Excerpt from Imagine Me Gone by Adam Haslett, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Suddenly, my eyes are brimming with tears. I wipe them away. John hasn't seen it. "Spend time with Michael," I say. "While we're up here. Take him on the boat, the two of you. Or pack a lunch and take a walk. Will you?"

"What's the matter?" he asks, not looking up from the paper.

"Nothing's the matter. He'd never ask for it. Any more than Alec would stop asking. Are you listening?"

"Yes," he says, meeting my glance now. "That's fine."

"Would you get me a glass of that?"

"This?" he says, holding up his highball, surprised.

"Yes." He goes to the sideboard and pours me a drink.

I sip it on the couch beside him while he reads a while longer. I've seen him at the mirror when he doesn't see me, glancing at the strands of gray at his temples, trying on the notion that they make him look distinguished, a state he's always aspired to, tinged with the fear that he hasn't accomplished enough yet, that the gray means nothing more than getting older.

I should ask him about the meetings he had this week, about the possible new investors in the fund he's been trying to raise for over a year now, if he's still worried about how long they'll commit for, or, rather, still worried as much. He needs to be asked. He won't talk about it of his own accord. He imagines that if he can contain it inside himself its resolution will be contained as well. That everything will work out—his upbringing distilled into a superstition.

He puts the paper aside and leans toward me and we touch foreheads. Sometimes this is prelude to a kiss, other times it's just its own little respite. Giving up effort, letting in the drowsiness which isn't yet sleep coming on but is the body gaining on the mind.

"Thank you," I say, combing my fingers through his hair.

"For what?"

"For this. For bringing us here."

He kisses my cheek. However nervous he was at the beginning about our lovemaking, he's always been gentle. I suppose some women would find this boring. I don't. Perhaps because most times between us feel like the overcoming of an unlikelihood, as if I was unsure if it would ever happen again and now here it is, happening. Finding him is such relief.

