Chương 10
“Because Lily has one too.”
My own words seemed to move away from me.
We had gotten Lily a passport for a family trip to Mexico the previous spring.
Rachel had organized the documents.
She had made copies.
She had complained about how ugly everyone looked in passport photos.
“Where is Lily’s passport?”
Ruiz asked.
“In a fireproof document box.”
“Who has access?”
“Both of us.”
“What kind of lock?”
“Key.”
“Where’s the key?”
I shut my eyes.
“Rachel keeps one on her key ring.”
“Any spare?”
“In my desk.”
Ruiz’s voice changed.
“I’m going to pass that along.”
Lily was still watching me.
“Mommy.”
I turned toward her.
“Is this about me?”
“Yes.”
That answer seemed to surprise her.
Not because she thought it was not about her.
Because adults so often refused to say the obvious.
She hugged her arms around her legs.
“Was Rachel trying to steal me?”
“No one has said that.”
“But maybe.”
I hated the word.
“Maybe is not the same as yes.”
She looked out the window.
“I don’t want maybe.”
Neither did I.
I ended the call after Ruiz told me he would contact me if there was any change before morning.
Then I sat there with both hands on the wheel and did nothing.
My mother tapped on the window again.
This time I got out.
“What happened?”
I closed the door gently so Lily could not hear every word.
“Rachel had clothes for Lily.”
My mother’s face changed.
“And Bunny.”
“What?”
“And Lily’s birth certificate.”
My mother stopped breathing for a second.
Then anger filled her so quickly I could almost watch it happen.
“That woman was going to run.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Defend her.”
“I’m not defending her.”
“You are standing here explaining why I shouldn’t believe what’s in front of me.”
“I’m saying we don’t know.”
My mother stepped closer.
“You always say that when knowing would hurt too much.”
The sentence landed harder than she intended.
I saw it in her face immediately.
She regretted it.
I did not give her time to apologize.
“You don’t get to make tonight about every opinion you’ve ever had about my marriage.”
“I’m not.”
“You hated her before you had a reason.”
“I didn’t hate her.”
“You called her controlling at Thanksgiving.”
“She reorganized my kitchen.”
“She was helping.”
“She threw away my good sponge.”
I stared at her.
My mother’s mouth twitched.
The absurdity broke through both of us.
“You are bringing up a sponge?”
“It was a very good sponge.”
I laughed once.
Then I started crying.
There was no gradual build.
One second I was angry.
The next I could not see.
My mother wrapped both arms around me.
I pushed against her at first.
Then I stopped.
“I left Lily with her.”
“I know.”
“I left her over and over.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
“Maybe.”
I pulled back.
My mother wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“Maybe you should have.”
The honesty hurt.
It also helped.
She continued.
“But you know now.”
“That doesn’t undo anything.”
“No.”
“What if Rachel was going to take her?”
“Then she didn’t.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
I looked through the car window.
Lily was watching us.
I wiped my face quickly.
My mother saw.
“Go inside.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to a hotel.”
“You can stay with Beth.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Beth has one guest room and I snore.”
I gave her a look.
She shrugged.
“Apparently.”
I almost smiled.
Then she became serious.
“And because Lily needs you tonight, not three adults whispering in a kitchen.”
That was one of the smartest things my mother had said all evening.
I hugged her again.
This time without resisting.
Beth opened her front door before we reached it.
She was wearing plaid pajama pants, a faded college sweatshirt, and one sock.
Her hair looked like she had been asleep on one side of her head.
She did not ask what happened.
She crouched when Lily came up the walkway.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“I have an important problem.”
Lily looked uncertain.
“What?”
“I cannot remember whether you like chocolate milk.”
Lily blinked.
“I do.”
“Excellent.”
Beth stood.
“Then this household remains functional.”
She looked at me.
Only then did her face change.
She hugged me carefully.
Not tightly.
I appreciated that.
Inside, the townhouse smelled like laundry detergent and the cinnamon candle Beth burned constantly even though everyone had told her it smelled like a craft store in December.
There were moving boxes stacked against one wall.
Half the living room was finished.
Half looked temporary.
That felt strangely appropriate.
Beth showed Lily the guest room.
The bed had clean sheets printed with tiny blue flowers.
A lamp glowed on the nightstand.
Beside it sat a new toothbrush still in the package.
“You had a spare toothbrush?”
I asked.
“No.”
“You went out?”
“Twenty-four-hour pharmacy.”
“When?”
“After you texted.”
I looked at her.
She waved me off.
“It was six minutes.”
Then she pointed toward a paper shopping bag.
“T-shirt, sweatpants, underwear, socks.”
“You bought all that?”
“I guessed sizes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was all she said.
Lily picked up the sweatpants.
“They have stars.”
“I panicked.”
“I like stars.”
Beth looked relieved.
“Then I am excellent in emergencies.”
Lily smiled.
I helped her change.
The hospital shirt went into a plastic grocery bag.
I hated putting it there.
Everything from that night seemed to be entering bags.
Evidence bag.
Hospital bag.
Duffel bag.
Dirty clothes bag.
As if objects could be contained more easily than what they represented.
Lily brushed her teeth in Beth’s bathroom while I stood in the doorway.
She caught me watching.
“You can sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re being weird.”
“That is extremely possible.”
She spit toothpaste into the sink.
“Are you going to watch me sleep too?”
“Probably.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I’m your mother.”
May you like
“Still creepy.”
The sarcasm sounded like her.
