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and bending down beside me. “What is it?” She leaned down and saw the envelope, catching her breath. “Oh, honey,” she said, and even before she wrapped her arms around me I was already leaning in, tucking my head against her shoulder as she held me, as I knew she’d held Cass, in this same chair, at this same table, in this same light, on other mornings, not like this.
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    When I walked up to our sliding glass door, the phone was ringing. No one seemed to be around, so I picked it up.
    â€œHello?”
    There was a silence, with just a bit of buzzing.
    â€œHello?”
    My father appeared in the doorway, out of breath: He’d been outside, in the garage. “Who is it?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t—”
    He was immediately beside me, pulling the receiver out of my hand. “Cassandra? Is that you?”
    â€œJack?” my mother said from their bedroom. I could hear her moving, coming closer, and then she appeared in the hallway, clutching a tissue, one hand over her mouth. “I dozed off. Is it—”
    â€œCassandra, listen to me. You have to come home. We’re not mad at you, but you have to come home.” His voice was shaking.
    â€œLet me talk to her,” my mother said, coming closer, but he shook his head, holding out one hand to keep her there.
    â€œTell her we love her!” my mother said, and I couldn’t stand the way her voice sounded, unsure and wavering. I slipped around them both and into my room, slowly picking up my own phone. On the line, no one was speaking.
    â€œCassandra,” my father said finally. “Talk to me.”
    Silence. I pictured her standing in a phone booth by a highway, cars whizzing by. A place I’d never seen, a world I didn’t know. Then, suddenly, I heard her voice.
    â€œDaddy,” she began, and I heard my father take in a breath, quickly, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “I’m okay. I’m happy. But I’m not coming home.”
    â€œWhere are you?” he demanded.
    â€œLet me talk to her!” my mother shrieked in the background. She could have gone into my father’s office and picked up the extension there, but I knew she wasn’t thinking of that, couldn’t even move from that spot in the hallway where she was standing. “Cassandra!”
    â€œDon’t worry about me,” Cass said. “I’m—”
    â€œNo,” my father said. “You must come home.”
    â€œThis is what I want,” she said. “You have to respect that.”
    â€œYou’re only eighteen,” my father told her. “This is ridiculous, you can’t possibly know—”
    â€œDaddy,” she said, and I realized suddenly I was crying, again, the receiver wet against my face. “I’m sorry. I love you. Please tell Mom not to worry.”
    â€œNo,” my father said, firm. “We are not—”
    â€œCaitlin?” she said suddenly. “I know you’re there. I can hear you.”
    â€œWhat is she saying?” my mother kept asking, now close to the receiver. “Where is she?”
    â€œMargaret, just hold on,” my father told her.
    â€œYes,” I whispered back to Cass. “I’m here.”
    â€œDon’t cry, okay?” she said. The line crackled, and I thought of her tackling me that night, her breath against my neck, laughing in my ear. “I love you. I’m sorry about your birthday.”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” I said.
    There was a voice outside her end, a yell, and another buzz on the line. “Is that him?” my father demanded. “Is he there?”
    â€œI have to go,” she said. “Please don’t worry, okay?”
    â€œDammit, Cassandra,” my father said. “Don’t you hang up this phone!”
    â€œGood-bye,” she said softly, as my father’s voice dropped away.