Finally, she came to an aerial shot, the city spread out from a distance, the River Thames woven through it like a gray ribbon, and there, written on top of it all in bold blue letters, were the words: Wish You Were Here.
Inside the shop, she slid a five-pound note across the counter.
“I’ll take this,” she said, waving the postcard. “And a stamp as well.”
The clerk, a young woman with purple hair and a nose ring, rolled her eyes when she saw it. “Wish you were here,” she said, snapping her gum. “Right.”
Lucy only smiled. “Can I borrow a pen, too?”
After writing her note, she walked back out into the street. The fog was starting to lift now, the sun coming through unevenly. Lucy clutched the postcard in one hand, running a thumb along its edges as she looked around for a mailbox. She was halfway back to the hotel when she finally spotted one, and she realized why it had taken her so long. She’d been searching for the familiar blue. But here, the mailboxes—like the buses and phone booths—were a brilliant shade of red.
For a moment, she stood holding the little piece of cardboard over the open mouth of the chute. She was thinking about the mailroom back home in her apartment building, the wall of brass squares etched with numbers, and just beside them, the door leading down to the basement. But what she was really imagining was Owen—his blond head bent over the postcard, smiling as he read the words—and in spite of herself, she realized she was smiling, too.
Just as the sun broke through the clouds, she let go.
8
On Sunday, Owen and his father took the subway down to Times Square.
“A day out to celebrate surviving your first week of school,” Dad said cheerfully as they emerged from belowground, finding themselves immediately surrounded by a sea of tourists, their faces all hidden by maps or cameras.
“Surviving being the operative word there,” Owen said under his breath, though it was apparently still loud enough to make Dad roll his eyes.
“It can’t be that bad,” he said, tilting his head back to take in the blinking signs all around them. There were huge television screens and tickers with scrolling stock quotes, billboards and advertisements all lit up so that even in the middle of the day, the whole strange, electric landscape gave off a whitish glare.
“Actually, it is,” Owen said without looking at him. A crowd of tourists brushed past, bumping into him, and he was shoved forward a step.
“You’ve got to stop acting like such a country mouse,” Dad said, clapping him on the back. “You’re a New Yorker now.”
“Hardly,” Owen said quietly, but if Dad heard him this time, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked left and then right before stepping forward.
“This way,” he said, starting to walk down Broadway with all the confidence of a man headed in the right direction.
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever,” he said, his voice bright. “We’re seeing the sights. Taking it all in. Enjoying the city. Getting to know the place. Making the best of it.”
They paused at an intersection to let a red tour bus pass, and Owen jabbed a thumb at it. “You should really be working for them.”
“I might just get the chance,” Dad said, but to Owen’s relief, he was still smiling.
Ever since the night the power came back, he’d gone about his superintendent duties with a quiet doggedness that was unlike him. Even when he’d been unemployed for all those months, he’d still started each morning by proclaiming that this might be the day, the one where everything turned around. He was a believer in fresh starts and second chances, and even in the throes of his grief this summer—a fog of sadness so thick he couldn’t seem to see around it—he’d still been heartened by the idea of a new job. He’d wanted to get back to work. It didn’t matter whether it was building houses or fixing clogged drains; work had always been a tonic. But this week, it had seemed like just another burden.
It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. Owen had no doubt that Sam Coleman had been in touch, and he hated to think of that boxy little man yelling at his father, warning him in the same way he’d warned Owen. They’d managed to get the water pumps working that night, the two of them crouched on the floor of the utilities room until late, his father holding a flashlight while Owen worked the wrench with gritted teeth, following instructions as best he could. But he knew enough to know that wouldn’t be the end of it, and watching his father now—his face alight with the reflected glow of the billboards all around them—he understood not everything would be so easily fixable.
“What should we do first?” Dad asked, as the light turned green and they were swept across the street by a tide of people.
Owen shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, looking around. “We could go see a show?”
“Um…”
“Or a play?”
Owen made a face.
“Fine,” Dad said with an exaggerated groan. “Then you pick something.”
He was about to refuse. He was about to point out that this whole excursion wasn’t his idea. He was about to suggest simply going home. But they were approaching an enormous gift shop, the whole window filled with green foam crowns shaped like the Statue of Liberty, Big Apple pens and pencils and paperweights, Yankees jerseys, and I♥NY shirts like the ones he’d grumbled about to Lucy.
“Let’s check this place out,” he said, veering to the right, and though Dad gave him a mystified look, he followed without comment.
Inside, the shop was crowded, and while Dad wandered over to check out a display of old subway tokens, Owen slipped by a family trying on matching T-shirts and wove his way over to the enormous racks of postcards.
Every day this week, he’d looked for Lucy. Every day, he’d thought about knocking on the door of her apartment. At first, because he wanted to apologize for leaving the roof that morning. And then later, simply because he was anxious to see her again. But something kept stopping him. He couldn’t let go of the worry that the night hadn’t meant the same thing to her. For him, it had been a kind of oasis—not just the elevator, and not just the roof, but the simple fact of being with her. And as soon as he’d seen the gift shop, he was right back there again, lying on the floor of her kitchen and talking about faraway places.
