I turned to the passenger seat, and there she was. Her brown hair was gathered in a loose ponytail. She wore a pair of denim shorts and a plain white t-shirt, because she knew that I found this relatively plain outfit sexy.

  She turned to me, but for some reason her face was obscured, out of focus. I could see her features, but as if through frosted glass. She smiled, reached over to take my hand. She lifted it to her lips, and I could feel them, smooth and moist, feel her lip balm smack against the back of my hand. I could smell the lotion she used, the shampoo, the body wash.

  “It's just a game of catch, you know,” she said, her voice sounding as if it were traveling up from great depths.

  I closed my eyes, felt the heart within me shudder, and snapped awake in the garage.

  I came to, deep into a Guster song. It was dark in the car, lit only by the ghostly dashboard lights. Through the music, I could hear the rumble of thunder and the rain—the incessant rain—patter on the roof of the garage.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. The garage door was closed.

  The car was running.

  Of course, she wasn't there.

  What the hell?

  Turning again, I jumped at a smeary, pale face in the side window.

  Nick.

  I shut off the stereo, the engine.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “Just came out to get a CD,” I said, smiling as I opened the door, climbed from the car.

  Nick looked at me oddly. He had the ball glove on one hand again, the baseball in the other.

  “It stinks in here.”

  I coughed at the thin cloud of exhaust. How long had I been out there?

  “Yeah, let’s get in the house, Champ,” I said, putting my hands on his thin shoulders and leading him away. “I let the car run too long.”

  He was inside before he realized it. “You forgot your CD,” he said.

  * * *

  Tuesday. Bedtime snack. He chewed on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I drank a Coke Zero and crunched distractedly on Fritos straight from the bag.

  “When do you have to go back to work?”

  I chewed, swallowed. “Next week.”

  Nick took a drink of milk from the glass before him, wiped away a white mustache. He looked at me with those big, solemn brown eyes. They were so much like his mom’s that it seemed for a moment that he wore a Nick mask with the eyes cut out, and she was peeking through.

  It was as if he was her ghost, still here, haunting the house. Haunting me.

  I thought of the dark, translucent smear he'd left in the hallway a few days before, and for some reason my mind saw her eyes in that mist.

  I shivered, but he didn't notice.

  “Why so soon?”

  “I’ve been away almost a month, Champ. Gotta get back to work. It’s time.” I sighed.

  He considered this, deciding whether to accept or reject that premise.

  “School, too?”

  I nodded. “Yep, I go back to work, you go back to school.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “I know, neither am I. But we’ve got to get on with our lives. Mom wouldn’t want us to stop what we’re doing. She’d want us to go on and live and be happy.”

  “I’m happy being out of school,” he said, and he smiled, a little smile that curled the corners of his mouth.

  “And I’m happy being out of work, but that ain’t the way the world rolls.”

  “Ain't isn't a word,” he said, his smile growing wider. “Mom says so.”

  “Well, I'm not arguing with your mom, even now. Now finish up here, brush your teeth, grab a shower and get to bed. Call me when you're done and I'll tuck you in.”

  I went back into the living room, let the television's droning wash over me.

  I must have fallen asleep because I jerked awake on the couch, wide-eyed.

  I rubbed my head, yawned.

  Shit. I forgot about Nick.

  Leaping up, I went to his room. The door was ajar, and it was dark inside, just a Star Wars nightlight casting elongated shadows on the floor.

  I stepped around toys, discarded clothes, shoes—so many shoes—to see if he was awake.

  He wasn't, and I felt bad that I'd fallen asleep. He was a little old to be tucked in, but given the circumstances…

  Like all teenagers he sprawled across the mattress, seemingly unable to lay parallel to a bed's rigid lines. The covers were rucked up around his legs, and his feet stuck out, clad in dirty socks. I took each foot, surprised at how big they were getting, and gently peeled the sock away, held it for a moment wondering what to do, cast it into the darkness.

  At some point, we'd have to address this room, do some laundry.

  I moved closer to the bed. I could smell the mint of his toothpaste on the air. Good, he'd actually brushed his teeth. I could also smell the unmistakable sourness of unwashed boy. So, he hadn't taken a shower. Oh well.

  I ruffled his hair, pulled the covers over him.

  A book slipped away from the hand that hung over the bed.

  I pinched it between finger and thumb, lifted it. It was an oversize, thin hardcover volume of nursery rhymes. I remembered the book vaguely, something she'd bought for him a few years back. He was too old for the book, even when she'd gotten it for him.

  Chuckling ruefully, I wondered what possessed him to grab this book and read it.

  I flipped through it casually, closed it, set it onto his nightstand, jostling an action figure of some super hero or another, which clattered to the floor.

  Nick groaned, stretched, and I retreated quietly toward the hall.

  “Mom says to play catch with me tomorrow,” he said, his voice sleep fuzzy.

  The room became a little colder at that, and I wondered who he was talking to. But I chalked it up to his being not fully awake.