Celia

We'd already bought the lobsters from the lobsterman off the side of his boat, and the island was already in the distance when Dad turned the sputtering motor off and the little cloud of gray smoke that came out of it each time it stopped floated by me, filling my nose with the smell of gasoline. He tipped the propeller out of the water and took the key from the engine, putting it into the pocket of the pink pants I wished he wouldn't wear, and the boat stopped going forward against the waves and began to rock back and forth between them instead, like the logs we sometimes saw floating out beyond where the waves broke against the shore. Up the side of each wave and down the other, the boat moving farther out, away from the island. Dad lay down in the bottom of the boat, using one of the life preservers as a pillow. He closed his eyes and spoke to us like he did when he was taking a nap, with no expression on his face. All right, then, he said, imagine something happened and I can't drive the boat and you can't start the engine. What do you do now? Alec said, Why can't you start the boat? And Dad said, Imagine me gone, imagine it's just the two of you. What do you do? There weren't any boats around or much wind but the water made its own noise and the house was too far away for anyone to hear us if I yelled. I asked him if this was some kind of test. But the way he plays games is to be really serious about it, like it isn't a game, which makes the games he plays with us more exciting than anything else because everything matters the whole way through and you never know what's going to happen. It's never boring. Is it a test? I asked him again, and he just said, Imagine I'm not here. What's happening? Alec said. The back of his red life preserver came up above the top of his head because there weren't any small enough for him. When he had put it on the first time, Michael said he looked like an albino rabbit in a Soviet body cast, which made Dad smile and Alec cry because he didn't understand. What do you think is happening? I said. We have to figure out what to do if Dad is gone. It's like a safety drill at school. I don't want to, Alec said. Can you sit up now, Dad? But Dad kept his eyes closed and didn't say anything. He can take a nap anywhere and it was even possible he was actually already asleep. The lobsters in the canvas bag next to him were trying to get out but couldn't fit more than a claw through the knotted handles. We have to row, I said. If there's no engine, we have to use the oars. I picked up the one nearest me. It was long—much taller than I was—and heavy. I had sat between Dad's legs before and held both oars with his hands over mine so I knew how it worked but I needed both hands to lift one oar and when I put it over the edge of the boat, the water grabbed it, sliding it almost out of my hands, and I had to pull it back in again. Then I remembered they were supposed to go in the little metal horseshoes that hung on the chains either side of the middle bench. I told Alec to take the little horseshoe hanging on his side and put in the holder. For once, he did as he was told. When I got the oar in the holder, I put just a bit of the paddle in the water so it wouldn't get pulled down in again and I moved it back and forth. That's not how Dad does it, Alec said. You're doing it like a girl. In the direction the boat faced I saw only water and sky ahead of us and I had to turn to make sure that I could still see the island, which I could, but it looked even farther away than a minute ago. Dad, she can't do it, Alec said, shaking Dad's ankle. Get up now, please. We have to do it together, you little whiner, I said, or it doesn't work. I pulled my oar in and moved across the bench to pick up the other one. Here, I said, showing him how to hold it. Use both hands. Start out in front of you and then pull it toward you. You have to make sure it's in the water but not too much. He put his little freckled hands on the handle and sat there pouting. I slid back to my side—you're never supposed to stand up in small boats because you might lose your balance and fall—and put my oar in the water. Now put yours in the water, I said. We have to do it at the same time or it doesn't work. He put his paddle in the water but then he pushed the handle forward, which would make us go backwards, and because I wasn't looking at mine it splashed water and clanged against the side of the boat right next to where Dad was lying. His expression didn't change at all, like he really was asleep. It wasn't fair that he was doing this with Alec and me instead of me and Michael because if Michael had been here, even if I had to tell him what to do at least he'd be strong enough to use the oar and we could have moved the boat. But Alec was just too little and he was a crybaby. I don't want to play anymore, Dad, he whined. She doesn't know how to do it. Open your eyes, Dad. He's not here, I said. You can't whine to him because he's not here, didn't you hear him? We have to make the boat move, so stop whining. I showed you how to do it. You have to hold it out in front of you first and then pull it back. Don't be such a weakling. Just there's no engine, we have to use the oars. I picked up the one nearest me. It was long—much taller than I was—and heavy. I had sat between Dad's legs before and held both oars with his hands over mine so I knew how it worked but I needed both hands to lift one oar and when I put it over the edge of the boat, the water grabbed it, sliding it almost out of my hands, and I had to pull it back in again. Then I remembered they were supposed to go in the little metal horseshoes that hung on the chains either side of the middle bench. I told Alec to take the little horseshoe hanging on his side and put in the holder. For once, he did as he was told. When I got the oar in the holder, I put just a bit of the paddle in the water so it wouldn't get pulled down in again and I moved it back and forth. That's not how Dad does it, Alec said. You're doing it like a girl. In the direction the boat faced I saw only water and sky ahead of us and I had to turn to make sure that I could still see the island, which I could, but it looked even farther away than a minute ago. Dad, she can't do it, Alec said, shaking Dad's ankle. Get up now, please. We have to do it together, you little whiner, I said, or it doesn't work. I pulled my oar in and moved across the bench to pick up the other one. Here, I said, showing him how to hold it. Use both hands. Start out in front of you and then pull it toward you. You have to make sure it's in the water but not too much. He put his little freckled hands on the handle and sat there pouting. I slid back to my side—you're never supposed to stand up in small boats because you might lose your balance and fall—and put my oar in the water. Now put yours in the water, I said. We have to do it at the same time or it doesn't work. He put his paddle in the water but then he pushed the handle forward, which would make us go backwards, and because I wasn't looking at mine it splashed water and clanged against the side of the boat right next to where Dad was lying. His expression didn't change at all, like he really was asleep. It wasn't fair that he was doing this with Alec and me instead of me and Michael because if Michael had been here, even if I had to tell him what to do at least he'd be strong enough to use the oar and we could have moved the boat. But Alec was just too little and he was a crybaby. I don't want to play anymore, Dad, he whined. She doesn't know how to do it. Open your eyes, Dad. He's not here, I said. You can't whine to him because he's not here, didn't you hear him? We have to make the boat move, so stop whining. I showed you how to do it. You have to hold it out in front of you first and then pull it back. Don't be such a weakling. Just put it in the water and pull it toward you when I say go. We put our oars in and I said go and then the wave coming toward Alec's side lifted his oar out of the holder and it went into the ocean. Get it! I shouted. He tried but his arms were too short and I had to slide over again, tipping the side of the boat just a few inches from the water, and by then another wave had gone under us, taking the oar with it. I could see it a yard away and then more. Alec started sniffling. He shook Dad's leg again but Dad didn't move or open his eyes. It was hot in the sun and it hurt my eyes to look at the water because the light on it was blinding white. I looked back and we were getting farther away from where we'd been when Dad waved down the lobster boat and farther away from the island too. It was so unfair of him, leaving me with the crybaby. I lifted my oar out of the holder and crouched up to the front of the boat onto the little thin bench where you'd normally get wet from spray. This is what Dad did when there was fog and we were getting close to landing. He'd turn off the engine and row from the front, one stroke on one side, one stroke on the other, poking through the mist to find the jetty. He could do it sitting down, but I had to kneel on the bench to get high enough for the oar to go in the water. At least I could see the house from here so I knew what direction we should be moving in but it didn't do any good because mostly all I could manage was to keep the oar in my hand and not let it get sucked down by the weight of the

Excerpted from Imagine Me Gone by Adam Haslett. Copyright © 2016 by Adam Haslett. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.