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have a busy week ahead of me. I sit down to work but am distracted by the airplane note tucked into the right-hand corner of my monitor.  It stares at me as I read countless memos and answer endless emails. Strangely, though, I find the note is keeping me company.  Its presence represents her existence. She was not a phantom. She really did exist.  I feel her here with me, close to me.
    Ping . An email just popped in my inbox. I don’t recognize the sender but I open it anyways.
     
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Chicago
     
    Are you the Eric who was in Chicago this past weekend?
    AXC
     
    Who the hell is this? I met a lot of people in Chicago over the weekend just as I do every time I travel. Who did I talk to? I try to recall the conversations I had with other conference attendees but none of them are jumping out at me.  A hotmail address?  How did this person find my email address? I didn’t distribute any business cards, nor was I wearing one of those nametags you get when you register for conferences. I frown as I contemplate emailing this person back but the phone ringing beside me interrupts my train of thought.
    “Hey, JFK Jr, how are things?” It’s my sister, Claudia, David’s mother. Ever since one of her high school friends commented to her once years ago that she thought I looked like JFK, Jr., Claudia has rechristened me. At the time, I didn’t even know who JFK Jr. was but Claudia assured me that he was some major heartthrob all the women went crazy for.  Then the tragic Cessna plane crash that ended his life a few years later only elevated my status for them as a stand-in JFK Jr. A huge compliment, nonetheless, but one that I am not sure I entirely agree with. Yes, I have the height, and I’ll even give them that I have similar dark hair and eyes. But, I think that’s where the similarity ends.
    “Hey, Claudia,” I respond half-dazed refocused now on the note wedged in the corner of my monitor.  
    “How was Chicago? It was Chicago where you went this weekend, wasn’t it?” she asks. It always surprises me how much my sister takes a genuine interest in my life.
    “Chicago was fine. Thanks. How’s David?” I ask.
    “He’s great, as usual. One month left of school and he’s already thinking about summer vacation,” she says.
    “I’ll pick him up at noon on Saturday, if that’s all right with you and Ryan?” Ryan is my brother-in-law, David’s father. Claudia and Ryan are both lawyers with busy careers and even busier lives. My Saturday outing with their only child gives them the chance to spend time together or catch up on things. I know they appreciate how much time I spend with David and, besides, the pleasure of being with the world’s greatest kid is all mine to enjoy.
    “Yes, of course it’s fine with both of us. David adores you and is looking forward to it. Listen, the reason why I am calling is to let you know that I was speaking to Mary over the weekend and she had some bad news. Apparently, Mr. Callahan is not doing well at all. The disease is spreading quickly and his prognosis isn’t very good.”
    “Shit,” I sigh, more bad news. Mr. Callahan is my best friend Danny’s father. Or should I say, was my best friend Danny’s father? The reason why Danny isn’t telling me about his dad’s illness is because Danny is dead. We lost Danny; it will be three years ago next month, to one of those tragic accidents that you hear about on the evening news but never think will happen to you or anyone you know.  Danny was driving to work one morning along one of Toronto’s busiest highways when a speeding tractor-trailer tipped on its side, fell over the ramp and onto Danny’s car below.  Danny was killed instantly. Days later, instead of celebrating his wedding as his best man, I was honoring his life at his funeral service as his pallbearer. 
    Danny and I grew up on the same street in Toronto’s west end. Like me, he too had an older