Then I made dinner and ate it and watched something on television that I don’t remember now.
The process was moving forward. The executed instrument was in the right hands. My name was in it.
That night I dreamed about my father, which I had not done before then. Nothing significant in the dream — he was just there, in his kitchen, making coffee the way he made coffee, with the particular inefficiency he’d always brought to that specific task. He didn’t say anything. He was just there, making coffee, in the dream.
I woke up and lay there in the dark for a while.
Then I went back to sleep.
## What I Didn’t Say to Vanessa
There were things I didn’t say to Vanessa in any of the calls or the one face-to-face conversation we’d had since the reading. I want to be honest about that.
I didn’t say: I know you saw the page numbers.
I didn’t say: The waiver is the thing that makes me unable to believe the old-copy explanation.
I didn’t say: I know that what he wrote on page three was partly about you. About what the two of you had, and what Dad thought I’d missed out on, and what he wanted to correct.
I didn’t say any of this because I was not sure what saying it would accomplish. I didn’t have the certainty that the first statement required. The second was an inference, even if a strong one. And the third — the third was something I was still figuring out myself.