I put the phone in my pocket.
I went to find a quiet corner of the house.
I stood in the hallway near the staircase. The party continued in the other rooms. I could hear it, the jazz and the voices and Terrence apparently still going about the load-bearing walls.
I stood there for a few minutes with the phone in my pocket.
There was nothing from my mother.
Nothing from my father.
Nothing from Brooke.
I stood with that. I let it be the thing it was, which was disappointing, and I let the disappointment be real without making it into something larger than it was.
Then my phone rang.
A local number I did not recognize.
I answered.
A woman said: is this Miranda Holt?
I said: yes.
She said: this is Carolyn Marsh. I live next door to your parents on Elmwood.
I knew exactly who she was. Carolyn Marsh had lived next door to my parents for twenty years. She was the neighbor who brought soup. Who received packages. Who had attended my parents’ anniversary dinner and who sent a card every Christmas.
