Chapter 39
Lucy had already attended preschool for two years.
But the start of kindergarten felt like something wholly different.
Like the beginning of something big and momentous that required not only new clothes and a haircut, for both of us, but also a new way of thinking.
A celebration of education and personal growth.
Eager to pass on my enthusiasm for school to Lucy, I popped out of bed and started the morning routine, which still involved scooching around boxes and stepping over piles of our belongings.
We’d moved back into our apartment a week earlier, and I was still unpacking. Again.
“Mommy, is it time to go yet?” Lucy asked for the sixteenth time from her perch on the stepstool she’d moved next to the front door.
When I finally replied, “Yes!” she grabbed her purple-ombre sparkle backpack, which was nearly as big as she was, and was in the hallway pushing the down elevator button as I jammed my feet into my shoes and raced to catch up.
When the doors parted, Lucy shrieked, “Pen!” and the two girls embraced like long-lost friends who’d been separated for years.
And not girls who’d spent the entire afternoon the day before having a playdate.
Noah and I laughed. He and Frannie had been spending a lot of time together over the past couple of weeks, which occasionally included me, Lucy, Pen, and Pax.
And more often did not. I was thrilled to be the designated babysitter.
During breakfast, William had texted that he was holding a place in line for the traditional first-day-of-school photo in front of the big wrought-iron gate that led to the elementary school grounds.
It wasn’t mandatory, but practically every family seemed to be waiting their turn.
This was the same elementary school Sam had attended, so William had known to arrive early.
I sent him a mental thank-you, but while I was caught up in my thoughts, I tried to picture William and Rebecca taking Sam’s photo on his first day of kindergarten.
Today must be so bittersweet for William.
And Rebecca, but I pushed thoughts of her out of my crowded mind.
“How’s my favorite girl?” William said to Lucy. Instead of leaping into his arms like she usually did, she gave him a fist bump. They’d decided ahead of time that this was a more appropriate kindergartner-grandpa public greeting. Twirling hugs and kisses were now for home only.
When it was our turn, Lucy flashed her biggest smile.
The one that showed the gap on her bottom row of teeth.
She’d lost her first tooth biting into an ear of corn during our Labor Day barbecue a few days earlier at William’s with Noah, Frannie, and the kids.
The tooth fairy had left her four quarters and a can of tennis balls.
I vowed to be better prepared for the next tooth.
William and I were invited into Lucy’s classroom to meet her teacher and check out her cubby, and then we were ushered out.
I managed to hold it together until I was back in my car.
As my heart ached for yet another milestone Sam had missed, I flicked through the dozen photos I’d taken and picked my favorite.
I wiped away an errant tear, and then I texted it to Rebecca with the caption: First day of kindergarten.
I’d yet to respond to any of her daily calls, texts, and emails.
But this felt like the right thing to do.
I started the car, and my hands froze on the steering wheel as “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith blared on the radio.
Was it another uncanny coincidence? Or was this Sam giving me some kind of sign that he was here with us on this most auspicious day?
I had done a lot of good work with Dr. Field, but we hadn’t quite circled back to the question I’d naively thought would solve all my problems in one session: How do people make sense of really strange coincidences? Like this one.
I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, and listened to Steven Tyler sing the famous refrain over and over.
Ever since Sam died, I’d mostly thought about the things he was missing.
Lucy’s first words. Her first steps. And now her first day of kindergarten.
He wouldn’t ever meet her teachers, or get to play the tooth fairy, or be part of first-day-of-school family photos, but Sam would always be in my heart, so he would truly never miss it all.
As the song ended, I looked to the heavens, through my sunroof, and I promised him that.
But shouldn’t that promise go both ways?
Sam had picked the song for both of us. He surely wouldn’t want me to hold back from living like I had been for so long.
And the truth was: I was here and I didn’t want to miss a thing, either.
I didn’t know why that particular song was playing at the exact moment that I turned on the radio.
And I was pretty sure that no amount of therapy would ever provide a satisfactory answer.
Nor would it ever entirely cure me of my instinctive belief in the power of superstition.
I would forever pick up pennies, avoid walking under ladders, and knock on wood.
But that didn’t mean I was crazy. Because if it did, then that would mean the same for most athletes, most writers, and basically every grandmother on the planet.
As far as I could tell, there was a continuum and we were all somewhere on it.
Who was one person to pronounce that the next was over the line?
Was I over the line in choosing to believe this song, right now, was Sam’s way of telling me it was OK to move on with my life?
Perhaps this was yet another fantastical crutch I needed to give me courage, but I suddenly realized it didn’t matter.
What mattered was how much power I was willing to hand over to this unanswerable question.
I could be a little superstitious without giving it the power to control my life.
I could choose to let go of the impulse to believe I could preordain my life by writing or not writing certain ideas.
I could choose to let go of irrational fears.
An idea sparked, and instantly, I knew what I needed to do. There was only one way to prove to myself I was prepared to move forward with my life.
I whipped out my phone and texted Harper: I hereby grant permission for you to sell Call of the Void.
I touched my hand to the lucky dice in my center console and hit send.
Then I vowed I would seriously consider dating.
At some point. Now that Frannie was happily dating Noah, she was already making noises about setting me up again.
The blind dates would be coming my way, like it or not.
Due to the continued success of Love You to Mars and Back, Harper decided to take Call of the Void to auction. We soon had eight publishers bidding.
Over the next week, as the rounds of bidding continued, our social diary was full with back-to-school socials, peewee soccer practice, playdates with new friends, and tennis lessons.
Finally, one morning, right after I dropped Lucy at school and was alone in the car (of course), Harper called.
I answered it on the first ring. We had a winner for the book auction!
The old, risk-averse me would have panicked and turned down the offer.
But the new, braver me, the one who would always be a touch superstitious but who was also committed to living in reality, screamed, “Take the deal!”