Chapter One #2
Duncan doesn’t answer, keeping his eyes on his homework and acting as if she isn’t there. The mood swings of adolescence: One moment Duncan is affectionate and responsible, the next, grumpy and sullen, communicating only in grunts or eye rolls. The teenage years are going to be long, she thinks.
As soon as Diana places the mac and cheese in the oven to reheat, Phoebe looks up from her homework. “Now is it time to open the time capsule?”
Diana picks up the envelope and lets its crisp edges slide across her palm.
Her focus compresses, as if she’s looking at the time capsule through a telescope.
Everything around her blurs. She’s not interested in seeing what’s inside.
In fact, she’s scared by the pain this innocent assignment of Duncan’s might dredge up.
She’d rather shred the time capsule into small pieces and throw it into the trash than remember.
She can feel her hands twitch in anticipation, imagining the sensation of ripping the envelope apart.
But Duncan and Phoebe want this, and her children’s needs come before her own, so Diana closes her eyes and counts to ten, using the circular breathing both the parenting and grief books suggest for tough situations.
“Mom?” Duncan asks, his fingers paused over the computer keyboard.
Diana opens her eyes and reluctantly walks over to the table, where she hands the envelope to Phoebe. “All yours, honey.”
Once Diana is seated, Phoebe glances from her brother to her mother and arches an eyebrow, a trait she’s inherited from Vivian, Diana’s mother. In a flash, an adult Phoebe is before them, time jumping ahead too quickly.
“Come on, open it,” Duncan says, shoving their homework off to the side.
Phoebe flips over the time capsule. It’s unsealed, with only a silver metal clasp holding the flap in place. She hunches over, her tongue sticking out and her feet swinging, as she urges up one arm of the clasp. Her movements are methodical, and Diana’s anxiety grows.
The second arm opens, and Phoebe looks up, triumphant.
She unfolds the flap and removes a piece of cream-colored construction paper.
Shaking her head, Phoebe examines the drawing.
“You can tell I was really little when I made this. I’m a much better artist now.
” She hands the paper to Diana and helps Duncan remove the other items from the envelope.
Looking at Phoebe’s drawing kick-starts the muscle that pulls memories from where they live in Diana’s brain, hidden under all the loss and sadness.
Out of shape and abandoned, the muscle struggles to locate the night they assembled the time capsule, four years earlier.
The memory is there but fragmented, like a puzzle missing several pieces.
Diana remembers Duncan coming home from school with the time-capsule assignment, adamant they put it together that night. No waiting for the weekend, when they would’ve had more time; he wanted the Leap Day time capsule completed on Leap Day.
Tom joined them for dinner, the first time in weeks.
Still dressed in his good gray suit from court, his tie askew, and the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt rolled up to the elbows, he looked tired, with hollows under his eyes like half-moons.
Diana remembers rubbing his back and feeling the knots in his muscles, the stress from the day not yet released.
After the dishes were cleared, Tom and Duncan conferred about which items to include in the time capsule, while Phoebe, a newly minted five-year-old, worked on her contribution, a crayon-colored picture of a family of kittens.
At Phoebe’s direction, Diana labeled each one, the names written in thick lines of purple: Mama, Daddy, Duncan, me.
When Phoebe started yawning, Duncan and Tom agreed to finish assembling the time capsule while Diana handled bedtime.
As she and Phoebe said good night, Tom ruffled Phoebe’s hair, kissing both her and Bear Bear, his other arm curled around Diana’s waist. He held her there for a long moment, before leaning away and opening a beer, the crack and fizz of the can finishing off her memory like an exclamation point.
Diana puts the drawing to the side. “What else do we have?”
“Here’s some of my math homework.” Duncan shows her a worksheet with a smiley face on top. “I made some dumb mistakes when I was younger.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” Diana says absently. She scans the front page of The Boston Globe from 2012; stories about the presidential race and winter snow dominate the headlines, not too different from today.
She and the children pass items back and forth: a photo of the four of them apple-picking, along with Duncan’s school portrait, a snap of Phoebe in her preschool classroom, and the ticket stubs from Duncan’s first Celtics game.
“Here’s the interview I did with Dad.” Duncan holds up a paper stained with burnt-orange spots. Tacos, Diana remembers. We had tacos for dinner that night.
“Read it,” urges Phoebe.