As he flipped through the postcards, he came across one where a series of bright pink letters spilled out the words Wish You Were Here in a banner across the Manhattan skyline. He felt a strange electricity go through him at the sight of it. They’d laughed together at the slogan that night, at the halfheartedness of the words, but standing there, he couldn’t remember why he’d found them so ridiculous only days ago.
Wish you were here, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them again, there was a clerk standing in front of him, an older man with unruly sideburns and a bored expression. “Can I help you?” he asked, not sounding particularly excited about the prospect.
“I’ll take this,” Owen said, surprising even himself. “And can I get a stamp, too?”
From across a sea of miniature yellow cabs and red apples, he could see his father wandering back in his direction. Before he could think better of it, he reached for a pen shaped like the Empire State Building and scrawled a few words across the back of the postcard, then grabbed the stamp, slid a couple of dollars across the counter, and thanked the clerk.
“Find anything?” Dad asked as he joined him at the counter, but Owen only shook his head.
“This stuff’s for tourists,” he said with a shrug. “We live here.”
Though he tried to hide it, Owen could see the grin that crept onto his dad’s face, which remained there all the way out of the shop and into the street. They turned back down Broadway, moving toward the lights like a couple of moths, but just before the next intersection, Owen hesitated, letting Dad—who didn’t even seem to notice—move on without him. There was a blue mailbox beside a lampp
ost near the edge of the sidewalk, and before he could think better of it, he stepped over to it, opened the chute, and let the postcard go sailing away from him.
Later, they took the subway back home, tired and sunburned. As they walked the last few blocks, Owen noticed for the first time an edge of coolness in the air, the first hint of the shifting season. His first thought was of home—not so much the house in Pennsylvania as his mother—and his second, of course, was to recall that it didn’t exist anymore. At least not the way he remembered it.
Beside him, Dad seemed lost in thought, too, but when Owen looked over, he offered a smile “Not a bad day, huh?” he said. “Maybe we should do something tonight, too. Go see a musical or something?” He laughed at the expression on Owen’s face. “I’m only kidding. Maybe just a movie… or hey, what about the planetarium? That’s probably more up your alley.…”
As they walked up to the revolving doors, Owen was momentarily lost for words. He didn’t know whether to be cautious or hopeful. Every night since they’d been here, Dad had simply disappeared into his room after dinner. He’d always been a morning person, so going to bed early wasn’t unusual, but ever since the accident, it seemed that all he did was sleep, like it was some sort of drug and he couldn’t get enough of it. All this week, it had been even worse, worn down as he was by the lingering effects of the heat exhaustion, and Owen had assumed tonight would be no different.
But now it seemed possible he was starting to wake up again.
As they swung through the doors—Dad first, followed by Owen in the next compartment—he readied his response. “That sounds great,” he would say, as they spilled out onto the other side. “I’d really like that.”
But when he stepped out of the carousel and into the lobby, he stumbled straight into Dad, who was standing stock-still in front of the doors. Owen looked around him to see the broad back of Sam Coleman, who was leaning on the desk and talking to a man in a blue shirt with a cap that said EMK Plumbing.
For a moment, Owen considered bolting. He thought about shoving his father through the doorway to the mailroom and straight downstairs, where they could order a pizza and turn on a movie and act like none of it had happened: the accident or the move or the blackout, the trip to Coney Island and the sad and weary aftermath.
But instead, he simply watched as Dad squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Everything okay there, Sam?” he called out, and both men turned in their direction.
Sam smiled—a smile that felt like its opposite—and the plumber lowered his clipboard. “That him?” he asked, and Sam nodded, stepping forward.
“Hey there, Buckleys,” he said, all friendliness and teeth. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Dad said shortly. “What’s happening?”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up, like he was surprised Dad wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. “You have a real knack for picking your days off,” he said with a short laugh. “We had a little issue with the pipes this afternoon.” He turned to Owen. “Hope you don’t get seasick, cause you practically need a boat to get around down there.”
“We’ve got it sorted out now,” the plumber said, scanning his clipboard. “It’ll be just fine.”
Sam nodded. “Yup,” he said. “He’s got it sorted out now. But what I’d like to know is why he found the valve still loose on the pump.”
Owen had been standing there listening with clenched fists, but now his heart plummeted. He cast a wild glance in Dad’s direction and saw that his face had drained of color. But he didn’t move a muscle; he stood entirely still, his eyes fixed on Sam.
“I guess I must not have tightened it up enough last weekend,” he said, his words slow and measured.
“Well, somebody sure didn’t,” the plumber chimed in, looking up. “That wasn’t real smart.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Sam said. “Not real cheap, either.”
The plumber shook his head and gave a low whistle.
