I know getting rid of the flapping and Barney would probably help Anthony in some ways. He'd appear more normal. It'd be easier for him to be mainstreamed in school, to engage with other kids his age (there's not a neurotypical six-year-old kid on this planet who loves Barney).

But here's the thing. Anthony isn't normal. There. I wrote it down, and the world didn't end. I didn't die, and neither did he. He's not normal. He has autism, and his autism makes him flap his hands instead of saying That noise you're not even aware of is making me crazy or I love Barney so much!

So I don't want to extinguish Anthony's hand flapping or his love of Barney, but I'm afraid to tell David this. He's going to disagree. He's going to say it's giving up on Anthony. Not long ago, I would've said the same thing. But now I don't see it that way. The way I see it, we can look at Anthony's hand flapping and see an abnormal behavior that needs to be eliminated, or we can see our son bravely communicating what he wants and feels the only way he knows how to. We can look at Anthony rewinding Barney over and over and call it an obsession that needs to be treated, or we can call it love.

David's going to say, If we don't get rid of these autistic behaviors, then he'll never be normal. He'll always be different.

And my answer to this is going to be Yes. He will always be different.

And the world won't end, and I won't die. And Anthony will be in the living room, loving Barney.

CHAPTER 29.

It's now November, and the island continues to thin out, shedding the fat, each pa.s.sing week seeing fewer weekenders and day-trippers. Olivia can go for long walks on the beach or along the roads of her own neighborhood without seeing anyone. Downtown is still open for business, but only because the merchants are all hanging in there for Christmas Stroll, one final bonanza chance to squeeze big dollars out of the tourists before winter officially sets in. After December, she knows most retailers will shut their doors for at least three months. Until the Chamber of Commerce invents some kind of organized excuse for people to come in the winter-the Nantucket Ice Sculpture Festival in January, the Nantucket Winter Olympics in February, the Nantucket Coffee Festival in March-no one will be back until spring. Nantucket is a quaint and seasonal island playground, not a winter destination, and certainly not a place any reasonable person would live year-round.

Olivia's professional life is about to close for the season as well. She has one portrait session left to edit and then no more work. Her days are becoming lean and slow, unpressured and simple, and she now welcomes the change.

It's late afternoon, and she is walking to her mailbox because she forgot to go this morning before breakfast and after reading from one of her journals as is her routine. Reading and rereading her journals these past many months has given her the gentle time and s.p.a.ce to go back to what happened with compa.s.sionate eyes and a loving heart, to discover what she didn't know then, what she couldn't have known because it was all too raw, too immediate. She was too inside the emotions and the journey then to see them, never mind understand them. Now she does.

She sees her denial and then the scary anger that replaced the denial. She sees her despair and David's, too, and the boundless chasm that grew between them. But more than anything, the thing that she sees now with the most clarity that stays inside her for hours and days after she closes her journal, is Anthony. Not the denial of Anthony's autism or the anger about his autism or the despair over his autism. Not even Anthony and his autism. Just simply Anthony.

She sighs, wishing she knew then what she understands now.

She strolls alone in the middle of the road over long shadows, mindful of the sounds of seagulls overhead, wind chimes in the distance, the rhythm of her footsteps scratching sand against the pavement. The air is wet and salty and cold. Walking feels good. It enlivens her brain, convincing scared and buried thoughts that it's safe to come out of hiding, inviting incomplete thoughts to show their jagged edges, welcoming the wandering and the weak. When she walks, her thoughts line up in her mind like white rocks where they can be clearly seen and cared for. Today, as she walks, she's thinking about her sister and mother.

Maria wants her to come home to Georgia for Thanksgiving. It would be good to see her. Olivia misses her older sister. But the work of packing, leaving the island by ferry or plane, enduring at least one connecting flight, sleeping on the couch in Maria's living room, all feels impossibly overwhelming.

And despite her substantial and growing guilt over not having seen Maria's kids in ages, Olivia's still not ready to spend time with them, her beautiful niece and nephew, Anthony's cousins, older now, thriving, so capable. Alive. And it's not just the kids. It's Maria's entire life. Maria has always, effortlessly had it better, easier. She had the better grades, the cuter boyfriends. She attended a more prestigious college, landed a higher-paying job. She's taller. And now look at her, happily married with two healthy children. Olivia knows this comparison isn't fair or productive, but if she goes to Maria's house for Thanksgiving, it's also inevitable.

And she's definitely not ready to deal with her mother, who, according to Maria, is still going to church every day, clad head to toe in black, where, in addition to still praying for Anthony, she now prays for Olivia's divorced soul. She's also probably saying a few rosaries to clear her own name, to be sure G.o.d knows she's in no way responsible for Olivia's shameful and sinful act against the Church. Olivia doesn't have the strength to go home and be judged by her religion and her mother.

Maria says Olivia can't stay in hiding forever. This is without question why Olivia came here in March, but without intending to, and just as the rest of the island prepares to go into hibernation, she feels the possibility of emerging, of beginning a new life. Maybe Nantucket isn't simply a temporary asylum for her, a shelter from her grief and the life she didn't get to live. Maybe this is her home.

Her remote residence is also the perfect excuse, her refuge from dreadful air travel, unbecoming jealousy, and eternal d.a.m.nation. No, she's not going to Georgia for Thanksgiving. She's staying home on Nantucket, grateful to be here.

She arrives at her mailbox, opens the door, and pulls out a small stack of mail. As she turns around, she sees a woman and her black dog walking along the side of the road. Olivia pauses with her mail in hand, realizing the woman and her dog are walking directly toward her. It's Beth Ellis.

"Hey!" says Beth, smiling. "You live here?"

