i. Anamnesis

"I'm marrying Jamie in the spring," she says softly, almost under her breath. "I wish you could be there. I know he does too, but you know that already."

She looks around as the wind picks up, and pulls her blue scarf a little closer around her throat.

A chilly mist clings like cobwebs to the birches and tall rhododendrons that skirt the grassy meadow, but it's rolling away fast as the day warms up. She feels more of a spiritual affinity for the mist than the dewy grass and the ground beneath. She's never been fond of the idea of interment. The thought of being stuck in one place gives her the creeping shudders. It always has. If you had to pick one place, though, she thinks, you could do worse than this. At least there is wide open sky here, unobstructed by wires and buildings and poles.

She's been here before, to the Reagan family plot in Calvary Cemetery in Queens, but never alone, and never without Jamie. It feels very nearly as if she were meeting them all for a coffee date by herself – Joe, Mary, Betty and Linda. All of them happy to see her but carefully checking her out, as Reagans do. She is, after all, a part of their shared history now.

She crouches down on the heels of her boots and braces an elbow on her knee, the way she does when speaking eye-to-eye with children on the job.

"I have no idea how this works," she says, frankly, addressing the row of headstones in front of her, "or if this works. I'm not exactly Catholic. I think on some level I've always been a reincarnationist. That's gonna be a whole other thing we have to deal with. But I do know that you meant the world to Jamie, and it's because of you that he's the person he is. So – thank you. He's really a great guy…and I am so, so lucky. I wish I could have met you," she continues, and then glances over at Linda's headstone, still clean and unweathered. "You knew all along, I think. Well, you were right. I wish you were here. I could really use a hand dealing with all these Reagans. Oh, I brought you something."

She slips her hand into the pocket of her navy woolen pea coat and pulls out a small paper bag. "Crocuses," she says, "from the garden at the house. Henry's idea."

Unfolding the top of the bag, she tips the bulbs into her gloved hand. The cemetery allows one small permanent planter for each plot, and the Reagans each have a wide-lipped bowl in dark green glazed ceramic at foot of each grave. Eddie leans forward and, slipping off one glove, pokes a few bulbs under the soil in each bowl, patting it down on top. She pinches off a few deadheads from the last of the miniature roses, and plucks out a weed or two. "There. They'll keep over the winter."

She stands up and dusts her hands on her knees before tugging her glove back on with a decisive nod. "Anyway," she says, "I just wanted to come by and say hi. And it's not just Jamie who wishes you were here. I – my mother, she – I think I'm gonna need a sympathetic counterforce, if you know what I mean, and I think you and Betty would have been able to tell her exactly what was what," she grins at the parallel graves occupied by Mary and Betty. "And I'm gonna need someone to talk to, women who've been married a long time, I mean. Like you all were. And Joe, you have to help me keep that boy in line, because he's still his own worst enemy when he gets stuck in his head."

She's surprised by the physical sense of knowing when the conversation is done. She hasn't had much reason to spend time communing with the dead. The idea that communion is a two-way process strikes her anew, especially here, surrounded on all sides by Catholic imagery and memory. She looks around, and with a nod of finality, smiles as if she might be saying goodbye to anyone after coffee, and then turns down the path between the rows.

It went far better than she anticipated, even if she hadn't known what to expect. It was an idea that had taken shape last week at dinner, as Frank and Henry were arguing about whether this was the year they should finally hire a younger gardener for the heavy outdoor work before winter. Henry wanted to pull up the crocus bulbs himself to be dried out and wintered in the shed, not trusting anyone else. He'd taken Eddie outside and shown her what he meant.

"These were Betty's favorites," he'd said, pointing his cane at a patch along the south fence that looked nearly bare and scraggly to Eddie, though she knew it was a carpet of yellow and purple and white in the spring. "Take her some, will you?"

He'd meant for her and Jamie to plant them together, but she had suddenly realized it was time she formed her own relationships with the Reagans of the past. It hit her how unrooted she had always been. Her father was perpetually busy, and was now in his sixth year at Fort Dix. Her mother had always been off in her own world, and her father's parents up in Philadelphia, transplanted from the old country to a small enclave of fellow Hungarian seniors, she saw only once a year or so as a child. That was all the family she'd ever known.

Maybe it was no wonder she'd been drawn to the deep traditionalism of the NYPD, as she sought for a place to plant her flag and try to make something of her name. Maybe that was why Jamie's family both fascinates and scares her a little, still.

The being-stuck-in-one-place thing, after all.

But marrying Jamie doesn't feel like that. It feels like having someone to go on even more adventures with.

