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Finally, she came to an aerial shot, the city spread out from a distance, the River Thames woven through it like a gray ribbon, and there, written on top of it all in bold blue letters, were the words: Wish You Were Here.
Inside the shop, she slid a five-pound note across the counter.
“I’ll take this,” she said, waving the postcard. “And a stamp as well.”
The clerk, a young woman with purple hair and a nose ring, rolled her eyes when she saw it. “Wish you were here,” she said, snapping her gum. “Right.”
Lucy only smiled. “Can I borrow a pen, too?”
After writing her note, she walked back out into the street. The fog was starting to lift now, the sun coming through unevenly. Lucy clutched the postcard in one hand, ru
For a moment, she stood holding the little piece of cardboard over the open mouth of the chute. She was thinking about the mailroom back home in her apartment building, the wall of brass squares etched with numbers, and just beside them, the door leading down to the basement. But what she was really imagining was Owen—his blond head bent over the postcard, smiling as he read the words—and in spite of herself, she realized she was smiling, too.
Just as the sun broke through the clouds, she let go.
8
On Sunday, Owen and his father took the subway down to Times Square.
“A day out to celebrate surviving your first week of school,” Dad said cheerfully as they emerged from belowground, finding themselves immediately surrounded by a sea of tourists, their faces all hidden by maps or cameras.
“Surviving being the operative word there,” Owen said under his breath, though it was apparently still loud enough to make Dad roll his eyes.
“It can’t be that bad,” he said, tilting his head back to take in the blinking signs all around them. There were huge television screens and tickers with scrolling stock quotes, billboards and advertisements all lit up so that even in the middle of the day, the whole strange, electric landscape gave off a whitish glare.
“Actually, it is,” Owen said without looking at him. A crowd of tourists brushed past, bumping into him, and he was shoved forward a step.
“You’ve got to stop acting like such a country mouse,” Dad said, clapping him on the back. “You’re a New Yorker now.”
“Hardly,” Owen said quietly, but if Dad heard him this time, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked left and then right before stepping forward.
“This way,” he said, starting to walk down Broadway with all the confidence of a man headed in the right direction.
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever,” he said, his voice bright. “We’re seeing the sights. Taking it all in. Enjoying the city. Getting to know the place. Making the best of it.”
They paused at an intersection to let a red tour bus pass, and Owen jabbed a thumb at it. “You should really be working for them.”
“I might just get the chance,” Dad said, but to Owen’s relief, he was still smiling.
Ever since the night the power came back, he’d gone about his superintendent duties with a quiet doggedness that was unlike him. Even when he’d been unemployed for all those months, he’d still started each morning by proclaiming that this might be the day, the one where everything turned around. He was a believer in fresh starts and second chances, and even in the throes of his grief this summer—a fog of sadness so thick he couldn’t seem to see around it—he’d still been heartened by the idea of a new job. He’d wanted to get back to work. It didn’t matter whether it was building houses or fixing clogged drains; work had always been a tonic. But this week, it had seemed like just another burden.
It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. Owen had no doubt that Sam Coleman had been in touch, and he hated to think of that boxy little man yelling at his father, warning him in the same way he’d warned Owen. They’d managed to get the water pumps working that night, the two of them crouched on the floor of the utilities room until late, his father holding a flashlight while Owen worked the wrench with gritted teeth, following instructions as best he could. But he knew enough to know that wouldn’t be the end of it, and watching his father now—his face alight with the reflected glow of the billboards all around them—he understood not everything would be so easily fixable.
“What should we do first?” Dad asked, as the light turned green and they were swept across the street by a tide of people.
Owen shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, looking around. “We could go see a show?”
“Um…”
“Or a play?”
Owen made a face.
“Fine,” Dad said with an exaggerated groan. “Then you pick something.”
He was about to refuse. He was about to point out that this whole excursion wasn’t his idea. He was about to suggest simply going home. But they were approaching an enormous gift shop, the whole window filled with green foam crowns shaped like the Statue of Liberty, Big Apple pens and pencils and paperweights, Yankees jerseys, and I♥NY shirts like the ones he’d grumbled about to Lucy.
“Let’s check this place out,” he said, veering to the right, and though Dad gave him a mystified look, he followed without comment.
Inside, the shop was crowded, and while Dad wandered over to check out a display of old subway tokens, Owen slipped by a family trying on matching T-shirts and wove his way over to the enormous racks of postcards.
Every day this week, he’d looked for Lucy. Every day, he’d thought about knocking on the door of her apartment. At first, because he wanted to apologize for leaving the roof that morning. And then later, simply because he was anxious to see her again. But something kept stopping him. He couldn’t let go of the worry that the night hadn’t meant the same thing to her. For him, it had been a kind of oasis—not just the elevator, and not just the roof, but the simple fact of being with her. And as soon as he’d seen the gift shop, he was right back there again, lying on the floor of her kitchen and talking about faraway places.
As he flipped through the postcards, he came across one where a series of bright pink letters spilled out the words Wish You Were Here in a ba
Wish you were here, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them again, there was a clerk standing in front of him, an older man with unruly sideburns and a bored expression. “Can I help you?” he asked, not sounding particularly excited about the prospect.
“I’ll take this,” Owen said, surprising even himself. “And can I get a stamp, too?”
From across a sea of miniature yellow cabs and red apples, he could see his father wandering back in his direction. Before he could think better of it, he reached for a pen shaped like the Empire State Building and scrawled a few words across the back of the postcard, then grabbed the stamp, slid a couple of dollars across the counter, and thanked the clerk.
“Find anything?” Dad asked as he joined him at the counter, but Owen only shook his head.
“This stuff’s for tourists,” he said with a shrug. “We live here.”