Read The Other Side of the World for Free Online

her—and oh boy did I want to!—she drained her drink, chucked me on the arm, and left me in the kitchen. I waved good-bye to her after she was gone, but instead of thinking of her sweet mouth, or trying to recall what it felt like the time we did kiss, or imagining what it would be like if I went into her room later, lay down beside her, and began kissing her—I found myself picturing the two of us arriving at Trish’s house, with Trish embracing me, and the two of us kissing.
    What I’d also begun wondering about, from the moment I read the Make-A-Wish synopsis, was whether the story about the violinist was really about Seana, and if, like the woman in the story, Seana had come to our house in Northampton because, knowing she was dying, she wanted to be near her mentor during the time she had left. The idea for the novel had been my father’s, but I had to wonder if Seana had either confided her situation in him at some point, or if he somehow guessed that the only reason she would take up nesting rights in our house was because it was the one place where she felt safe—at home—and because she wanted to be close to him on her way out. I stood, felt my knees wobble, and put a hand on the back of a chair to steady myself. The room tilted to one side, and then to the other, as if it were a ship going through high, rolling waves, and I told myself that I’d done much too much wondering for one evening, and that it was time to go to sleep so that I might, if I got lucky, become lost in a wild and lovely storm-tossed sea of dreams.
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    After we’d made our way across the small cuff of New Hampshire that connected Massachusetts to Maine, and stopped for lunch in a shoreline diner outside Kennebunkport, I remembered what I’d been thinking the night before, and asked Seana if Make-A-Wish had anything to do with her.
    â€œIt was your father’s idea, not mine,” she said.
    â€œSure,” I said. “But you said you thought he might have
imagined some of the stories—at least the ones you showed me—in part because it was his way of giving you notions for novels that you imagined he might have imagined would be novels you might imagine.”
    â€œDon’t get meta-fictional on me,” she said.
    â€œMeta-who?”
    â€œActually, if you need reassurance, let it be known that Seana Shulamith McGee O’Sullivan subjects herself to regular check-ups—cervix, breasts, colon, heart, lungs—the works—and that the best medical teams have failed to discover anything to worry about. Which means I have to keep writing.”
    â€œBut I thought you love to write. You told me that nothing gives you more pleasure than writing.”
    â€œI love to write,” she said, pointing a fork at me. “But you’re missing the point, Charlie.” She tapped the flat side of the fork against the side of her head. “Use your noodle, fella. Whose story is it?”
    â€œOh,” I said. And then again: “Oh.”
    â€œOh,” she said.
    â€œBut he seems fine .”
    â€œSo do we all, some days.”
    â€œBut,” I began, and leaned forward. “I mean, do you really think that’s what it’s about?”
    â€œNo,” she said.
    â€œBut why—?”
    She shrugged and lifted her coffee mug, as if in a toast to Max, then sat back. “Who knows?” she said again. “Probably because I enjoy playing you—playing with you?—seeing what’s going on behind those moist brown eyes of yours. I used to love it when Max had to be out of town and he asked me to babysit you—he said I was there to house-sit so that you wouldn’t be offended and think he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. But it was the same then: when you’re especially happy or
sad—or scared—your eyes have the same beguiling quality your father’s eyes have, did you know