I boarded the bus, left town, and spent the next fifty-six years believing I would never see him again.
The ringing telephone pulled me out of the memory.
I knew who it was before I answered.
“Nancy, it’s Raymond,” a cheerful voice said. “I’m checking on my favorite cousin.”
Favorite cousin.
Raymond and I had barely spoken in thirty years.
But ever since I returned to town, he had started calling nearly every week.
His voice was always friendly, yet his questions made me uncomfortable.
“How’s the apartment?” he asked. “Rent must be difficult on a pension.”
“I’m managing.”
“Have you organized your paperwork? Your will? Your banking information? A woman living alone at your age needs to prepare for these things.”
I forced my voice to remain polite.
