We came above ground briefly near Backbay. At a red light on Boilston Street, I saw it. My G Wagon stopped in the next lane. The tinted windows were cracked enough that I could make out shapes inside. My husband in the driver’s seat turned toward the passenger side, laughing at something. Charcelen’s silhouette, Darcy’s voice carrying, though I couldn’t make out the words. They were heading to Newbury Street to a $240 tasting menu in my car. The light turned green, the Gwagon shot forward, the train doors closed.
I reached into my coat pocket and found the slip of paper my father had given me four years ago. I had carried it in every wallet I’d owned since then without once unfolding it. I unfolded it now. I dialed. He picked up on the second ring.
“Adeline.”
Not a question. He always knew.
I said, “Dad,” and then nothing else for a moment because I was on the orange line holding a 6-day old baby with $18 in my pocket, and I needed a second to make sure my voice would be steady.
“Tell me where you are,” he said. His voice was the same voice it had always been. controlled certain the voice of a man who had spent 35 years making decisions in rooms where everything depended on not letting your uncertainty show. But underneath it something that made the shaking in my chest ease fractionally. A weight behind the calm the weight of someone who was already preparing to act.
“I’m on the tea,” I said. “Orange line. He gave me Subway Fair home. He has the car. He’s picking up his mother and sister from Logan. They’re going to dinner.”
The silence lasted exactly 4 seconds.
“Get off at Back Bay,” he said. “Mr. Kimell will be there in 5 minutes. Don’t go to the apartment.”
“Dad—”
“Is Bo all right?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Good. Off at Back Bay.”
He hung up. No drama, no outrage. The way he ended every meeting, he’d already decided.