Where'd You Go, Bernadette

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21

A flurry of emails between Uncle Van and Dad

Elgie,

Ahoy there, stranger. Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to your parts. Christmas is a busy time for me. Let’s take a rain check. (You probably hear that a lot in Seattle.)

Mahalo,

Van

Van,

Maybe I didn’t make it clear. This is an emergency involving my family. I’ll cover all costs and any lost wages. The dates are Dec. 22 through Dec. 25.

Bro,

Maybe I was the one who didn’t make it clear. I have a life in Hawaii. I have responsibilities. I can’t hop on a plane just because you decide to grace me with your first email in five years and invite me to spend Christmas in a hotel.

Van,

You’re a fucking house sitter. Bernadette is sick. Bee doesn’t know. I need you to spend the day with Bee while I get Bernadette help. I know we’ve lost touch, but I want Bee to be with family. I apologize if the hotel offer appeared brusque. My house is a shambles. The guest room has been boarded up for years because of a hole in the floor that nobody bothered to repair. It all relates to Bernadette’s illness. Come on.

Elgie,

I’ll do it for Bee. Book me on the direct flight out of Kona. There’s one first-class seat left, and it would be sweet if you could nab it. There’s a Four Seasons that shows availability in junior suites facing the water. I found someone to cover for me so there’s no rush flying me back.