Lauren came to the birthday with a plant instead of a toy, a pothos in a blue pot. Emma put it in her room and named it Triangle, which Lauren pretended not to understand and understood completely. Helen watched this and later told David, "The child is allowed to like the plant. Don't make a parable out of every leaf."
In the summer Emma went to Helen's for two weeks, a tradition that predated the death and had survived it. David spent the first nights walking the house like a guard. On the fourth night he drove to Lauren's apartment and they sat on her floor among the plants because the couch felt like a decision. They did not kiss. They held hands until their hands sweated and became embarrassing, and then they laughed, and the laughter was a small repair. Lauren said, "I dreamed Claire was angry about the cream dress. I went to your closet in the dream and it was full of phones." David said, "The dress is still there. Emma hasn't opened the cedar closet. I'm not going to make her." Lauren said, "Good."
When Emma came home she was taller and sunburned and full of Helen's opinions about tomatoes. She asked, in the car, "Did you marry Lauren while I was gone?" David said, "No." Emma said, "Did you want to?" He said, "I wanted to see her. Wanting to see someone is not a wedding." Emma considered this with the seriousness she had once given the triangle. "Okay," she said. "Don't do it as a surprise. I would run into that room too."
"I believe you," he said. "You have a proven record."
She smiled then, a real one, quick as a fish. The town outside the car was green and excessive. For a moment the story felt survivable, which is not the same as happy, and is a blessing people overlook because it does not photograph well.