He wakes up with the headache of a lifetime, but someone has thoughtfully left a giant glass of ice water and a bottle of Advil by his bed. Patrick drinks down the water, and it tastes so good and so cold, and his body needs it so badly, that he decides to start his day feeling grateful.
He checks his phone. Four missed calls late last night from the temporary cell phone of Bucky Larimer and a text from that number that says, Dude, call me. A missed call from Gary Grimstead.
Nothing from Jennifer, which he can’t believe. They have never gone this long without speaking—not ever. He feels like his right side is missing. He can make it through anything as long as she is next to him. He closes his eyes and thinks about her. What is she doing right now? Well, it’s three hours earlier in California, so she’s sleeping. But maybe not. It’s nearly ten o’clock here, meaning seven o’clock there, so everyone is probably awake. The boys are opening presents from Santa Claus and from Grammie. Jennifer’s mother is wealthy and always too lavish; the boys might not even miss the ten million presents that remain under the tree in Boston, or the presents here for them on Nantucket. Jennifer will be drinking coffee, maybe with a splash of Baileys in it, trying to put on a brave face. They will go to the Park Tavern for brunch because Jennifer’s mother doesn’t cook. Patrick dislikes that part of the San Francisco tradition—who goes out on Christmas morning?
He resists the urge to call Jennifer. She probably won’t answer anyway.
He needs coffee, more water, food. He made it from Boston to Hyannis in forty-eight minutes, getting his BMW up to 110 miles per hour on Route 3, which probably would have landed him in jail sooner than he’s already going, but for the fact that the road was free of troopers. Patrick missed one ferry; then he started drinking at the Naked Oyster and missed two more ferries before finally getting on the seven o’clock. He drank Sam Adams on the boat, and then he walked up Main Street to the inn, stopping at Murray’s Liquors and buying and consuming a split of Taittinger champagne on the way. Once here, he was welcomed into the bosom of his family and offered a shot of Jameson.
Patrick stands up. He spent the night in Bart’s room, which is still filled with Bart’s paraphernalia, including a large purple bong—a bag of weed was easily found in Bart’s underwear drawer—car magazines, a poster of Lindsay Lohan on the wall.
Lindsay Lohan? Patrick thinks. He’s relieved Bart has joined the Marines. Anyone who publicly announces himself a fan of Lindsay Lohan needs straightening out.
Tucked into Bart’s mirror are ticket stubs from the Patriots-Broncos game this past October. Kelley probably took him up to Foxborough for it before he shipped out to Germany. Kelley was a good, involved dad like that for Bart.
Patrick steps out into the hallway, and he hears giggling. He turns around to see Kelley and a redheaded woman emerging from Kelley’s room.
Whoa! Patrick thinks. He squints at the redhead. His mind isn’t quite clear, but it looks like his mother. It is his mother. She sees him, and her mouth falls open.
“Are you real?” Patrick asks.
“I’m real,” she says.