  “Okay. Long as the rain stops.”

  “You mean it? Really?”

  I nodded, drew the door mostly closed. “Goodnight, kiddo.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  * * *

  Why did I avoid playing catch with my son?

  Well, first, I hate baseball. More of a football guy, but Nick was too small and thin to play just yet.

  Second, it was his mother who'd played catch with him.

  And now—right now—I just couldn’t.

  I was going to have to take her place in so many other things in his life that I couldn’t do that.

  I knew the rain would stop eventually.

  I knew he’d come out of his room, his eyes beseeching mine with hers.

  I knew I’d have to play catch.

  I just didn’t know how soon.

  * * *

  Wednesday. Breakfast.

  He huddled over a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. I slumped over a cup of coffee so strong I considered inhaling its vapors rather than actually drinking it.

  She usually made the—

  “Catch today?” he asked around a mouthful of cereal.

  “Don't ask important questions with your mouth full,” I muttered, drawing in a deep breath, taking a drink of the black slurry and grimacing.

  He chewed quickly, swallowed, opened his mouth wide, stuck his tongue out.

  “Okay, smart guy.”

  “Can we play catch today? You promised, remember?”

  I swiveled my head around to look out the kitchen window. The light that came in was the color of skim milk, hazy and opaque.

  “It looks like it might—”

  “Dad, don't even say it!” he said. “I'll get dressed fast and meet you outside.”

  “Okay, okay.” I laughed, trying a sip of my coffee. It raced down my throat, hot and bitter and nearly acidic, and my whole body shook with its progress.

  Nick spooned the last few soggy morsels of cereal into his mouth, raised the bowl to drink the milk, something his mother had never tolerated. He watched me over the rim of the bowl to see how I'd react, but I just raised an eyebrow, contemplated the advisability of a second sip of coffee.

  I rose, dumped the dark liquid into the sink.

  “Ten minutes and I'll meet you outside. Dishes in the dishwasher first,” I reminded him.

  Nick leapt up, slid to a stop, raced back to put the bowl and spoon away, then shot off down the hallway.

  I honestly thought I was safe. Honestly thought that the rain was just moments away from starting up again.

  Now, three months later, I think, I really do believe that it probably was.

  * * *

  Nick raced out the front of the house, let the screen door slap shut. Another of his mother's pet peeves.

  “What took you so long?” I asked, showing a little more irritation than I should have. I'd been outside on the front lawn for about fifteen minutes. In that time, he'd changed from his pajamas into last year's little league uniform, cleats and all.

  And the sky had changed, too, from a uniform pale grey to an almost cloudless deep blue.

  He came to a stop right before me, and I saw that his face was red, flushed. His eyes were wide and bright, and he took in the suddenly sunny, rainless day.

  I thought he was excited about playing catch, excited to get outside and play in the sun with his old man.

  I reached out, took the spare glove from him.

  His mother's glove, a little snug for me, but it would work.

  Nick stepped back about a dozen paces, crouched a little.

  I jammed the glove on my hand, popped the ball into it a few times to loosen the leather, loosen my wrists.

  So we played catch that early spring morning, just a few weeks after she'd died.

  And it was good.

  The air was cool and just a little damp. The sun sparkled on the emerald grass, and the wind played with the leaves, the little cowlick of hair at the top of Nick's head. I could hear the distant putter of a lawnmower, could smell the green smell of freshly clipped grass, that clean, indefinable smell of spring air.

  And it was good.

  * * *

  We played catch all that week, every morning, sometimes in the afternoon or early evening, too. It was like a proverbial cloud had lifted and not just the real ones overhead. Nick was as happy as I'd seen him, almost as happy as before. It made it easier for both of us to go back, him to school, me to work.

  Both of us to our regularly scheduled lives.

  I slept better. Well, actually slept, period. I still saw her in the house, out of the corner of my eye. A smudge in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom as I fell asleep.

  Nick and I ate real meals together, went out a little, to the movies, the mall, a ballgame or two. We started building a new life, a life without her.

  And the darkness that circulated through the house like a miasma? That presence of her that lingered, coloring the air with its sadness and disappointment? It lifted, too.

  We even turned the television off, and it stayed off most days.

  That's why it took so long for me to even hear about it.

  * * *

  What is grief, really?

  Is it just existential? The loss, the physical absence of a loved one?

  Is it just chemical? An emotion secreted by the glands to fill the void?

  Is it just physics? Some force between two bodies that grows stronger with separation?

  Or is it alive? Something that has to be nurtured, tended? Like a garden?

  It could be all of these things, and none of them.

  These days, though, I think it's like a bomb, a bomb that you hold in one hand while the other holds the tinder. The longer you hold the tinder, the longer it takes for you to light the bomb, the more powerful the bomb becomes.

  Not that it matters, really.

  In the end, the bomb blows you up just the same.

  In the end, it's just a matter of how much of your world you want it to take with you when it explodes.

  Nick and I?

  We waited too long.