"Yeah, I'm on Morton."

"You're kidding. I'm on Somerset. We're neighbors. How could we not know this?"

Olivia shrugs. Beth's dog sniffs Olivia's shoes and jeans for a few seconds before turning its feisty attention to her crotch. Beth pulls on its leash.

"Grover, no! . . . How long have you lived here?"

"Since March."

"Really? Tough month to move here."

"Yeah."

"Are you married?" asks Beth, not finding an answer on Olivia's gloved hand.

"Divorced."

Olivia watches Beth digest this bit of information as she opens her own mailbox and retrieves a thick stack of catalogs and envelopes.

"Do you have kids?" Beth asks.

"A son."

"Oh, how old?"

"Ten." He would be ten.

"Same age as my Gracie! Is he in fourth grade with Mrs. Gillis?"

"No, he doesn't live here."

"Oh."

That ended the inquisition, but Olivia can sense the additional questions tumbling in Beth's mind. What can that mean? Does he live with his father? What kind of mother doesn't live with her child? Where is he? Before she can verbalize any of them, Olivia changes the subject, hoping Beth will follow.

"Funny, I was just about to e-mail you. Your pictures are ready. Sorry it took so long."

"Oh, good! I was getting worried. I can't wait to see them. I want to use one of them for our Christmas card."

"I'll e-mail you the link as soon as I get home. They're great. You're going to love them."

The two women begin walking.

"I think my book is almost done," says Beth after an apprehensive silence.

"That's great. Congratulations."

"But I'm not sure. This might be a stupid question, but how do you know when it's done?"

Endings are difficult. Wrapping everything up in a tight, elegant bow. Leaving the reader with a satisfying The End. Saying good-bye.

"It has to have all the essential elements, a beginning, middle, and end. You just feel it. It's intuitive, I think. When you're done, you know."

"I don't know what I know. I've read it so many times now, my eyes skip over the words. I can't see it anymore."

"Maybe take some time away, then go back to it with fresh eyes."

Beth nods as she walks.

"I'd still like your feedback if you're still willing."

"When you're ready, I'd be happy to read it."

"Thanks so much," says Beth, smiling. "I'll put it in your mailbox when I know it's perfect."

"Don't aim for perfect. Aim for complete."

Perfection is an unattainable illusion.

"Okay," says Beth, uncertainty in her voice, as if she doesn't quite understand the difference. "I will."

They pause, facing each other at a fork in the road. Beth is staying straight, and Olivia is turning right. Beth waves, smiling, then walks away.

Olivia gets back to thinking as she walks home. She thinks about Beth and her novel. She wonders what it's about. She forgot to ask. She thinks about endings and intuition. She thinks about her marriage, how she and David both knew it was over, how they both saw their ending spelled out long before they arrived at the final page. She's thinking about the last time she saw him, lying under the stars and holding hands, when she reaches her front door and thumbs through the mail in her hand.

Tucked between the electric bill and a newsletter from the library is a letter from David.

CHAPTER 30.

Beth is sitting in her seat in the library, holding the printed pages of her novel in her hands, reading. She thinks it might be done, but then again, whenever she approaches this thought, an itch flares up inside her chest, nagging her from within like a burning-hot rash. Something's not quite right. Even if she doesn't aim for perfect, only complete, she can't declare her book finished.

Today she's reading what she's written, enjoying the story, but she's yet to identify what might be missing. She's on Chapter 10 now, the one about the Three Little Pigs.

I love when my mother reads the Three Little Pigs book to me. I love Three Little Pigs, but it's not the story about a wolf and pigs that I love. I'm not "obsessed" with pigs, and I'm not afraid of that big bad wolf. It's the music of my mother's voice, singing in threes. There are perfect threes all over that story: Lit-tle pig. Lit-tle pig.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

Let. Me. In.

One. Two. Three.

Even the t.i.tle makes me smile. Three words AND the number three.

My mother reads Three Little Pigs, and I feel the big drumbeats inside those words thump-thump-thumping. I jump to the sound of the book's drum, thumping in perfect threes: Knock. Knock. Knock.

One. Two. Three.

Jump. Jump. Jump.

My mother reads Three Little Pigs, and she sings a waltz. I spin and dance to her beautiful song.

Not by the Hair on my Chinny-chin-chin.

Then I'll huff.

And I'll puff.

And I'll blow Your house in.

My mother finishes the story and closes the book. I jump and squeal and flap my hands, begging her to sing it again. She says she's tired of the Three Little Pigs book. She says I'm getting too old for this story. She wants to read something else.

She pulls two books that are not Three Little Pigs from the bookcase and shows me their shiny covers. But I don't want to hear those books that are not about the sounds of three.

My mother sighs and puts those books I don't want away. She opens Three Little Pigs and reads again: Lit-tle pig. Lit-tle pig. Let. Me. In.

One-two-three. One-two-three. One. Two. Three.

My mother reads my favorite story, and my world sings.

CHAPTER 31.

"So why aren't you writing today?" asks Petra.

Beth and Petra are sitting at a corner booth at Dish, splitting a heaping plate of sinfully rich and fattening lobster mac-n-cheese. It's early afternoon on a Wednesday in November, and the restaurant is dead. The two people who came in for lunch left an hour ago. This is how it goes midweek in the restaurant business on Nantucket in November. Petra will limp along until Christmas Stroll, then close down until April 1.

"I think it might be done," says Beth.

Petra's eyes widen, excited.

"Really? You finished your book?"

"I don't know, I'm not sure. I'm taking some time away from it so I can see it clearly and then decide if it's really done."

Petra mutters a laugh through a mouthful of lobster and macaroni.