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stared over the river, and thought of my father. I wondered what was left of us, then went in search of him. His study stood empty and unchanged: pine floors, overflowing desk, tall bookshelves and piles of books on the floor next to them, muddy boots by the back door, pictures of hunting dogs long dead, shotguns next to the stone fireplace, jackets on hooks, hats; and a photograph of the two of us, taken nineteen years earlier, half a year after my mother died.
    I’d lost twenty pounds in the months since we’d buried her. I’d barely spoken, barely slept, and he decided enough was enough and it was time to move on. Just like that.
Let’s do something
, he’d said.
Let’s get out of the house.
I did not even look up.
For God’s sake, Adam
.…
    He took me hunting on a bright, fall day. High, blue sky, leaves not yet turned. The deer came in the first hour, and it was unlike any deer I’d ever seen. Its coat shone pale white under antlers wide enough to carry a grown man. He was massive, and presented himself, head up, fifty yards out. He stared in our direction, then pawed the ground, as if impatient.
    He was perfect.
    But my father refused the shot. He lowered his rifle and I saw that tears brimmed in his eyes. He whispered to me that something had changed. He couldn’t do it.
A white deer is a sign
, he said, and I knew that he was talking about my mother. Yet, the animal hung in my sights, too. I bit down hard, let out half a breath, and I felt my father’s eyes. He shook his head once, mouthed the word,
No.
    I took the shot.
    And missed.
    My father lifted the rifle from my hands and put an arm over my shoulder. He squeezed hard and we sat like that for a long time. He thought that I’d chosen to miss, that in the last second I, too, had come to believe that life was more precious somehow, that my mother’s death had had this effect on both of us.
    But that wasn’t it. Not even close.
    I wanted to hurt that deer. I wanted it so badly my hands shook.
    That’s what ruined the shot.
    I looked again at the photograph. On the day it was taken, I was nine years old, my mother fresh in the ground. The old man thought we’d rounded the corner, that that day in the woods had been our first step, a sign of healing. But I knew nothing of signs or forgiveness. I barely knew who I was.
    I put the photo back on the shelf, squared it just so. He thought that day was our new beginning, and kept the photo all these years, never guessing that it was a great, giant lie.
    I’d thought that I was ready to come home, but now I was no longer sure. My father was not here. There was nothing for me here. Yet, as I turned, I saw the page on his desk, fine stationery next to an expensive burgundy pen my mother had once given him. “Dear Adam,” it read. Then nothing else. Emptiness. How long had he stared at that blank paper, I wondered, and what would he have said, had the words actually come?
    I left the room as I’d found it, wandered back into the main part of the house. New art adorned the walls, including a portrait of my adopted sister. She was eighteen the last time I’d seen her, a fragile young woman who’d sat every day in the courtroom, yet had been unable to meet my eyes. She was my sister, and we’d not spoken since the day I left, but I didn’t hold that against her. It was as much my fault as hers. More, really.
    She’d be twenty-three now, a mature woman, and I looked again at her portrait: the easy smile, the confidence. It could happen, I thought. Maybe.
    The picture of Miriam turned me to thoughts of Jamie, her twin brother. In my absence, responsibility for the crews would have fallen to him. I went to the big staircase and yelled his name. I heard footsteps and a muffled voice. Then, stocking feet at the top of the stairs, followed by jeans grimed at the cuff, and an impossibly muscular torso beneath pale, thin hair spiked with some kind of gel. Jamie’s face had filled out, lost the angles of youth, but