“FATHER TOM,” REBECCA Myer says, “what a surprise.”
It’s the next afternoon. “I hope I’m not coming at an inconvenient time,” I say as I step into the foyer of the Myer home. “And I apologize for not calling first, but I was out on my sick calls and was passing when I thought I’d stop in and see how you were doing.”
She closes the door and stands with her arms crossed. “Fine, I suppose,” she says. “It’s still hard to believe, even though it’s been, what, two weeks? It seems like only yesterday we got a visit from the police telling us that Rachel . . . ” She trails off as tears well up. I hand her my handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she says as she dabs her eyes. “Sorry about this.”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Grief is so strange, so unpredictable. I’ll be going along with my day, and suddenly I’
