Page 1 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

Cape Cod in May stirs hope in the hearts of previously frozen New Yorkers, its verdant lawns and ocean breezes holding the promise of summer days just around the corner.

As I rolled down the window of my car, breathing in the scent of growing things, I marveled at how distant the chilly gray skies and rain-flooded gutters of city life felt.

Here, at least, winter had long since retreated and the dream of slower, sun-drenched days felt close enough to touch.

I smiled, thinking the scene was almost too perfect to be real, but upon reflection it made sense that my best friend, Oscar, the offspring of immigrant parents who’d run a deli in Boston, would seek out a slice of the mythic American ideal.

As traffic began to move again, I caught glimpses of neatly kept Colonials and clapboard homes with white picket fences on the side streets to my left and right.

Heatherington was picturesque, I had to admit, and as if on cue, the clouds overhead suddenly cleared, giving way to a blue sky so intense that it made me squint.

It was Monday, the typical beginning of a new workweek, and I was in town to help Oscar and his wife, Lorena, design and build their vacation home, although until now I’d only seen photographs of the plot of land they’d bought.

I was looking forward to hearing what they had in mind, as today would be our first real conversation about the project.

Following the directions they’d given me and keeping an eye on my GPS, I turned off Pleasant Street, heading for the house’s future site, where we planned to meet.

On the outskirts of town, I passed a sprawling fairground with performance stages in various states of construction.

Dusty pickup trucks filled the gravel parking lot while workers toiled in the distance.

It was a hive of activity, frantic preparations under way for the upcoming Mask and Music Festival on Memorial Day weekend at the end of the month.

I’d heard about the festival while trying and failing to find a place to stay; in the end, I’d had to enlist Oscar’s help to find accommodations.

Apparently forty or fifty bands would be descending on the town for the long weekend, and as many as twenty thousand people were expected to attend.

When I asked about the kind of music being showcased, Oscar had merely snorted.

“How would I know? It’s probably weird Gen Z music. ”

A few minutes later, I turned off the road onto a grassy track that climbed to what I assumed was a bluff overlooking the ocean.

I drove slowly, following the tread marks of previous vehicles, my Aston Martin bouncing and shimmying as the grass gave way to dirt.

On either side, arching birch and elm and maple trees formed a canopy overhead until I emerged into a clearing at the top.

It was a flat and grassy plateau, ringed with majestic oak trees and a panoramic view of an ocean the color of dark sapphires.

Butterflies floated above a small patch of dandelions, and the air was briny, conjuring my own memories of summers at the beach.

Over the sound of the engine, I could hear vibrant birdcalls drifting from the trees, and when I looked up, I glimpsed a Cooper’s hawk circling.

I marveled that this lot had somehow escaped development.

Soon a substantial wooden structure came into sight: a city-size playset that looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, complete with swings, hanging bars, sandbox, multiple slides, and a fort crowned with a multicolor awning.

All five of Oscar’s kids swarmed over the structure while he and Lorena watched from a nearby picnic table.

As usual, Oscar was wearing a throwback football jersey from the early 1960s, this one from the Cleveland Browns.

Not long after graduating from NYU, Oscar had secured funding to purchase franchise rights from the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB for the purpose of manufacturing and selling apparel.

His concept was to put current players’ names and numbers on vintage-style jerseys.

He was meticulous about design and quality, making sure each garment felt ultrasoft and appeared appropriately distressed.

He was also extremely savvy when it came to promoting and marketing on social media, and while the jerseys were popular from the start, sales exploded when a prominent rapper began wearing them at concerts and trendy influencers began posting regularly about them.

Eventually, private equity firms started sniffing around and Oscar sold the company for nearly a billion dollars.

It was the ultimate success story. His parents, whom I regarded almost as foster parents of my own, could barely contain their pride and wore matching jerseys whenever they went out, bragging to their many relatives in the U.S.

and back in India about their son’s success.

Oscar humored his parents, but the money hadn’t fundamentally changed him or Lorena.

I parked next to their matching Cadillac Escalades, which made my car look like a toy, and Oscar approached with his arms opened wide for a hug.

