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EIGHTEEN

To be honest, I was relieved when Misty moved out. We hadn’t been close before that night at the Pits, and with September right around the corner I needed to get my head wrapped around school. I was the senior class president—I had colleges to visit, essays to write, and of course, I was still worried about my father.

Mom had warned us what to expect. “Oh, he’ll put up a good front,” she said. “Finn McCormick, macho, macho man. But don’t let him fool you into thinking he’s okay. He’ll be as empty on the inside as I would be if he had died.”

She was right. On the surface he seemed to be doing well, but Lizzie and I lived with him. We could tell he wasn’t sleeping well or eating right. We could see that the Harley sat idle in the garage. We knew he spent hours alone in his bedroom turning the pages of the photo album Mom had left behind.

Grandpa Mike knew it too, and Lizzie got him to open up about it one Sunday after dinner when the three of us were cleaning up. “Sure, your father puts on the happy face and holds out the glad hand at the bar, but he’s as transparent as a ten-dollar toupee. He can’t fool me. I went through the same thing when your grandmother, God rest her soul, passed. But he ain’t about to let anybody see the pain he’s going through. He is one stubborn Irishman.”

“I hate to break it to you, old man,” Lizzie said, “but that’s redundant.”

Grandpa laughed. “Don’t worry, girls. Your father will be okay. It’s just going to take time for him to come out on the other side. It’ll take time for the whole lot of us. Remember—we all lost her.”

He was right, but not 100 percent. Mom had told us that afternoon at Magic Pond why Dad would have a tougher time dealing with her loss than we would. “When I die,” she said, “I won’t be there to watch you walk that glorious path you’re each headed down. You’ll miss me, but the path will still be there, and you will walk it. Your father and I planned a future together. When I die, the road ahead dies with me. He’ll be lost. He’ll need help. He just won’t ask for it.”

Those words were still burning in my brain when I went to the Heartstone Library during the second week of school. Beth Webster, the head librarian, saw me, asked me to step into her office, and closed the door.

Beth was one of those pretty, wholesome, girl-next-door types who seemed to have transitioned effortlessly into her midforties. Her hair was blond and bobbed, her smile warm and infectious, and her energy boundless. She loved books and people, although it’s hard to say in which order.

“Maggie,” she said, giving me a wraparound hug. “How are you and Lizzie doing?”

I shrugged. “We’re back in school. That helps.”

“And your father?”

“If you ask him, he’s fine. Holding up well. The unsinkable Finn McCormick. But in the opinion of this amateur teenage shrink, I don’t think he’s really dealt with it yet.”

“Oh my,” she said, putting her hands to her chest. She eased herself into her desk chair. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I relate to that. It’s exactly what I went through when...”

She froze. Her eyes opened wide, and she beamed—the classic look of someone who’s just had an epiphany. She sprang out of her chair. “I’ve got just the thing for him,” she said. “Wait right here.”

She opened the door, marched out of her office, and headed for the stacks. A woman on a mission. Three minutes later she was back with a book.

“It’s called I’m Fine. Don’t Worry. Next Question ,” she said. “I think it could do your father a world of good. Please give it to him for me.”

“He’s not exactly a big reader, Beth. And if he ever were looking for a good book, the last place he would go would be the self-help section.”

“It’s not a self-help book. It’s more of a memoir, and it’s hilarious. The author talks about all the crazy things he did to put on a perfect game face so the world would think he was okay after his wife died, even though he was miserable.”

“Sounds like my father.”

“Good,” she said. “Just tell him I said... never mind.”

She sat down at her desk, slid a piece of library stationery from a tray, and began writing furiously. There was a reason why the other librarians called her “Beth, the Energizer Bunny.” When she was done, she put the note in an envelope, sealed it, tucked it in the book, and handed it to me.

“Now give it to him. You don’t have to say a thing. It’s all in the note.”

I thanked her, spent the next two hours in the library, and went home. At seven my father showed up with a shopping bag full of food, and the three of us went through the motions of a family dinner with the usual how’s-school-fine-how’s-work questions.

After dinner I gave him the book. He opened the note.

Dear Mr. McCormick,

Like so many others, I knew and loved Kate. What a wonderful woman, and what a terrible loss. I know from personal experience that nothing can get you through the grief, but there are ways to get around it. This book helped me. I hope it can help you. I couldn’t find a card for you in our files, so I used Kate’s. I’m sure this is a book she would want you to read.

Sincerely,

Beth Webster

“Really, Maggie?” he said. “So now the local librarian is trying to fix me?”

“She didn’t say that, Dad. She said it’s a book Mom would want you to read.”

“What does she mean, ‘This book helped me’?”

“Her husband was killed in a plane crash two years ago.”

“Oh, Christ, yes. I remember. Mom and I went to the wake.”

“So, then you’ll read the book. She said it’s really funny.”

“I’ll get around to it,” he said, setting it down on the coffee table. “Just as soon as I’m in the mood for a good laugh.”