Page 166 of Think Twice

“It is most definitely a no.”

“You were more fun before I got shot.”

We fly from Marrakech to Fort Lauderdale. Myron sleeps the entire flight. I have a car waiting for us. We drive to his parents’ condo development in Boca Raton. They have not seen their son since the shooting. They’d wanted to come up to New York, of course, but Terese and I, with the help of Myron’s siblings, convinced them to wait.

We take the elevator up to their floor. Terese has sent Ellen and Al photographs, so that they are prepared for Myron’s gaunt appearance. When the elevator door opens, Myron’s father is standing there. He already has tears in his eyes. So does Myron. That’s how it is with this family. Lots of tears. Hearts worn on the sleeves. It should annoy a cynical blue blood like me, but I’m oddly okay with it. Myron’s dad doesn’t wait for us to get out. He jumps into the elevator and grabs hold of his son. Al Bolitar starts to cry, this man who has spent nearly eighty years navigating this mortal coil, and then this father cups the back of his son’s head in his palm. That’s the move that almost makes me lose it. I have seen photographs of Myron’s bar mitzvah. There is one taken of a thirteen-year-old Myron with his father on the bimah. It is the part, Myron explained to me, where the father blesses the son. Myron says he can’t remember exactly what his father whispered in his ear that day—something about loving him and praying for his health and happiness—but he remembers the smell of his father’s Old Spice and the way his father cupped the back of Myron’s head with his palm, just like this, just like I am seeing now, a distant echo traveling over the years, a sign that one man is still the father and that one is still his son.

Myron closes his eyes and leans on his father.

“It’s okay,” Myron’s father whispers in his ear. “Shh, I’m right here.”

I hold the elevator button so that the doors don’t close on them.

We all have our roles.

Eventually, Myron’s father releases his hold on his son. He turns and hugs Terese. Then he turns and hugs me. I accept the hug while keeping my finger on the elevator button, so the doors don’t close on us. Multitasking.

When Myron makes his way out of the elevator, I hear Ellen Bolitar, Myron’s mother, let out a cry. She is down the corridor on the right. Myron’s sister is behind her. His brother is there too. Terese and I give them space. There are hugs and tears and complaints about how Myron needs to eat more. Terese and I are then sucked into the family mass as though by a gravitational pull from a far more potent source.

Everyone sheds a tear. Everyone raises their fingers and swipes their eyes.

Everyone but me. I remain, as is my wont, dry-eyed.

Ellen Bolitar whispers to Myron, “We have a surprise for you.”

I steel myself because I know what is coming next.

Myron’s mother turns slowly and looks down the hallway. All heads turn with her, save mine. I keep my eyes on Myron. I want to see his reaction. Myron looks bewildered for a moment. Then he follows his mother’s gaze to the door of their condo. I keep watching him, a small smile toying with my lips.

Jeremy steps into view. “Hey, Myron.”

I see Myron’s eyes widen as his face crumbles. Jeremy runs toward him.

And me? I raise my fingers and swipe my eyes.