Like the rest of his family, he was a hugger, and I’m pretty sure he hugged everyone, including grocery store clerks, the guy who cleaned his pool, even IRS auditors.

I’d long given up any WASP-like resistance and embraced him in return. He slapped my back before we separated.

“You made it,” he said, with a wide grin. “What do you think?”

“It’s incredible,” I admitted. “Even better than the photos you sent.”

Oscar looked around with a faint air of wonder. “I still can’t believe I was able to close on this place. I was bidding against one of those hedge fund bros and you know how much they hate to lose.”

He nodded in the direction of the picnic table. “Come on. Lorena has been asking about you nonstop.”

As we started toward her, I tilted my head at the playset. “What’s with that?”

“I had it installed last week. I figure that once we start building, it’ll keep the kids occupied when we visit the site to check on the progress.”

“Remind me how old they all are now?”

“Leo is seven. Lalita and Lakshmi are six. Logesh is five, and Luca just turned four. I know it’s a lot of Ls, but on the plus side, I get to say things like, ‘Get the L out here!’ or ‘Shut the L up!’ or ‘Sit the L down!’ ”

“I’ll bet Lorena loves that.”

“Not so much,” he said with a chuckle. “But the whole their-first-names-should-start-with-L thing was her idea, and they think it’s hilarious.”

By then, Lorena was standing. She shook her dark bangs out of her eyes and hurried over.

A gregarious Italian American dynamo, she possessed unyielding strength and stamina that even Oscar couldn’t match.

Like him, she was a hugger, and her embrace felt like being enveloped in a down comforter.

After pulling back, she continued to hold my hands.

“How are you doing?” she asked, her expressive brown eyes searching my face. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m better,” I answered with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Did you get my care package?”

Halfway through my recent stay at the hospital, a giant basket had arrived filled with snacks, candy bars, and Jolly Ranchers, and accompanied by a rather large plush toy penguin.

For some reason—maybe because I’d once enthused about the documentary March of the Penguins—Lorena believed that I was particularly fond of emperor penguins, and I’d never bothered to correct her.

“I did. Thank you. I hope you don’t mind that I shared those goodies with some of the other patients.”

“Not at all,” she said, finally letting go of my hands and appraising me. “You look good. More…rested than the last time I saw you.”

“I feel more rested,” I agreed. “How are the kids?”

“Wild as ever.” She sighed, waving in the direction of the playset with a rueful smile. “I never should have let Oscar talk me into a fifth. All standards and rules had fallen by the wayside by the time Luca arrived. He gets away with murder.”

She laughed good-naturedly. An economics major whom Oscar had met at NYU, Lorena had helped him build his business until the twins arrived, at which point she stepped back to tend to their growing brood.

Their home, like Oscar’s had been, was messy and loud, a constant buzz of energy coursing through the walls and hallways.

Yet Lorena took the chaos in stride. Never once had I seen her frazzled or impatient.

“How long will you be able to stay?” I asked her.

“Just until Friday night,” she said. “The kids have recitals and exams next week. But once their break starts, we’ll be here the rest of the summer.”

“Let the L go!” Oscar shouted, and I couldn’t help smiling when Lorena rolled her eyes. “Hold on,” Oscar said to us before marching toward the play area. Leo had Logesh in a headlock but was doing his best to act innocent on the off chance Oscar had been yelling at one of the other kids.

“I don’t know how you two do it,” I said. “It’s always impressive.”

“What? Raising kids?” She feigned innocence. “The nanny helps, but really, it’s just like taking care of Paulie. You put out bowls of food and water in the morning along with a litter box and forget about them the rest of the day.”

I smiled. “Thank you for looking after her while I was in the hospital. Where is she?”

“She’s still in the cat carrier in my SUV,” Lorena said, “the one next to yours. Don’t worry—I left the windows open, but I wasn’t sure how she’d react if I brought her outside. I know she’s an indoor cat.”

“She is,” I confirmed. “Aside from visits to the vet and staying with you, she’s never left my apartment. How was she?”

“It took her a few days to come out of hiding, but after that, she was sweet and happy, except when the little ones were chasing her around the house. She spent a lot of time on the back of the sofa near the window, where they couldn’t reach her.

