Chapter Twenty-Eight
As Diana’s mother predicted, Andrea is full of regret after their fight and desperate for forgiveness.
Diana, however, can’t stop rehashing what Andrea said: You’re consumed with finding out who he was and what he did.
The truth is right in front of you: He was selfish and self-absorbed, and even after his death, he’s still dictating your life and your choices.
In the days that follow, Diana erases Andrea’s voicemails without listening to them.
She ignores her sister’s texts, which include earnest apologies, accompanied by photos of the two of them as children or GIFs of people sobbing.
Diana distributes the gifts Andrea leaves on her doorstep to others; the bouquet of tulips goes to Lakshmi, and she leaves the basket of homemade toffee brownies in the library break room for her coworkers to enjoy.
Soon, Diana thinks. Soon, I’ll be ready to talk.
Though she has nothing new to report to Duncan, one evening, as she drives him home from basketball practice, she updates him on her efforts to find Jessica.
She tells him that she’s written to Grace and Jessica’s parents and found some old information online about Jessica.
“I don’t hear back from her parents soon, I’ll call them. ”
“What about her social media?” Duncan asks, holding up his phone. “She’s around your age, right? She’s probably on Facebook, or maybe Instagram.”
“Trying to say something about me being old?” Diana says with a laugh as she merges into traffic. He wiggles his tongue at her. “That’s a good idea, though. I should have thought of it.”
That night, after she’s locked the windows and doors and made sure her children are asleep, Diana sits at her kitchen table and opens the shared laptop.
She wishes she still had access to Tom’s email.
He deleted his email and social media soon after his diagnosis.
“I’m doing this so you don’t have to,” he explained when Diana asked why he was even bothering.
It would be helpful now to access his messages.
She thought he took care of these details as a courtesy to her, but she’s not sure about that anymore.
A few clicks, and she’s on Facebook. She scans her news feed and finds posts announcing that the Spring Fling is sold out and those still in need of tickets can be added to a waiting list, missives about the upcoming presidential primaries, and a call for volunteers for Alcott Middle School’s teacher appreciation breakfast.
Diana enters “Jessica O’Connor” into the search bar, and dozens of options fill her screen.
Thumbnail-size photos of women of all ages, young to middle-aged, smile back at her.
Some cuddle fuzzy-haired dogs, others stand bikini-clad on sandy beaches, and some have replaced their avatars with images of Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Hillary Clinton.
“Which one are you?” Diana says, moving down the page.
After several dead ends, she clicks on a profile for a Jessica O’Connor from New Hampshire who has never turned on her privacy settings.
Her most recent post is a four-year-old photo in which she poses with a young girl in front of a pink azalea bush.
Both wear heart-shaped sunglasses and sundresses.
Celebrating Ava’s birthday, reads the caption.
Jessica’s daughter is named Ava. This must be her.
Diana can’t get a sense of Jessica from the photo; her hair is tucked under a bandana, and she stands slightly behind the little girl.
Who took the photo? Where were they? Why does it say she lives in New Hampshire when she moved out of the apartment in Nashua?
Does she still live in the state? Why hasn’t she posted any updates since this photo?
Although this Jessica hasn’t maintained her profile, it’s possible she visits the site, lurking about to read friends’ posts, so Diana writes a private message she hopes will earn a response: Dear Jessica, My name is Diana Morgan.
You and my husband, Tom, worked together one summer on your aunt and uncle’s farm in Hamilton, Vermont.
I have some questions about that time and would appreciate talking with you.
Thank you. Diana includes her phone number and hits send.
It’s then she allows herself to click over to Tom’s Team, the Facebook group she created as news spread about Tom’s diagnosis.
She used the group to share brief updates, photos of their last vacation to Cape Cod for his fiftieth birthday, and, at the end, inform everyone he was gone.
The group was easier to manage than fielding countless emails, calls, and texts.
After he died, though, the thought of keeping it going distressed Diana.
She didn’t respond to any of the sympathy messages decorated with broken-heart emojis; instead, she closed out of the site and deleted the app from her phone.
The profile pictures of old friends, neighbors, work colleagues, and a few of Tom’s former clients blend together as she reads their posts. Such a loss. What an outstanding man. May your memories be a blessing.
What memories of Tom do these people hold? Did they really know him?
