Joe slid a finger down the smooth silver-plated frame and across the glass, as if he were clairvoyant and able to read the meaning of the photograph by absorbing a lingering psychic energy from it.
“When she first showed it to us,” said Clarise, “she watched us with such… expectation. As if she thought—”
“—we would have a bigger reaction to it,” Bob concluded.
Putting the photograph on the coffee table, Joe frowned. “Bigger reaction? Like how?”
“We couldn’t understand,” Clarise said. She picked up the photo and began to polish the frame and glass on her shirttail. “When we didn’t respond to it the way she hoped, then she asked us what we saw when we looked at it.”
“A gravestone,” Joe said.
“Dad’s grave,” Bob agreed.
Clarise shook her head. “Mom seemed to see more.”
“More? Like what?”
“She wouldn’t say, but she—”
“—told us the day would come when we would see it different,” Bob finished.
In memory, Rose in the graveyard, clutching the camera in two hands, looking up at Joe: You’ll see, like the others,
“Do you know who this Rose is? Why did you ask us about her?” Clarise wondered.
Joe told them about meeting the woman at the cemetery, but he said nothing about the men in the white van. In his edited version, Rose had left in a car, and he had been unable to detain her.
“But from what she said to me… I thought she might have visited the families of some other crash victims. She told me not to despair, told me that I’d see, like the others had seen, but she wasn’t ready to talk yet. The trouble is, I couldn’t wait for her to he ready. If she’s talked to others, I want to know what she told them, what she helped them to see.”
“Whatever it was,” Clarise said, “it made Mom feel better.”
“Or did it?” Bob wondered.
“For a week, it did,” Clarise said. “For a week she was happy.”
“But it led to this,” Bob said.
if Joe hadn’t been a reporter with so many years of experience asking hard questions of victims and their families, he might have found it difficult to push Bob and Clarise to contemplate another grim possibility that would expose them to fresh anguish. But when the events of this extraordinary day were considered, the question had to he asked: “Are you absolutely sure that it was suicide?”
Bob started to speak, faltered, and turned his head away to blink back tears.
Taking her husband’s hand, Clarise said to Joe, “There’s no question. Nora killed herself.”
“Did she leave a note?”
“No,” Clarise said. “Nothing to help us understand.”
“She was so happy, you said. Radiant. If—”
“She left a videotape,” Clarise said.
“You mean, saying good-bye?”
“No. It’s this strange… this terrible…” She shook her head, face twisting with distaste, at a loss for words to describe the video. Then: “It’s this thing.”
Bob let go of his wife’s hand and got to his feet. “I’m not much of a drinking man, Joe, but I need a drink for this.”
Dismayed, Joe said, “I don’t want to add to your suffering—”
“No, it’s all right,” Bob assured him. “We’re all of us out of that crash together, survivors together, family of a sort, and there shouldn’t be anything you can’t talk about with family. You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Clarise, don’t tell him about the video until I’m back. I know you think it’ll be easier on me if you talk about it when I’m not in the room, but it won’t.”
Bob Vadance regarded his wife with great tenderness, and when she replied, “I’ll wait,” her love for him was so evident that Joe had to look away. He was too sharply reminded of what he had lost.
When Bob was out of the room, Clarise started to adjust the arrangement of silk flowers again. Then she sat with her elbows on her bare knees, her face buried in her hands.
When finally she looked up at Joe, she said, “He’s a good man.”
“I like him.”
“Good husband, good son. People don’t know him—they see the fighter pilot, served in the Gulf War, tough guy. But he’s gentle too. Sentimental streak a mile wide, like his dad.”