a glass left to dry next to the sink.

"Yeah, I do."

He nodded as I poured the lemonade.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer."

He gave a low groan, as if to say he knew that .

"I mean, what do you get up to?"

"Oh, you know, I go to museums, catch some shows, that sort of thing. Go out with friends."

I took a good gulp of the lemonade. It was sharp and cold.

"Do you go to clubs?"

"Sometimes," I said.

I put the glass to my lips again and drank. Jared studied me intently for a moment.

"Are you gay?"

He asked it with so little warning that I almost choked on the lemonade.

"What?"

He was looking at me very directly, without any guile at all.

"My mom said you were probably gay, living in New York, and you never got married."

I forced a laugh and set the glass down on the counter.

"Your mom was probably joking."

Jared looked unconvinced.

"Why would that be a joke? Mom wasn't a homophobe. She loved gay guys. She watched every episode of Drag Race there was. Made me watch 'em, too. It was so boring."

I was staring at him, wondering what on earth he might come out with next.

"I am not sure what to say" was the best I could offer.

"She cared about you, man. She used to wonder if you stayed away from us because you were gay, and you would think we wouldn't accept you. Like, boomer stuff."

That seemed a sad and shocking thing for him to say: that she had cared about me in such a way. Uncle Frank reappeared from the living room, and the conversation was struck dead.

"Hey, I'm going to head home for a while. But if you need anything, let me know."

As Uncle Frank spoke, he was giving me quite a look.

"Sure thing, Frank," I said. "Take care."

He didn't make to leave at all.

"Actually, Eddie, I was wondering if we could have a word outside. Just for a moment."

I exchanged a puzzled glance with Jared then said, "Sure."

I followed him out onto the back porch of the house, which faced out over the sunny yard. The yard looked even bigger from this position. To its left, a cluster of azaleas bloomed along a fence in vibrant shades of pink and purple, their delicate petals swaying in the warm breeze that had been blowing since I had got off the plane. The rain a few days before must have brought them out and now the sun was baking them.

Beyond them, a row of neatly trimmed hedges lined the perimeter, with the high trees beyond at the bottom. It almost screened us off from the neighbors, but this was the kind of place where the people who lived next door watched you day and night.

There were chairs along the porch.

"Do you wanna sit?" I asked him.

"No, thanks, son. This won't take long."

"So, what's up, Frank?" I asked.

"Eddie, I need to talk to you about something."

His words hung heavy in the air.

"What's going on, Frank?" I asked.

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting between me and the door back into the house, with the kitchen beyond. When he began to speak, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Megan, you know, she was a good girl, but she didn't have two of nothing, Eddie. Not two of nothing. Only her son, and she loved him so."

I studied Frank's face, noting the creases that furrowed his brow.

"Okay," I said. My uncle's eyes flickered out over the azaleas.

"It's about Megan's will, Eddie."

"What about it?" He didn't reply at first. "Surely she didn't have anything to leave."

He met my gaze, and his eyes were all solemn intensity.

"Like I said, she had Jared. And she admired you so. Everything you achieved." Again, I was surprised to hear it. "She was so proud of you, Eddie."

This felt a strange thing to say. It didn't feel like it was true, but maybe it was. I started to wonder what he was about to say. I didn't feel so good anymore.

Only then did I notice the buzzing chorus of cicadas and the distant hollering of birds out in the trees. These were familiar sounds of this part of the world, but they seemed so intense then.

When Frank spoke again, his voice was low and measured.

"Her will name you as Jared's guardian in the event of her death."

"What?"

"Yes, obviously, she never expected it to happen. It's not like she was sick or anything. But she gives you the responsibility to raise him."

Maybe it had been stupid of me not to see it coming, but I hadn't. I tried to make sense of what it might mean for me.

"But… I… I was going to fly back to New York after the funeral!"

Uncle Frank shushed me gently. My voice had risen with my shock.

"I know, son. But it looks like you'll have to stay here a while longer yet."

"How long?" I asked.

Frank shrugged and turned to go back inside the house.

"A while longer yet," he said very vaguely indeed. Then, he got up to leave. "You have responsibilities now, Eddie, a child to look after, whether you like it or not."