Page 27 of Everything All at Once

And there was only one way to find out.

I picked the envelope up and withdrew the Nautilus letterhead from inside.

I enjoyed talking to you. —Sam

A sudden rush of embarrassment.

Get a grip, Lottie. You’re losing it.

Sam had written his phone number underneath his message, and I didn’t even think about it, just typed it into my phone and texted him before I could change my mind:

How did you know this was my father’s coat?

The reply came a few minutes later. I’d rolled the windows all the way down and reclined my seat. I felt my phone buzz in my lap.

I saw you leaving. I noticed the jacket a few minutes later; he’d left it on a chair. I tried to catch up with you, but there were too many people.

Okay. That was actually a reasonable answer.

What was I expecting? Something unreasonable?

Thanks. It was nice of you to turn it in.

I considered keeping it.

A few seconds later:

Kidding! How are you?

I’m OK.

Are you still in Mystic?

I’m by the bridge.

Can I meet you?

I checked the time. It was still early, just after two, and I didn’t have anywhere to be.

Sure.

See you soon.

I didn’t know how far away he lived, but Mystic was relatively small. I adjusted my seat and took my aunt’s letter out of my purse.

Lottie—

I’ve slowed down a lot since my diagnosis. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this thing or the other, about my life as a whole, about all the little pieces that make up that whole. So often we just skip through life and forget to look at what we’re passing. I drove once from Connecticut to California and stopped at not a single “biggest pile of hay in the world” or “biggest ball of yarn in the US” (they have a lot of “biggest” things out there between the coasts), and how silly is that? How silly that I wouldn’t have taken my time, made the time, FOUND the time. Whenever somebody tells you they don’t have time for you, just remember that we make time for the things we want to make time for, and then kick them to the curb. (Or politely ask them to leave, as seems more in line with your style.)

It is easy now, so near to the end of my run (hindsight is twenty/twenty, etc.) to wish I had done more. Seen more. Been more. So many hours spent inside at my desk writing (not complaining; that writing served me well) and not taking care to balance that time with things more fun. The real good stuff, you know, the stuff that you’ll remember forever.

Remember when you were a little girl, maybe ten, maybe eleven, we went to the botanical gardens inBrooklyn to see the bluebells bloom? Oh, your eyes were as wide as two moons in your face; you told me you felt exactly like Alice in the garden. I said—as long as the flowers are nice to you. Flowers can have such an attitude.

I remember that day a lot now, the look on your face, the absolute wonderment so clearly displayed there. It was one of those days when you forget about the peskiness of clocks and schedules. We were an hour late meeting your parents and Abe for dinner because neither one of us once looked at a clock.

I want you to chase that feeling, Lottie. Maybe not every day (that might get tiring), but at least every so often, every once in a while. Lose track of time. Turn off your phone. Don’t rush.

—H.