Chương 9
Today had been Diane’s weekend.
“I didn’t think he needed to know.”
“You thought some lawyer from work needed to know.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Diane opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
Noah looked away.
The disappointment on his face was quieter than anger and harder to watch.
Diane reached toward him.
He stood before she could touch his arm.
“I’m getting water.”
He went inside.
Diane watched the screen door close behind him.
“I didn’t mean for any of this.”
Grandma gave her a tired look.
“Most disasters don’t begin with somebody meaning the whole disaster.”
Diane stared at the concrete.
“I thought Claire was making everyone afraid to question her.”
I leaned back against the porch post.
“And you decided the best person to verify that was Tessa.”
“I didn’t know what she was really doing.”
“You knew she had lost custody.”
“That doesn’t mean everything she says is false.”
“No.”
The answer stopped her.
I rubbed my thumb against a splinter in the porch rail.
“You’re right about that.”
Diane looked at me.
I continued.
“Tessa can lie about me and still tell the truth about other things.”
Hannah watched us carefully.
“She can love Hannah and still have made choices that weren’t safe.”
Diane’s face shifted.
She had expected another fight.
So had I.
I was too tired for the simpler version of her.
“Did you ever ask why she contacted you instead of her attorney?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Diane gave a brittle laugh.
“Because I liked that she thought I was reasonable.”
Grandma looked at her.
Diane shrugged once, miserably.
“There.”
She rubbed under one eye.
“You wanted the ugly truth.”
Noah had returned with a bottle of water.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
Diane saw him.
Her shoulders dropped.
“I thought Claire had decided anyone who wasn’t enthusiastic about adoption was against Hannah.”
I felt the accusation land because part of it was deserved.
Last Christmas, Diane had asked whether we should wait before putting Hannah’s name on the embroidered family stockings Grandma ordered every few years.
I had nearly stopped speaking to her over it.
At the time I had heard rejection.
Maybe she had meant caution.
Maybe both were true.
“That doesn’t excuse what you did today,” I said.
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t excuse sharing private messages.”
“I know.”
Noah crossed the porch and handed Hannah the bottle instead of his mother.
Hannah drank and gave it back.
“Did my mom ask about me?”
Diane looked confused.
“What?”
“In the messages.”
Diane’s face softened.
“Yes.”
Hannah waited.
“What did she ask?”
Diane unlocked the phone again.
“She asked what you liked now.”
Hannah’s chin moved slightly.
“What else?”
“She asked if you still drew horses.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.”
“How would you know?”
Diane almost smiled.
“Your grandmother’s refrigerator.”
Grandma glanced toward the kitchen.
A watercolor of a very lopsided fox had been magneted there since February.
Hannah looked down.
“What else?”
Diane scrolled.
“She asked if you still hated pickles.”
“I don’t hate pickles.”
Noah said, “You absolutely hate pickles.”
“I hate sweet pickles.”
“That is still a pickle.”
“Not the same.”
The argument lasted three seconds.
Then Hannah looked at Diane’s phone again.
“Did she ask if I was happy?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
Diane swallowed.
“I said you seemed quiet.”
I frowned.
“You’ve seen her six times this year.”
“I know.”
“That isn’t enough to judge her.”
“I know that now.”
Hannah picked at the label on the water bottle.
“You told my mom I was quiet?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Diane read silently.
Then her eyes moved to me.
“What?”
“She said Hannah gets quiet when she’s planning how to leave a room.”
Hannah froze.
I looked at her.
“Is that true?”
She gave a tiny shrug.
“Hannah.”
“Sometimes.”
The answer disturbed me more than it should have.
Not because it was frightening.
Because I had not noticed.
Eleven months of watching her, caring for her, learning the foods she would eat and the sounds that woke her and the way she hated being touched from behind, and Tessa had named something I had missed.
Hannah saw the change in my face.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Get weird.”
“I’m not getting weird.”
“You are.”
She pointed at me.
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The face where you think you failed a test.”
Grandma muttered, “Accurate.”
I ignored her.
“I’m allowed to learn something about you.”
Hannah looked at the porch boards.
“My mom knows stuff.”
“Yes.”
“And you know stuff.”
“Yes.”
“She knows old stuff.”
“Some.”
“You know new stuff.”
“Some.”
She frowned, as if trying to solve an equation nobody had explained.
Then she said, “I know both.”
The sentence sat between us.
I nodded.
“You do.”
Her phone was inside her backpack.
She suddenly reached for it.
“I want to show you something.”
She unlocked it and opened a message thread I had never seen.
The number was unsaved.
There were only four messages.
The first was from Hannah.
Are you okay.
The second came seventeen minutes later.
Yes baby.
The third was from Hannah two months later.
Did you tell Trent where I live.
The fourth had arrived three days ago.
No.
I took the phone carefully.
“You sent this three days ago?”
Hannah nodded.
“Why?”
“She texted me from another number before.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“What did she say?”
Hannah opened a second thread.
There was one message.
If anyone asks, you have not seen me.
My chest tightened.
“Did you answer?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Hannah’s eyes filled with anger.
“Because every time I tell an adult something, five other adults get to decide what it means.”
Nobody spoke.
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, irritated with herself.
“I didn’t want another meeting.”
I sat beside her again.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I should have told you about the hearing.”
“I know.”
May you like
“We are both doing a terrible job.”
That got a small laugh out of her.
