To distract herself from all the absence, she studied her financial binder, memorizing every page (pragmatic but wishful thinking that the next leap would take her to an earlier year). She also found volunteer work, at an animal shelter and a library. Dogs and books, two excellent defenses against solitude and despair.
In early December, she received a package from New Zealand: a small blue ceramic bird with a red beak. The attached note read:
This is a pukeko, one of NZ’s native birds. It’s reluctant to fly and tends to run and hide when it’s disturbed. But when it does fly, it can cover great distances. Sound familiar? I thought it would make a good addition to your tchotchke menagerie.
XO Kenzie
She added the ceramic bird to the display case in her bedroom. It held numerous knickknacks still missing their origin stories—the Fabergé egg, the Venetian mask, the glass igloo, many others. There was no telling when her collection would be fully known to her, or when it would be complete, but each year was another blank page filled.
Finally, her son sent word he was coming back to New York for Christmas. His flight would get in Saturday afternoon, and that morning, she worked her final volunteer shift at the library. On her way out, in the hallway, she heard guitar strumming and followed it to a room with its door ajar—open far enough to reveal a circle of kids sitting around a middle-aged Asian man playing the opening bars of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” Gray at the temples, wearier behind the eyes, but his face filled with warm recognition when he saw Oona in the doorway.
Peter Han. They hadn’t crossed paths since that last guitar lesson.
You caught me at a bad time, he’d said. And now?
He sang the entire song over the heads of the children straight at her. And when he got to the line about lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, she grinned even as a few sneaky tears slid down her face. Because it was nice to feel less lost and alone, even for a moment. Because of course this would happen right at the end of the year.
After the song, he excused himself and went over to Oona.
“What, no Radiohead?” she asked.
“Oh, you got here late and missed ‘No Surprises.’” Hair a little thinner, but it still fell into his eyes the same way, and he still flicked it aside the same way.
“You sing about suicide to little kids?”
“Eh, they focus more on the lyrics about pretty houses and gardens than carbon monoxide.”
“And I see you’ve gotten over your stage fright,” she said.
“Playing for eight-year-olds is different.” A quirk of his mouth. “It’s good to see you, Oona. Really good. It’s been, what—”
“It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. It’s just stupid time.”
“Stupid time,” he said as if casting an insult, then snickered.
Was she smiling too much? If she was, then so was he.
“Can I take you to lunch?” A sweet bashfulness in his question.
“Yes.” The word out of her mouth before she glanced at the wall clock behind him. “Wait, no. I can’t. I have to leave for the airport in a half hour. I could do a quick coffee?”
“Let me just grab my guitar.”
They went to a café around the corner with exposed brick and a chalkboard proclaiming all tips were donated to a women’s shelter. Peter paid for their coffee, but when he wasn’t looking, Oona slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the tip jar.
Once they were settled at a corner table, hot beverages untouched before them, at first all they could do was stare at each other, tentative, a gossamer anticipation strung between them like fairy lights. The noise of customers and jangly Christmas music receded into the background, like the hush in a dark theater before the show begins. They tilted their heads. Hesitated. Then both spoke at once.
“So how long have you been playing for kids?”
“So what time is your flight?”
They laughed. Paused. And when neither moved to answer, they both did, at the same time.
“I was just filling in for a friend.”
“I’m just picking someone up.”
More laughter. It was okay. They’d have time to get their rhythm right.
“I thought maybe you were also a volunteer,” Oona said. “Because it would make perfect sense for us to spend all this time in the same building but never run into each other until my last day there.”
“Come on, don’t have such a low opinion of fate. That was actually the first time I’d even set foot in that library. But you know, I did see you a couple of years ago, in Prospect Park.” Peter took a long sip of coffee, eyebrows raised as if reliving the surprising moment. “I would’ve said hello, but you were having this intense conversation with someone—a guy.”
“Did he happen to be young and handsome, with cool Tilda Swinton hair?” Her smile mysterious, dreamy.
“I think so.”
“Yeah, that was Kenzie, my kid. That’s who I’m picking up at the airport.” Had Peter seen her during her very first leap? How awkward it would’ve been if he’d approached them, only for her to have no idea who he was.
“I didn’t know you had a child.”
Neither did I. “It’s a long, complicated story.”
“Is it now.” His eyes flashed, playful, ready to accept a challenge. His fingers made a slow path along the table, stopped in the center. “Funny, because you never struck me as the least bit complicated.”
“Yeah, neither did you. Not even a little.” She slid her hand forward until it was just shy of his. There had always been an invisible wall between them, but now he flipped his palm up, and the wall became an open door. The only thing left to do was walk through it, so Oona crossed the threshold and slid her hand into his. He gave one soft squeeze, a greeting: Welcome home.
“I gotta admit, it killed me a little when you stopped your lessons—don’t get me wrong, I understand why.”
“Can you even imagine how awkward it would’ve been if I kept coming? It makes me cringe just thinking about it.”
“I would’ve endured that awkwardness if it meant seeing you. Any day.”
“Even if it made things with your girlfriend weird?”
“Oh, you mean the woman I ended up marrying and having three kids with?” Before Oona could pull her hand away, he grinned. “Kidding. We broke up after a couple of months. I … I wanted to call you. But I didn’t want to be that guy. I also had this sense—I don’t know, like I needed to wait. Like things had to play out a certain way.”
“‘Everything has its time,’” she quoted his tattoo.
“Exactly. I’m just glad we’re sitting here right now.”
“Me too.” She kept her eyes fixed on their clasped hands. So rarely does a fulfilled wish live up to the anticipation of it and even exceed it. “It’s too bad I need to leave so soon.”
“Maybe we could get dinner sometime?”
“I’d love to.” She looked up at him. “But it can’t be until after the new year.”
Any disappointment smoothed over with an understanding nod. “Of course. I’m sure you have a lot going on for the holidays. With your son.”