I phoned Zack every day of the two weeks I was back at home, so he'd know I was thinking of him, and be ready for the idea I was coming to get him. I'd never spent time talking to such a young child. Not knowing what to say, I mostly asked him questions about what he'd done that day, how he felt, and that sort of thing. He surprised me. He was a very bright little boy, but he seemed terribly naive. Much like his grandmother, I suppose. I longed to see him again. Of all the disasters that had struck us, he was my hope, the last good thing salvaged from the deaths. He was our family's life and future. I found myself impatient to be on my way to him.

In these times of crisis there is always too much to do. All I wanted was to be with little Zack, to learn how he felt, to reassure him and comfort him. Instead, these were the things I had to do (few of which I wanted to do): make the travel arrangements, fly in, rent a car, pack up Zack's belongings, start clearing out the house (deciding what to save and what to throw away), meet with a real-estate agent to list the house, meet with the lawyer and sign legal documents, re-read the will in case there was anything I'd missed, visit my mother's and sister's and Wyatt's graves, help Nina cook Thanksgiving dinner, sell my mother's car, pack up my collection of antique dolls, arrange to have Zack's things and mine shipped home, arrange to have the utility bills sent to me, try to figure out my mother's financial affairs, find her life insurance policy, open the safe deposit box, find someone to keep an eye on the place, arrange for an alarm service, appear in court for the adoption hearing. I was afraid of leaving something out. I had most of these things printed on a sheet of paper, and I made notes on a tape recorder as I drove. I longed for Gabriel's help, and more. I longed to see him again. But he was in Europe with his band. He wanted one more tour before he retired and he and Julia married. He had to do the tour now, before he became too weak. I'd invited them to live with me. We had room in the house in Berkeley. But he wanted to live -- to die, I should say, since he was dying -- near where he grew up, and so did Julia. They planned to move back to Lawrence after the tour. I wondered why they didn't simply take over the house, but they were disinclined. Since they'd found out his condition, she gave him whatever he wanted. She was already pregnant, since he wanted a child. I was perhaps fortunate to have two families. Only Zack would be left me from this one.

I embraced Nina and we spoke for a moment, about how she and Zack had been doing, and a few odds and ends.

"I'll miss this house," I said.

"I'm sure you will. So many memories."

"I wish Gabe would take it, so it stays in the family, but he won't. I never expected to be more sentimental than him."

She said Zack was upstairs, in his room. I had to think for a second, then I remembered that he had Melody's room. When he was born, he slept in her bed for the first year of his life. After that he slept in a small bed next to hers. That room was the only one he'd ever slept in. She was a devoted mother, a much better and more conscientious mother than I'd expected her to be. In Zack, in motherhood, she had found her calling, until the freight train ended it.

I noticed that the third step still creaked. It always had. Wyatt always kept everything in good repair, except that one thing. My mother had asked him many times to fix it, but he always refused to. He was a light sleeper. Either he wanted to know when Melody was sneaking back into the house, or he wanted to be warned if anyone else was. After she ran away, I think he kept it that way to remind himself of her.

I knocked on the door but got no answer. I pushed it open. He was lying on the bed (the big bed; the little bed had been removed), looking at the ceiling and clutching a yellow plastic fire engine to his chest.

"Zack?"

He didn't answer. He'd always been such a sturdy, cheerful boy. Nothing ever discouraged him. Melody would call and tell me how he ran around the house and sometimes bumped into doorways at full speed. He would rub his head, and shake it, and then get up and dash off again, to do whatever he'd intended to do. In the photographs, he was always smiling. The pictures of his bright, expectant face, as if something astonishing and wonderful were happening right at the moment; in the pictures of him with his mother there was always such joy that I had a wall in my office covered with those photographs, to cheer me up when I was blue. Now his grandmother had joined his mother in death, and he was only five years old.

I sat next to him on the bed. "Zack?"

He still didn't answer.

I didn't know what to say. I pushed a lock of hair away from his eyes.

He turned his head and looked at me. "Hi," he said.

"Hi. How are you?"

"What's death?" he asked.

"When someone's dead, they're gone and we can't talk to them any more. They aren't in their body."

"Where do they go?"

I didn't tell him what I really thought. "I think your grandma and your mom went to heaven. I think they can see you and they're watching you. They still love you."

"Why did granma die?"

"I don't know. Maybe God loved her so much He wanted her with Him."

"She said she'd never go away."

"Oh, sweetie, she meant, she meant -- " What answer was there, for such a question? "She didn't want to die. She wanted to help you grow up. She loved you."

"I miss her."

"I know. I miss her, too." I was on the verge of breaking down and sobbing my lungs out, but I had to contain myself, for his sake.

I kicked off my shoes and lay next to him. Someone had painted the ceiling blue, with fluffy white cumulous clouds here and there. They must have done this since the last time I was in the room, about the time Zack was born.

"Too bad these clouds don't change shape," I said. "We would imagine all the different things they look like." I waited, but he didn't answer. I went on, "My house has the most wonderful clouds. You'll see."

"Muddy says I have to go with you."

"Don't you want to?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I want to stay here."

"Why?"

"I want to visit granma. She likes flowers."

"But -- oh." He meant her grave. "Does Muddy take you to see your grandma?"

"And my mom."

"Do you remember her? Your mom?" He was only two when she died.

"A little."

"What do you remember?"

"Kisses."

"Yes. Your mom loved people. She loved to kiss them. Zack?"

"Yes?"

"Would you give me a kiss? I'm very sad. Maybe a kiss would help."

He knelt beside me and leaned down and kissed me, gravely, lightly, on the lips. "Feel better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He lay curled up against me, a hand on my ribs. I stared at the clouds and wondered what I could say, to take away his pain, and mine. I put an arm around him.

He was a patient little boy. He didn't fall asleep, but he scarcely moved, and we must have lain there for the better part of half an hour, until Nina called us to dinner.