No answer until noon then. Sorry. Dad had a bad night. I'm at Mass General. I'll be at work tomorrow.
He typed back, don't apologize. Take what you need. He stared at it, then added, I'm here if you need anything. I mean that he almost deleted the second part. He sent it anyway.
She came back the next morning looking like she'd been through something she couldn't fully describe. And Marcus, who knew exactly what that looked like, had seen it in his own mirror for months after Renee died, did not ask if she was okay. He already knew she wasn't. Instead, when she sat down beside him, he held out a coffee cup. She looked at it.
"Oat milk," he said. The complicated order. I watched the machine twice to make sure. She took it. She held it in both hands and didn't say anything for a full minute.
Then how do you do it? Do what? Keep showing up. She looked at the coffee like it was the question and the answer at once. After when everything is terrible and uncertain and you're scared every single day.
How do you just keep getting on the train? Marcusa thought about it seriously. He didn't rush the answer. You don't do it all at once, he said finally. You just do today.
You make the coffee. You get on the train. You do the next thing not because it doesn't hurt but because the next thing is what's in front of you. Emily was quiet. The secret Marcus said is you stop asking yourself if you can make it through the whole thing.
You just ask if you can make it through this morning and then this afternoon and then tonight. He paused and most of the time the answer is yes. What if the answer is no? Then you call someone. He looked at her.
That's what the number is for. She looked at him then directly. Fully no deflection. Something in her expression moved and settled like weather passing. You gave me your number two weeks ago, she said.
I know you want me to call you when the answer is no. Emily, he held her gaze. Call me when the answer's no. The train rocked. The city passed.