32. Sunrise Looks Different from Different Angles

Sunrise Looks Different from Different Angles

Like that, they reappear.

Snapshots. Poorly developed film. A narrative swinging through the trees. These things (so many of these things) that you only half-noticed because you weren't looking for them. Why on earth would you be looking for them?

You were young. You were looking at yourself.

Eight years old and she is by his side at your school play; twelve and she is having a picnic with you and your father in Central Park, the two of them lying in the grass and laughing. The two of them laughing in a way you can't remember your father ever laughing with anyone else. Fourteen and eighteen and twenty-two. At your father's office, at their office, her voice in his background when you call, her bright blue dress, his eyes watching her.

Twenty-seven or twenty-eight. What does your mother say to you after the two of you run into Grace and her daughter, Jenny, in Brooklyn Heights? What does your mother say to Grace, their cheeks touching tightly: I love you. What does your father whisper to her at your uncle Joe's birthday party? After she squeezes your shoulder and heads toward him, heads toward him and Uncle Joe. Your father touching her hand as she arrives by his side: There you are.

Just last year. After you lost your mother, the last time you'll see Grace. You're with Jack when you run into her. She is walking with your father in Midtown. Her kind smile. His happiness.

What do you see when you look over your shoulder as they're walking away from you? Their eyes back on each other, your father's hand slipping onto her hip like it belongs there.

Because, apparently, it always did.

First, I call Sam.

His phone goes straight to voicemail. The beep hits my ears before I even know what to say.

Sam, call me. Sam, I need you.

Next, I call Elliot. It's almost 9:00 a.m. in New York. He's probably already at the hospital. Maybe he's already with patients. But I don't need him to confirm what I'm putting together on my own anyway. What Elliot must have been trying to tell me without telling me. What he discussed with my father during their last dinner, what Elliot meant by ethics, what he couldn't say because it involved a patient. It involved Grace. That's why my father (my heartbroken father) was so attached to Elliot, at least in part. Elliot was helping Grace. Tangentially, perhaps, in an advisory role, maybe, but still close enough to her medical care that Elliot felt like he couldn't ethically discuss it. He couldn't discuss someone that he'd been advocating for, as though she was a patient. Not with me.

Elliot couldn't discuss what my father was still asking him at that last dinner, what he was still grappling with. How did Grace's heart give out for a second time when they were all watching it so closely, watching her so closely? My father couldn't help but go over it. And then go over it again. As if understanding why she was gone would make it any easier that she was, as if it would change that he'd lost her.

Elliot doesn't pick up, the call clicking over to voicemail. Neither does Uncle Joe. I don't leave a message for either of them. I hang up and call Jonathan.

I'm outside now. I am outside on the edge of the property, the sun sharp against the horizon, a slim golden strip.

"Nora," he says. "What can I do for you?"

"Is it Grace?"

He is silent. To his credit, he doesn't ask me what I'm talking about. Cordelia G. Ryan. Cory, Grace.

Jonathan doesn't try and lie. I look down over the white rock and water. I focus on the shimmery gold starting to light the sky, crystal and wild and ready.

I focus. A timeline concretizing in my mind: the loss of Grace less than a year ago (did Paul say it was eight months ago?), my father's unmitigated sadness in the aftermath, his desire to let it all go (anything that reminded him of her, even the company). So why not give it to Cece? Why not give it away. Until his realization that it wouldn't fix it. What had been lost for him. What was broken.

"It's Grace, isn't it? He was going to leave her the company."

He pauses, the air between us thick. "Let's make a time for you to come into the office, okay? We can discuss this in person."

"I want to discuss it now."

"I'm sorry, but I need to call you later," he says. Then he hangs up.

I don't blame him. But I also won't accept it.

I start to call him back.

Which is why I don't hear the footsteps coming up behind me.

Which is why I don't hear that there is someone else, someone walking quickly toward me.

Not until he is right behind me, until he could just lean over and push.

His hand touches my shoulder, jolting me. My breath catching in my throat, a scream caught in my throat. And I turn around.

I turn around, and I see my brother.

"You scared me half to death."

"Sorry about that."

Sam is in a hoodie and old jeans, untied Converse sneakers, everything on him wrinkled and messy.

"I took the early flight," he says. "No one should have to be here alone."

I am already hugging him to me. I am already hugging him tightly, like this is something we do.

"It's Grace," I say.

"What's Grace?"

"All of it."