At night, though, after they were in bed, she’d curl up on my lap. ”

“Sounds like she took a liking to you.”

“I always thought of myself as a dog person, but she totally changed my mind,” Lorena declared. “I have to ask, though: why did you name her Paulie?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a girl, and Paulie is a boy’s name.”

“I loved the movie Rocky when I was a kid.”

“Then why not name her Adrian?”

“Because she looked like a Paulie.”

Lorena laughed. In the meantime, Leo had released Logesh, who continued to rub his neck, while Oscar rejoined us.

“He said he was trying to show Logesh what to do if bullies ever went after him,” Oscar explained.

“And you told him that instead of putting someone in a headlock, he should tell a teacher or come to us, right?” Lorena asked.

“Yeah.” Oscar nodded emphatically. “Of course I did.”

She gave him a skeptical look before clearing her throat. “I know that you and Oscar have some catching up to do, so I’m going to take the kids into town to get something to eat. They’re probably starving by now. What can I bring back for the two of you?”

“A salad with grilled chicken would be great, thanks,” I said. “Or whatever you can manage—I know you’ll have your hands full,” I apologized, nodding in the direction of the playset.

“Can you bring me a double cheeseburger and onion rings?” Oscar chimed in with a hopeful look. “And a chocolate shake?”

Lorena lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “Uh, yeah…That’ll be two salads with grilled chicken coming right up,” she answered.

“But, honey, I’m hungry…”

“Then I’ll bring you an apple, too.” She turned toward the playset. “Kids?” she called out. “Let’s go get some lunch!”

The kids ignored her.

“Time for grub, so get the L in Mom’s car!” Oscar boomed.

With some reluctance, they climbed down from the playset and slowly jogged toward Lorena’s car. The adults followed, and Oscar opened the back hatch to pull out the cat carrier. Taking it from him, I peeked in at Paulie, who stared back with wide, frazzled eyes.

While Oscar and Lorena helped the kids load up—some were still in car seats—I brought the carrier to my car.

Putting my fingers inside the cage, I murmured greetings to Paulie, but she was still too nervous, or discombobulated from the drive, to approach me.

I let her be, and after rolling down my windows, I retrieved my laptop, as well as a notebook and a pen from my backpack.

Lorena waved at us as she backed out of the driveway.

As soon as we sat down at the picnic table, Oscar leaned toward me.

“Okay, now that we finally have some peace and quiet, fill me in on your last couple of weeks at the hospital. I gotta say, the place looked more like a country club or a small college campus than a psychiatric facility.”

“They went well.” I shrugged. “And yes, the amenities were pretty fancy, although it wasn’t just a bunch of spa treatments.”

Though we’d chatted by phone occasionally during my stay, I briefly described the program again; it emphasized DBT, or dialectical behavior therapy. DBT, I explained, focuses on the importance of behaviors as opposed to feelings or emotions, which are transitory.

“Okay.” Oscar nodded. “But was the food really as good as you said?” he persisted.

“Yes,” I assured him. “On the weekends, if the weather was good, we even had barbecues.”

“It sounds like White Lotus with therapy.”

“It’s not a bad place,” I admitted. “But I also got to explore some aspects of my life that I’d spent a lot of time trying to ignore.”

“You mean your Richie Rich childhood and the wacky parents who messed you up?” Oscar cracked.

“Something like that.”

Oscar folded his hands in front of him and studied me, serious once more. “You have to promise to call me if you feel that darkness creeping up on you again, Tate.” He looked away for a moment before solemnly meeting my eyes. “I was scared for you.”

Moved by his words, I nodded, both of us silent at the memory of those harrowing days. But Oscar’s expression soon turned mischievous again. He leaned in, his eyes alight with curiosity.

“Did they ever help you decode those little bombshells your sister dropped right before she died?”

Recalling what she’d told me, I shrugged again. “The doctors speculated that Sylvia was experiencing neurological anomalies as her organs were shutting down.”

“But you believed her?” Oscar pressed.

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Sylvia never lied to me, which means she believed everything she told me. But let’s talk about it when we have more time. After all,” I said, opening my notebook, “we have a house to design.”