The Rest of the Story. Sarah Dessen

       SIX

      I woke to the smell of toast.

      It was actually the second time I’d been up. The first had been at four a.m., when my dad, obviously so worried about how I was faring that he forgot about the seven-hour time difference, called me from Greece.

      “Dad?” I answered, after fumbling for the phone in the dark for a moment. “Is everything okay?”

      “What’s not okay?” he replied.

      “What?” I said.

      “Did you say you’re not okay?”

      “No,” I said. “I asked if you were okay, since you’re calling me so early.”

      A pause. Then, “Oh, no. What time is it there? I’m all turned around.”

      “It doesn’t matter,” I assured him, even as I noticed the little clock on the dresser said 4:15 a.m. Which made this the second morning in a row I’d been awakened by a phone call at this hour, something I could only hope wasn’t a trend. “How was the flight?”

      “Good,” he said. “Long. But we’re here now, in a taxi on our way to the hotel.”

      “Hi, Emma!” Tracy called out.

      “Tell her hi,” I said to my dad.

      He relayed the message. “The important thing is, how are you? Is it all right there?”

      I looked at the clock again, weighing how to answer this. Of course I didn’t want him to worry. I was fine, just a bit discombobulated. Also I had a lot of questions, most of which he probably couldn’t answer. “It’s good,” I said. “I had dinner with Celeste and her kids.”

      “Great.” Hearing the relief in his voice as he said this one word made it clear how worried he’d been, and I was glad I’d chosen carefully. “How is Celeste?”

      “She’s good,” I told him. “Raising a cousin’s kid, this ten-year-old named Gordon. Her mom is in Florida. I think her name is Amber?”

      “Amber? No. She’s, like, ten years old herself.” A pause. “Or, she was the last time I saw her. Which I guess was about twenty years ago, now that I think of it. Keeping up with your mom’s family always made my head hurt. Glad to know some things don’t change.”

      “Guess not,” I said. “Look, I’m fine. Go enjoy your trip.”

      “Honey that moon,” he said, chuckling. “Call me when it’s a decent hour there, okay? We’re supposed to have service on the boat.”

      “Okay,” I told him. “I love you.”

      “Love you too, Emma. Bye.”

      I put my phone back on the bedside table, rolling over to face the window. I could just see the surface of the water, the moon overhead. I looked at it, thinking of my dad and Tracy, speeding across a city I’d never seen and couldn’t even picture, until I fell asleep.

      And now it was eight a.m., and there was toast, or at least the smell of it. Also, possibly coffee. Hopeful, I got up, pulling on some shorts and a clean T-shirt, then brushed my teeth and went downstairs.

      “Morning,” a voice said as soon as my foot hit the bottom step. Startled, I jumped: Oxford, Mimi’s husband, was sitting at the table, a newspaper open in front of him. Otherwise the kitchen was empty, although when I glanced at the toaster, I saw the indicator light shone bright red, signaling it was on.

      “Good morning,” I replied. I walked over to the counter, where, sure enough, I found a coffeemaker with half a pot left. Score. “Okay if I take some of this?”

      “Help yourself.” He turned a page of the paper. “Milk and cream are in the fridge, sugar’s over here.”

      I found a mug, filled it, then came over to the table, finding a spoon and adding some sugar before taking a seat. As I did, the toaster binged cheerfully, six slices popping up. Oxford didn’t seem to notice.

      “You want some of the paper?” he asked me.

      “Sure.”

      “What section?”

      I took a sip from my mug. Perfect. “Do you have the obituaries?”

      He didn’t bat an eye, rifling through to pull out the local news. “One of my favorites. Always good to start the day making sure I’m not in there.”

      “I’ll let you know,” I said, smiling at him.

      “Do that.”

      We sat there, reading in companionable silence, which was a strange thing to do with someone you’d only barely met. But reading the paper I did know, since Nana and I did it together every morning. After all the newness of the day before, it was nice to have something familiar. Of course, the moment I felt relaxed, Trinity showed up.

      At first she was just shuffling footsteps, coming down the hallway. Then she appeared, looking half-asleep in sweatpants and an oversized tank top, her pregnant belly stretching it out. She did not look at or address either Oxford or myself, instead just walking to the toaster, where she retrieved the six pieces of toast, piling them on a paper towel, before going to the fridge for a tub of butter.

      “If you take that, bring it back,” Oxford said, still reading. She did not reply, instead just going back the way she’d come, leaving us alone again.

      The obituary section in the Bly County News—North Lake was too small for its own paper, clearly—was much smaller than the one in the Lakeview Observer. Which I supposed made sense: fewer people, fewer deaths to report. Today there were only two, starting with Marjorie McGuire, 82, who had gone to meet her Lord and Savior the previous week. In her picture, she had a beauty shop hairdo and was smiling.

      The fact that I was interested in the obits made my dad uneasy. He worried it reflected my anxiety, fear of death, not dealing with my mom’s passing, or the triple bonus, all three. But it wasn’t about that. When Nana and I had first started our breakfast-and-paper tradition, I’d cared about comics and not much else. The obits were always there, though, on the opposite page, and at some point I’d started reading them as well. Then my mom died. She’d had no obit, for reasons I could never understand, so I got even more interested in how people chose to be, or were, remembered.

      Most obituaries, I’d found, shared the same basics. The opening paragraphs rarely gave specifics, other than the person had passed “after a long illness” or “unexpectedly.” Occasionally someone died “at home,” which sounded like it might be a way of saying it was on purpose without using those exact words. The religious ones often contained scripture, if not a mention of where the deceased planned to go and who they hoped to see there. Next up was usually a summary of the life itself, with education, marriages, and children and a listing of career high points. The final paragraphs usually touched on a hobby dear to the person who had passed—travel was big, and volunteering for good causes—before providing funeral info and suggesting where to donate in lieu of flowers.

      I always made a point to read each word of every obit. This would be the last way this person was remembered: Was I really too busy to take an extra three seconds to read about their commitment to the March of Dimes? Also, I felt reassured when all the day’s listings were people like Mrs. Maguire, who had lived a good, full life. An obit for a younger person, like my dad’s age, always made me sad. A teen or a child was heartbreaking. It just didn’t fit, like a rule had been broken, and I’d find myself trying to piece