  * * *

  I stood outside on a Saturday morning late in June. It was only about ten o'clock, but it was already hot. I wiped sweat from my forehead as I walked across the front lawn.

  Restless and edgy, I paced back and forth, growing impatient.

  I knew Nick was inside, dressing in his baseball uniform. Not just for the game of catch we were going to play, but also to visit his mother.

  Her stone had finally been placed at the cemetery, and we were headed out to see it. It was special ordered, cost a small fortune and took several months to make. But I had seen pictures emailed to me throughout the process of its creation by the stonemason, and it was worth it.

  Today, after catch, of course, we'd go out and see it in person.

  See her.

  Nick came bounding out the house, across the porch and down the steps, just as I noticed the grass.

  It was sere and brown, crackling under foot.

  Dead.

  I looked up, saw that my neighbors' lawns, too, were a more or less uniform crispy brown.

  “I guess we should water the lawn,” I muttered, snugging the glove down onto my hand.

  Nick looked at me quizzically.

  “And get arrested?”

  My face said it all.

  “Water rationing, Dad. Duh. Do you even watch the news? They talk about it every day in school.

  I considered that for a moment, shrugged. “Huh, I guess I haven't been paying attention.”

  “To the drought?” Nick laughed.

  I caught the ball he snapped at me, held it for a second.

  Yeah, I guess it hadn't rained in a while, but drought?

  “Well, yeah,” I offered gamely.

  Nick snorted. “Well, at least it stopped raining. A few months ago, it rained all the time. It ruined everything. It…”

  He trailed off, looked at his cleats.

  Sighing, I popped the ball into my glove, closed it tight, walked over to him.

  “Dad, is it okay if I don't go to the…to see the stone today? I'm really not feeling like it.”

  I considered this, embarrassed that I thought about making him come because I didn't want to go alone.

  “Sure. I understand. I'll just be gone an hour or so. Stop by and pick up flowers to leave for her. You know…”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Can we throw a couple more before you leave?”

  * * *

  Nick and I had a great time that summer.

  We never once talked about what was really on our minds, though.

  Her.

  Or rather, her absence.

  We each held our bomb in one hand, our tinder in the other, and pretended not to notice either.

  * * *

  The months went by, and things got worse. Now there were bans on lawn watering, car washing, swimming pools and water parks. Rolling “water blackouts” were enforced. Nick and I made the most of it, in a manly way, seeing how long we could go without showers or flushing the toilet. “If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down,” became a mantra.

  But we played catch every day, though it was so breathtakingly hot most days that we only played in the early morning or at twilight.

  Playing catch was beginning to be our thing, finally.

  I think we both felt as if we'd banished her ghost.

  * * *

  I was inside after one late game, watching the news. It was now going on about five months without rain. Five months with 100-degree-plus temperatures.

  The National Guard was airlifting in tankers to ensure vital facilities—hospitals, schools, food banks—had water. Crops were withering in the ground. Prices for meat, vegetables, milk, butter, eggs were all skyrocketing. Bottled water was disappearing from store shelves almost the minute it was put out. People were dying.

  Nick came in, freshly showered. It was the first one he'd taken in almost a week. I had insisted. His room was beginning to smell like an animal's den.

  “What's up?”

  “More bad news,” I said.

  “Water?”

  “Yep. It'll be more expensive than gas pretty soon.”

  I looked over and saw him, gangly arms on bony knees, leaning in towards the TV, watching it intently.

  His face was grave, tight, lit by the flashing television. His lips compressed into a thin band.

  “Selfish,” he whispered, then he stood and left the room.

  I checked on him later, but he was asleep. The real talent of teenagers is to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances. He was splayed atop the covers, already breathing slowly, regularly.

  I brushed his head with the tips of my fingers. His hair was still wet.

  Doing my usual tiptoe out of the room to avoid toys—particularly those damn Lego pieces—I caught something out of the corner of my eye.

  It was the book she'd bought him, the book of nursery rhymes.

  It was jammed at an odd angle against the wall across from his bed, upside down, the pages rifled and bent as if he'd flung it there.

  I pursed my lips.

  I thought, I really did, that this was misdirected anger, that he'd thrown the book across the room because of grief, because somewhere over the last few weeks he'd brought the unseen bomb and the unseen tinder together in his hands.

  I paused there in the cluttered darkness, thought about what to do, what I should do.

  I left it there, left it where he'd thrown it, where it had landed like some stricken bird.

  I didn't want to pick it up, replace it on his nightstand.

  Didn't want him to know that I'd glimpsed a very private expression of rage at his mother.

  * * *

  Saturday morning. There was a knock at the door while we ate breakfast. We exchanged looks, and I got up from my coffee and toast to answer the door.

  It was a uniformed man from the water company. Behind him stood a uniformed police officer. The water company employee explained that we were required by law to let him in to search the house and install locks on certain faucets, low-flow valves on others. Newly enacted crisis legislation, no choice. All at my cost, of course.