inky foothills sprinkled with a million dots of light. He kept reliving Ingrid’s account of her mother, perplexed by it. During the previous four days, she had reveled in a million colorful stories about her years at the university, travels to the Middle East and South Pacific, stays on the Big Island, cherished colleagues, memorable students; and then so much about her father Max, so many endearing traits and happy memories. But the recollections of her mother were surprisingly bare-boned, devoid of any joy or nostalgia, and almost mechanical in the telling. Did Ingrid share no special times with her mother, were there no little side stories, no particulars that made their relationship unique or memorable?
        He remembered his Uncle Ralph long ago telling a story about Martha. He said she had always been deathly afraid of going to dentists and went years without visiting one. Then when she was in her late fifties, she had a toothache that really bothered her. She put off making an appointment for as long as she could but finally couldn’t delay any longer. She had an appointment scheduled for a Monday morning. On Sunday morning, the day before, she had a heart attack and died.
        Michael sipped his drink.
        He thought of Martha’s imposing presence, severe face and harsh manner. Then he felt sympathetic toward her. Her life was probably bleaker and more isolated than he ever considered. She had grown up in a small town in Germany and when she immigrated to the United States, was probably ill at ease with the strange language and customs of Los Angeles. Maybe she lived in a world of fear and avoidance, overwhelmed by life, compensating with a façade of bluster and self-assurance. Maybe Martha wasn’t as insensitive as he had concluded. Maybe Ingrid’s account was sparse because Martha died so long ago and the memories were now distant. And maybe the memories were just too painful to dredge up.

#

        In the darkness, he was aware of Ingrid’s presence in the house. Every room, every piece of furniture, every wall hanging and souvenir reminded him of her. It was hard to believe she would never set foot here again. She had occupied this house for forty years, lived a solitary existence, going to the university each day, collecting underwater fossils, identifying, labeling, ordering, writing scholarly works, and teaching.
        He finished his drink and made another. The alcohol made the twinkling lights and muted little houses more spectacular.
        Yes, Ingrid undeniably lived a good, honest life. He wondered if she’d accomplished all she hoped. From their conversations, he suspected the answer was yes, at least as much as it can be for anyone. Maybe that was why she chose to let the cancer take its course without opposition. Or maybe