“Thank you again.”
“For the bike?”
“For stopping.”
Ray shrugged.
“Anyone would.”
Amy's face changed.
“No.”
The word was gentle.
“Not everyone does.”
Ray did not know what to say to that.
Lily hugged him.
No warning.
Small arms around his waist.
Ray froze.
His hands hovered uselessly.
Amy almost intervened.
Then Ray slowly rested one hand against Lily's back.
Lightly.
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“I’m old.”
“You're not that old.”
“Finally.”
She released him.
Then climbed onto the bicycle.
Amy started walking beside her.
Lily pedaled three yards.
Stopped.
Turned.
“Ray!”
“What?”
“Don't take it off!”
He looked at the Band-Aid.
“I won't.”
“Promise?”
Ray stared at her.
Promises had become difficult after Emily died.
Even stupid ones.
Especially stupid ones.
“Promise.”
Lily smiled.
Then pushed off.
“Bye!”
Ray raised the pink-covered hand.
“Bye, kid.”
Amy looked back once.
She gave him a small wave.
Then mother and daughter disappeared around the corner beyond the diner.
Ray remained in the parking lot.
The neon sign flickered.
CAL VIRE DINER.
OPEN.
His motorcycle waited.
Everything looked the same as it had forty minutes earlier.
Nothing was.
Ray stood beside the Harley.
He looked at his hand.
Bright pink hearts.
Ridiculous.
He laughed.
Then unexpectedly cried again.
Not hard.
Just tears.
He let them come.
There was nobody left to impress.
He leaned against the motorcycle.
For nineteen years, grief had been something Ray carried like a piece of metal inside him.
Heavy.
Permanent.
Useful only because eventually you got strong enough not to notice the weight every minute.
Emily had died on a rainy October night.
She had been driving home from graduate school.
A pickup crossed the center line.
Nothing she could do.
Nothing Ray could do.
Nothing anybody could fix.
Ray spent the first year angry.
At the driver.
At rain.
At roads.
At police reports.
At doctors.
At God.
At himself.
Especially himself.
Parents believed responsibility extended beyond logic.
If you loved a child enough, some part of your mind remained convinced you should have been able to prevent everything.
Ray replayed the last phone call.
Emily had called at 7:42.
He was working.
She asked if he wanted dinner Sunday.
Ray said:
“Maybe.”
She said:
“That's not an answer.”
He laughed.
“Fine. Yes.”
Then she said:
“Love you, Dad.”
Ray answered:
“You too.”
He did not say the whole sentence.
I love you too.
He had spent nineteen years hating the missing word.
Ridiculous.
Emily knew.
Of course she knew.
Yet grief found tiny details and turned them into knives.
After she died, Ray sold almost everything in her apartment himself.
Could not let strangers do it.
Kept the photograph.
Her college sweatshirt.
A cracked ceramic mug she made when she was twelve.
And a box of Band-Aids from her bathroom.
He had forgotten about those.
He suddenly remembered exactly where they were.
Top shelf in the garage.
Behind an old helmet.
Still probably there.
Ray wiped his face.
“Damn kid.”
He started the motorcycle.
The engine rumbled.
He rode home slower than usual.
The pink Band-Aid stayed on his hand.
At the first stoplight, a teenager in the car beside him stared at it.
Ray lifted his hand.
“What?”
The kid looked away.
Ray smiled.
At home, his house felt unusually quiet.
Two bedrooms.
One used for storage.
Garage almost larger than the living room.
Ray turned on one lamp.
Removed his boots.
Then went straight to the garage.
He climbed onto a stool.
Reached toward the top shelf.
Helmet.
Oil containers.
Old gloves.
Box.
He pulled it down.
Dust.
Inside were Emily's remaining things.
Photographs.
Movie tickets.
A necklace.
Receipts.
Birthday cards.
And beneath everything, a small box.
Band-Aids.
Yellow.
Smiling suns.
Ray sat on the garage floor.
He laughed.
Then cried harder than he had in years.
Not because of Lily.
Not exactly.
Because something had finally made grief move.
For nineteen years it had been frozen in one shape.
Loss.
Pain.
Regret.
Tonight another piece returned.
Emily teasing him.
Emily stealing his helmet.
Emily crashing into a mailbox.
Emily wasting Band-Aids.
Memory had stopped being only the night she died.
That realization frightened him.
Then relieved him.
Ray opened one of the old Band-Aid wrappers.
The adhesive was probably useless now.
He did not apply it.
He simply held it beside Lily's pink one.
Yellow sun.
Pink hearts.
He smiled.
“Okay.”
He did not know who he was talking to.
Emily.
Lily.
Himself.
Maybe all three.
The following Saturday, Ray rode to the Cal Vire Diner again.
He told himself he wanted breakfast.
That was partly true.
He ordered eggs.
Bacon.
Toast.
Coffee.
Amy worked the morning shift.
She saw him.
Then his hand.
The pink Band-Aid was gone.
Her expression softened.
“You kept it?”
Ray reached into his vest pocket.
Pulled out his wallet.
Inside, beside Emily's photograph, was the flattened pink Band-Aid wrapper.
Amy smiled.
“That's a little sentimental.”
“I deny everything.”
“Of course.”
She refilled his coffee.
“Lily's going to be thrilled.”
Ray looked toward the window.
“She here?”
“School friend's birthday.”
He nodded.
Tried not to look disappointed.
Amy noticed anyway.
“She'll be here tomorrow afternoon.”
Ray looked at her.
“I didn't ask.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“You didn't.”
The next afternoon, Ray returned.
This time with something attached to the back of his motorcycle.
A small box.
Lily was sitting outside with Amy.
She saw him.
“Ray!”
She ran forward.
Amy immediately shouted:
“Walking!”
Lily slowed into the fastest possible walk.
Ray dismounted.
“You still bossing people?”