Because after all, Diana hadn’t really known him, had she?
Grace’s response to Diana’s letter arrives the following week, the day before the Spring Fling, stacked in the mailbox with the latest issue of The Alcott Chronicle and the water bill.
Diana finds the letter when she arrives home from work.
Her worry manifests into yet another list: What Have I Done to Grace?
I’ve disappointed her by not yet talking with Jessica.
I’ve wrenched up the past and added to her grief.
I’ve made her angry, and she wants me to stop searching.
“Get it together. She wouldn’t want you to give up,” Diana mutters.
It’s the perfect time to read Grace’s message.
Both kids are at her parents’ house, lured by their dinner invitation and the promise of a trip to the ice cream shop in Alcott’s town center.
There’s no reason to wait. Diana opens the letter and begins to read.
Dear Diana,
I’ve been eager to learn what happened when you found Jessica.
I was, at first, concerned I had out-of-date contact information for her, but I shouldn’t have been.
Jessica’s whereabouts and her life in general have been a mystery for some time.
That’s why her parents took in her daughter, who, I am glad to report, is thriving.
I called Jessica’s father after I received your letter.
He told me she’s back in Portland and provided me with an updated phone number for her. I’ve included it below.
Thank you for asking about my move. I miss the farm very much. My new home is comfortable, though I wish my sister would stop brooding over my well-being so much.
Yours,
Grace
Underneath Jessica’s new phone number, printed carefully so there’s no way Diana could misunderstand the digits, is a postscript:
P.S. I’ve enclosed a photo of Tom and Jessica I found while unpacking. Thought you might like to have it.
The photo is faded and worn smooth by time. Tom holds a rake in one hand and a baseball cap in the other. His hair is lighter than Diana remembers, bleached by the sun. He looks beautiful. Young, healthy, and alive. Diana welcomes the swell of grief that rushes over her.
At his side stands Jessica. She barely comes up to the middle of his chest, and in her arms, she carries a large wooden bucket.
She’s attractive, with full cheeks and an explosion of curly brown hair.
She looks like someone Diana has seen before, and at first, she assumes it’s because Jessica was in the photo on Grace’s wall, the group shot on the porch that included Tom, or because she found her profile on Facebook.
But that’s not it.
The answer comes to her like a snare drum beating out a steady rhythm, slowly and then faster until it builds into a resounding crescendo. She runs up the stairs to her bedroom, her feet skipping the top step. Kneeling on the floor, Diana yanks open the bottom drawer of Tom’s bedside table.
The notebook with his sketches.
The woman on one of the back pages.
Diana holds the photograph next to the sketch. The woman in the notebook is older, with a thinner face and faint lines around her eyes, but it’s her: Jessica.
She assumed Jessica and Tom lost touch after that summer at the farm.
This sketch makes her think they saw one another again.
Or that Tom thought about Jessica enough to have been inspired to envision her as she might look in the present day.
Either way, Jessica appears to have been more important to Tom than Diana knew.
Diana has been wrong about so much.
She doesn’t wail or curse or punch her fist against her bed. At the beginning, in those early weeks after finding the time capsule, she would have done all those things.
Instead, she thinks of Tom’s letter: 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.
Diana takes one long look at the sketch and places the notebook back in the bedside table. She stands up, tucks her hair behind her ears, and fiddles with the leather buttons on her cardigan. She reviews her options, and a list slowly forms: What Should I Do Next?
“I don’t need a list for this,” she says.
Diana returns to the kitchen, where she collects her phone and enters Jessica’s new number. The phone rings two, three, five times before the voicemail kicks in with the default greeting, robotic and impersonal.
Startled, Diana hangs up. She hasn’t rehearsed a message. She stares at the phone in her hand. “That was dumb.”
What is it that Duncan says? Only old people use voicemail? Diana clicks over to her text messaging app and starts typing.
Hi Jessica—Grace O’Connor gave me your number. I’m Tom Morgan’s widow. I’m looking for information about the time you spent with him on your aunt and uncle’s farm when you were in high school. Can we talk? I’d meet you, too, if that would be easier. I live outside Boston. Thank you—Diana
As the text swooshes away, Diana’s stomach drops. What have I done? What makes me think she’ll respond?
She waits, her fingers mapping the edge of the phone, hoping for an answer, but nothing comes.