“Go ahead, Duncan,” Diana says, the ominous feeling rising inside her again.
“Name: Tom Morgan. Age: 47,” Duncan begins. “Address: 90 Newton Road, Alcott, Massachusetts. Occupation: attorney. Hobbies: playing basketball with Duncan. Hope for the future: My son will pick up his Legos.”
Duncan pauses and bites his lip. Diana tries not to cry.
“Daddy was funny,” Phoebe says.
“He definitely was,” Diana agrees, swallowing hard. “He was also right about your brother’s inability to pick up his Legos.”
“Seriously, this is not an issue anymore,” Duncan says.
“Your room is the messiest,” Phoebe says, giggling.
“Mine is messy? Have you ever cleaned your closet? I’m pretty sure something’s living in there.”
Diana interjects before a fight ensues. “Is that it for the interview, Duncan?”
“Two more questions. Favorite vacation: Cape Cod with my family. Favorite season: winter.” Duncan smiles. “Dad liked winter because we’d all go sledding down the hill by Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”
“I don’t remember that,” Phoebe says.
“You don’t remember sledding with your dad?
” Diana says. A memory sneaks through the fragile barricade she’s constructed against the past. She sees Phoebe nestled between Tom’s legs as the two of them fly down the hill, their plastic sled picking up speed as it bounces against the packed snow, Tom laughing, Phoebe shrieking with delight.
“I miss Daddy,” Phoebe whispers.
“Do you want us to stop?” Diana says, hoping Phoebe will say yes.
“Nah, you’re okay, right, Pheebs?” Duncan says. “You want more of the time capsule, don’t you?”
Phoebe nods as she tightly squeezes Bear Bear.
Duncan thrusts a white, letter-size envelope across the table. “This is for you, Mom.”
Diana’s name is written on the front in Tom’s handwriting. “It’s from your dad.”
“Maybe it’s a love letter, Mama.”
“Please open it,” Duncan whispers.
Duncan’s “please” jolts through Diana. She inserts her finger into the corner of the envelope and rips. From the jagged opening, she withdraws a sheet of paper filled with Tom’s handwriting, all right angles and clean lines. Smoothing the page out on the table, she begins to silently read.
Dear Diana, If you’ve found this letter, I’m gone. I shouldn’t say “if,” as it’s clear there’s no miraculous recovery for me waiting around the corner. I am so sorry for leaving you and the kids.
“Mama?” Phoebe asks. “What does it say?”
“He’s talking about being sick. But—”
“But what?” Duncan asks.
“Your father wasn’t sick when we put together the time capsule. He wasn’t diagnosed until later.” Diana’s teeth chatter, as if an icy wind has found its way into the warmth of her home. She turns back to the text.
I’m also sorry for something else, something I’ve never told you.
I should have accepted responsibility a long time ago, before I met you.
Maybe if I tell you now, it will be enough.
It’s also possible I’m making things worse for you by writing this letter, but I owe it to you to tell you the kind of man I really was.
When I was 18 years old, I did something criminal. Something so terrible I can’t even write the details here.
People died. It’s all my fault.
The rest of the words tumble across the page, and Diana feels a headache take hold behind her eyes. Oh my God, oh my God, she thinks, the words a frantic chant in her head.
Duncan and Phoebe look at her, waiting.
“Mama?” Phoebe asks hesitantly.
Diana stands up and stuffs the letter into her pocket.
“Why don’t we celebrate finding the time capsule?
How about ice cream?” Her voice is too loud and too high, and she’s afraid her children can tell she’s hiding something.
“Duncan, check which flavors we have, and Phoebe, get the scooper. I’ll look for sprinkles.
” She rushes across the kitchen to the pantry closet by the back door.
“But we haven’t had dinner,” Phoebe says.
“Shhhh,” Duncan hisses, opening the freezer. “Mom? We have strawberry and mint chip.”
Hidden behind the pantry door, Diana holds on to the shelf stocked with oatmeal and cans of black beans and pushes down a wave of panic. Sweat breaks out along her hairline, and her legs shake.
She has no idea who died, what Tom did, or why he left this letter for her. But in front of her children, she has to pretend nothing has changed and that she didn’t read the words “sorry,” “criminal,” and “my fault.” She grabs a container of rainbow sprinkles. “I’ll be right there.”