Mister woke thinking of his mother. Of his father. Of Vicente.
Of Liz. Why did people think they could be alone? Everyone you loved or hated or touched or who made you tremble or bruised you—they were always there, ready to enter and take over the room. It didn’t matter at all if you opened the door or not. They came rushing in. They knew the way, knew how to make themselves at home. His entire house was crowded when he woke. It was like waking up in the middle of a cocktail party, all the guests staring at you—waiting for you to say something intelligent, something interesting, something they didn’t know.
He pictured Sam holding Vicente. He pictured himself standing next to Grace, both of them watching Sam and Vicente. He pictured himself and Liz holding Vicente, and then Grace standing next to them—and then Grace disappearing. It occurred to him that the problem with Grace had almost nothing to do with him—or with Liz, for that matter. Grace was looking for Sam. She’d been doing that ever since he died. And she’d never find him again. And despite her iron will, and her refusal to fall into a permanent state of self-pity, she had become nothing more than Sam’s widow. Sam’s widow, who spent her free time trying to fix people who were so broken they were beyond fixing. But she was trying. So why couldn’t he just give her a break? “For the same reason she can’t give Liz a break.” The sound of his own voice startled him. The anger in it. Where had that come from, he who had been the happiest of boys?
He walked into the kitchen and stared at the light in the room. Always staring at the light. He’d learned that from Grace and Sam. Sometimes, when he was a boy, they would all study the light in the room. Sam would sketch something, and he would watch, trying to see what Sam saw, trying to understand what he was learning, wanting to be the light, wanting to be the pencil Sam was holding.
They would all three sit in the light.
All morning.
Not saying a word.
Because you didn’t need words when you were sitting in the light. Things weren’t that simple anymore. Not even empty rooms filled with light. Because rooms were always full, full of memories and voices and people who were either dead or impossible to love.