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melting snow with hair dryers.
    Harvey loved Paris most in springtime, when sudden showers swelled the Seine, turning the water brown, and birds returned to the parks, where people ate lunch under statues dismembered by weather or furred over with moss.
    In the occasional handwritten letter from home, her father shared news of his life and goings-on in the neighborhood, and would always mention some detail or moment from childhood—such as the time they went to the mansion at Old Westbury Gardens during a heat wave. Harvey had taught him to do cartwheels on the grand lawn, but the sight of him trying made her scream with laughter.
    After, they went to Ben’s Kosher Deli at Wheatley Plaza, and had potato pancakes with applesauce, rainbow cookies, and grape juice. Outside the restaurant, lying on the low wall of a small fountain, too hot and too full to do anything, Harvey asked her father for a penny because she wanted to make a wish.
    She told him to make one too, and he wished that nothing would change.
    â€œYou weren’t supposed to tell me,” she scolded. “Now it won’t come true!”
    S HE WOULD PRESENT to him the fountains of Paris; the lush gardens; the Church of the Madeleine and Notre Dame. Maybe they would trek to Versailles and get some pictures together in a rowboat, or sharing cake at Marie Antoinette’s house . . .
    The last parcel Harvey received from the United States was not from her father but had a return address in Franklin, Wisconsin. The shipping to Paris had cost more than the item itself. Harvey’s hands had searched among the balled-up pages of some midwestern regional weekly until she felt the smooth leather sides and rough stitching on the seams.
    It wasn’t the actual baseball from that day, but was still a baseball. The other objects that made up his Father’s Day gift were already packed into the shoebox in her closet.
    She had stayed awake so many nights rehearsing the moment she would give it to him, and had already picked the restaurant where he would open the box and discover the first piece. They would be sitting outside under lamps on a terrace. He would be staring at the shoebox, wondering what was inside and preparing to be overjoyed, regardless of the contents.
    Sometimes, in the shallow waters of sleep, Harvey invented some vague speech or a few sentences to accompany his gift. Other times she just lay in silent thought, floating upon the surface of possibility.

X
    A S PASSENGERS STREAMED into the arrivals terminal, Harvey raised her sign.
    WELCOME TO PARIS DAD!
    People read it and smiled.
    After making it, Harvey had worried that he might be embarrassed but decided to hold it up anyway. She was going to write JASON on the sign but thought DAD would be better. It would be something for him to look back on, to put in his letters, or to tell coworkers at the supermarket when they asked about his big trip.
    Harvey’s father was the only passenger actually carrying a suitcase and not wheeling it. She saw him first and was surprised at how his ponytail had thinned and gone gray. He was smaller too, in his frame, and this shocked her.
    Her father sometimes used a cane to get around, but pride had packed it in his luggage, so he moved slow enough to hide his limp. When he noticed Harvey at the guardrail with the sign held up, he rushed forward, almost losing his balance.
    Harvey led him to one side and they sat down.
    â€œDid you like my sign, Dad?”
    He touched it with his hand. “I’ll take it back with me, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œI wasn’t sure if you’d be embarrassed.”
    â€œIt’s great,” he told her. “Really great. I can’t believe I’m here.”
    â€œHow was your flight?”
    â€œAwesome.”
    â€œWas the food okay?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” he said. “I was happy just to get something.”
    â€œDid you sleep?”
    â€œNah,” he said, wiping his