Owen stepped forward. “Listen,” he said, but Dad held up a hand, and he was pulled up short, falling abruptly silent.
“It’s my fault,” Dad said to Sam, who bobbed his head.
“You bet it is,” he agreed, the false smile wiped from his face. “And look, I know you’re family, and I know you’re going through a rough patch here, but I can’t have this kind of sloppy work in one of my buildings, especially not after what happened the other day.”
Dad said nothing, but he kept his back very straight as he listened.
“I don’t feel good about this, Patrick,” Sam was saying. “I don’t feel good about it at all. But I’ve got to find someone I can rely on.”
“I understand,” Dad said, his voice tight.
Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes cutting over to Owen. “You can take your time getting out of the apartment, okay? Take all the time you need.”
“That’s good of you,” Dad said. “But we’ll be out by the end of the week.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
“Okay,” Dad said.
“Okay,” the plumber said, tearing off a bill and handing it over to Sam.
Owen was still staring dumbly at the scene before him, but when Dad began to cross the lobby, heading for the basement door, he snapped back, hurrying after him.
Dad said nothing as they walked down the stairs, nothing as he led them through the concrete hallways, ducking his head below the pipes that ran across the ceiling like a maze. It wasn’t until they were inside the apartment with the door closed behind them that he let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. He leaned against the wall, the same place where he’d been huddled when he’d come back from Coney Island the other night, visibly shaken.
Owen was the first to speak. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I was the one who didn’t close the valve all the way.”
Dad smiled wearily. “I was the one who should have reminded you.”
“You were sick.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You couldn’t possibly know how to do something like that. It was my job and my responsibility. So it’s my fault.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Hey,” he said, looking up sharply. “It’s fine. We’re going to be fine.”
Owen said nothing, only watched as Dad pushed himself off the wall, walking over to the kitchen, where he opened one of the drawers and pulled out the box of cigarettes. He held it for a moment, just looking at it, then opened the lid with great care. But when he saw there was only one left, he set it gently back in the drawer.
He glanced over at Owen, who was hovering in the doorway, and his face was entirely expressionless. “I’m gonna go lie down for a bit,” he said. “We’ll figure it out later, okay? Wake me when you’re ready for dinner.…”
Owen nodded, then retreated back down the hallway to his own room, where he sifted through an overgrown pile of laundry, fishing out the pair of shorts he’d been wearing a week ago, the day the lights had gone out. He reached into one pocket, then the other, then turned each one inside out. But the cigarette—his mother’s cigarette—was no longer there.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he felt a great weariness wash over him, and rather than fight it, he let it carry him out to sea. He curled up and closed his eyes, and he knew then that he wouldn’t wake his father later, that he’d let him sleep, and that he’d sleep, too, and with any luck, tomorrow would be better.
In the morning, when the column of sun reached in through his tiny window, he hauled himself out of bed and back down the hallway, where he found his dad bent over a map at the kitchen counter. It was faded and curling at the corners, and there were small rips along the seams.
“How old is that thing?” Owen asked, stifling a yawn.
“Older than you,” Dad said without looking up. He was tracing a finger along a thread of highway, and when Owen leaned in, he could see the direction it was moving: west.
“Was California even a state then?” he joked, and Dad shot him a look, but there was s
omething good-natured about it, something almost joyful, and Owen sensed that some curtain had been lifted since last night, some weight they’d both been carrying.
“I was thinking we might take a little drive.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I was thinking we’d head out on the road, see how far we get.”
Owen tried to hide his smile but failed completely. “That sounds like a pretty good plan.”
“You’d be fine with it then?” Dad asked. “Not staying here, not going back?”
“Yes,” he said with a decisive nod, and the word echoed through his head: Yes, yes, yes. His chest felt light and expansive, his heart lifting at the thought, and it seemed so sensible, so obvious—that they would go west, that they would move forward, because where else was there to go?—that it almost felt like a trick, like at any moment, Dad might tell him it was all some terrible joke.
But he didn’t. Instead, he folded up the map, giving Owen a searching look. “You’d be missing some school.…”
“I’ll survive,” Owen said, nodding at the map. “You can use that thing to teach me geography.”
“Seriously,” he said. “I don’t want you falling behind because of this.”
“I have enough credits to graduate now, if I wanted to,” Owen said. “And I can do my applications on the road. It won’t be a problem. Really.”
Dad smiled, but it didn’t make it all the way up to his eyes, which remained solemn. “So we’re doing this.”
Owen nodded. “We’re doing this.”
“Okay,” Dad said, and he lifted his coffee mug, nudging another toward Owen. They raised them at the same time, the clink of the ceramic ringing out through the drab kitchen and along the halls of the little apartment.
Owen floated through the school day in a haze, daydreaming about the road ahead of them. They could end up in Chicago or Colorado or California. It didn’t matter. It would be a new start. Not in the dungeon of some great city castle but out west, where there were more mountains than people and where the skies were lousy with stars.