And speaking of adventures, she should get a move on.

ii. Anamchara

It's been a couple of years since he visited Topos. It hasn't changed a bit, he thinks, approaching it on foot from the M train stop, past ground-level shops and comfy low-rise apartments. The journey to the indie bookstore-café was always part of the experience, getting out of downtown and watching the neighborhoods change on the way to Queens. Even the musicians played differently at the stations along the way, preferring to share the experience of making music instead of drawing audiences with high-energy crowd-pleasing performances.

The other day when he and Eddie were telling each other stories about memorable dates they'd been on, he'd remembered coming out here to see Syd, at least every few weeks. Topos was a perfect place to meet for coffee and browse the shelves before heading to whatever else they had planned. It's got a classic used-bookstore feel combined with a café that remember the little details. It's a place that reminds you that every book is a moment, a journey of a consciousness encapsulated in words and cellulose fiber.

Sometimes they never left, taking turns getting refills, reading bits out loud to each other. When Syd was studying for her law school exams at St. John's, he'd sometimes bribe her to get some sunlight and real food by bringing her here, and they would re-try cases together like normal people enjoying a debate, not like feuding lawyers pacing the confines of her shoebox-sized living room.

It's Eddie he's come to meet this time. She's never had the Topos experience, it turns out, having been raised in Katonah. He thinks she'll like it there. He looks forward to overlaying old memories with new ones. She doesn't have a lot of time for reading these days, but they've decided they want to make time to read and share the same books more often.

(He loves the sound of her reading voice. He's found himself shutting up and just listening to her reading news stories off her phone, in the cruiser. It's not a skill that comes naturally to everyone.)

He pushes the door open, and is startled to hear a nearby voice call out, "Jameson Reagan!"

"Howie," he grins, reaching out his hand to the aproned store clerk, "You still here, buddy?"

"I'm never leaving," Howie says flatly, shaking his hand. "It's been what, four, five years?"

"More like seven or eight," Jamie admits. "But I, ah, I'm meeting my fiancée here in a bit. You'll get to meet her."

"Aw, hey, you guys finally – "

"No, no, different lady," he says quickly. "My old partner on the job. We're both cops. I joined the family business after all."

Howie is stunned into near silence. "Whoa," he says. "I guess I shoulda seen that coming."

"Well, I didn't," Jamie shrugs, "I mean, I always sort of had it at the back of my mind that that's what I was supposed to want, but I had to get around to wanting it for myself."

"Dude. That's awesome." Howie shakes his head admiringly, "Well, I've got part ownership in the store now, so I guess that's my big change. And spinning on weekends still, but um, probably you wouldn't be into that scene. Not being a cop."

"Sweet. It's looking great in here," Jamie replies, diplomatically ignoring the rest. "Let me go get a coffee, and I'll bring Eddie over to say hi when she gets here."

"Totally. Hey, check out True Crime. There's some old stuff about the 60's mob scene I bet you'd love."

"I bet I would."

He meanders off and finds that Howie's unerring sense of a reader's taste is still as sharp as ever. It's not long before he's sitting at one end of a wicker couch, poring over old black and white photos of Gambinos, Genoveses and Colombos, in pinstripes and tilted fedoras. He can practically smell the cigar smoke, and then he realizes that the old volume itself is permeated with the scent: someone was really embracing the spirit of the times as they read.

He closes his eyes and remembers Syd smoking at the little cast-iron table outside the café when she was stressed out: now, that's something he'd almost forgotten. She used to not let him to kiss her after, saying she was sure she'd taste like an ashtray, but he knows now that wasn't it. He hopes she's found where she needs to be.

"Are we planning a take-down?" Eddie asks pertly. He looks up, and there she is, rosy-cheeked and windblown in a way that makes his heart jump a little. She's got a steaming vanilla latté in her gloved hands, and her eyes have a sparkle he hasn't seen at work for a while.

"Hey! You made it."

"Yup. Long way out, but worth it. Especially on a day like this."

The morning gloom has lifted, and it's turned into a perfect crisp autumn day. A gift indeed, on a rare shared day off. It's been weeks since they had time to be together and just breathe, and remember who they are and who they want to be. That's only going to get more important, he reminds himself. Maybe afternoons here with Syd don't need to be overwritten so much as built upon. They knew a good thing when they found it.

There's no regrets or loose ends dangling, he thinks. It feels a little like showing off an old photo album, bringing Eddie here.

"You want me to show you around?" he offers.

"In a bit," she says, sitting down next to him on the couch. She leans into him and begins to unbutton her jacket, making herself comfortable. "Tell me," she begins, "tell me what your mom liked to read."