The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry Page B

so you two don’t give up. Keep at it.”
    In their conversation and lyric lingo, I listen for hints of what happened the night of the accident. Finally, I ask Benson. “Were you there that night?”
    â€œYep,” he says. “I was. But I have no idea what happened. One minute she was practicing in the back room and then she was gone.”
    Before I can respond, Gwen calls for me from the hospital hallway. She needs me to convince her dad to let her meet Dylan for dinner. I shake my head. “No way, Gwen. Go home, and I’ll meet you there. We’ll have a family dinner.”
    â€œFamily dinner,” she says in a tone that suggests I’ve asked her to eat garbage. “Can’t wait.” She walks down the hall, her long legs swinging out, trying to get ahead of her, as if she can’t get away from me fast enough.
    *   *   *
    In the car on the way home, I try to stop thinking about Willa and her swollen temporal lobe, her memory and that night, about Cooper driving into a tree while Willa grabbed the wheel. I turn on the radio, cranking the volume to adolescent level—meaning LOUD. Lucinda Williams sings at a “Kiss Like Your Kiss,” and my mind wanders to the last time Cooper kissed me. Not the kind at the door on his way out, or the respectable sort of kiss he’ll use to acknowledge me in public. I mean the kind of kiss that pulls the body closer, that makes time come undone and the heart slow. When was the last time? I come up blank. I remember our first kiss, but I can’t remember the last.
    Before going home, I drive into the parking lot at Cameron’s Print Shop to buy ink. This is how it goes with me: A disturbing thought, a hint of something amiss, and I’m buying ink, wandering through aisles of antique fonts, holding Italian cotton paper up to the light. I know every ink shop, print shop, and stationery store in the city.
    The store is low-lit; a seductive barroom. Cameron, the owner, sits on a stool behind the counter, reading a magazine, raising his fingers to turn the pages and humming under his breath. “Hey, Cam,” I say.
    He glances up at me. “Hi there, Eve. How’s it flying?”
    â€œBeen better flights than today.” I smile. “I need to order some more of that Twinrocker handmade paper and I’m almost out of magenta base color.”
    â€œGot it,” Cam says. “But what’s going on in your world that could be anything but superior?” He rises from his stool.
    Cam has never told me his age, but then again, I’ve never asked. I’ve estimated anywhere from sixty to ninety. Today I give him a seventy-five. He moves with ease, but slowly, and his wild gray hair is combed back with pomade. His rimless glasses are perched on his wrinkled nose.
    â€œNot all days can be superior,” I reply.
    â€œWell, all your days should be.” He peers at me directly. “Is Gwen okay?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “But things aren’t great for my family, Cameron. My sister and husband were in a car wreck.”
    â€œOver on Preston?” he asks.
    I nod.
    â€œHeard about that.”
    â€œReally?” I lift my eyebrows, and I’m so tired, even that seems to hurt.
    â€œI live a block away. They okay?”
    â€œCooper’s face is cut up pretty bad. Willa has something like a concussion.” I’m practicing this sentence, one I know I’ll say over and over again.
    â€œI’m sorry, Eve.”
    I’m quiet as I follow Cam through the aisles, as if the flywheels, levers, and pedals deserve a reverential silence. Shelves are filled with boxes of leftover metal fonts. Flywheels like shrunken Ferris wheels sit discarded on a lower shelf. A Vandercook and a Heidelberg lean against each another for support while wishing for an owner to clean them up, make them useful again. After we find what I need, I tell Cam to put the items on the