Chương 10
The twins accepted Marisol but watched the door.
Daniel began to understand that Elise had not made caregiving look easy. She had made difficulty look survivable.
On Tuesday, he burned oatmeal.
On Wednesday, Maisie vomited down the front of his shirt during a call with the company’s lenders.
On Thursday, he fell asleep on the nursery rug and woke with the pink teddy bear beneath his neck.
He attended every pediatric appointment.
He learned to distinguish Rosie’s reflux cry from Maisie’s exhausted cry. He learned that both babies hated cold wipes and loved the sound of the kitchen faucet. He learned that a folded burp cloth could vanish in a room containing no one capable of walking.
He also learned that family leave did not quiet the part of his mind trained to measure loss.
Every morning, he checked the company’s reports before he checked the baby monitor. Then he hated himself and checked the monitor twice.
Owen called only when necessary. This turned out to be less often than Daniel expected and more insulting than he wanted to admit.
Helen did not visit.
Her attorney sent two proposed mediation dates.
Daniel ignored both.
At the end of the second week, Marisol found him in Rebecca’s closet.
He had gone in looking for a blanket and ended up sitting on the floor between hanging dresses. The room smelled faintly of cedar and the rose perfume Rebecca had worn before pregnancy made every scent intolerable.
Marisol stood at the doorway with Rosie on her hip.
“I can come back,” she said.
Daniel looked at the dress in his hands.
It was yellow, sleeveless, ordinary. Rebecca had worn it to a grocery store opening because she believed free samples improved all civic events.
“She hated this closet,” he said.
Marisol leaned against the frame. “It is too small.”
“It’s larger than most bedrooms.”
“Then she had bigger reasons.”
Daniel ran his thumb over the dress hem.
A small brown mark stained the fabric.
“Mustard,” he said.
Marisol waited.
“She put mustard on everything. Eggs. Potatoes. Once on pasta.”
“That is upsetting.”
Daniel gave a quiet laugh.
Rosie reached toward him.
He set the dress aside and took her.
On a shelf above the shoes sat a cardboard box labeled REBECCA—PERSONAL. It was not the box Helen had brought. This one had been there since the hospital.
Daniel had never opened it.
He brought it down.
Inside were her wallet, a hair clip, a paperback novel with the cover bent backward, a hospital bracelet, two receipts, and her phone.
The phone had been returned with her other belongings. Its screen was cracked near one corner. Daniel had given it to Sarah to handle estate access and then asked for it back without looking at anything.
He held the power button.
The screen lit.
Rebecca’s face appeared beneath the cracks. She was in the kitchen, holding the spatula under her nose. Daniel stood blurred behind her, looking annoyed. The twins’ infant seats were visible at the bottom of the photograph.
The phone required a passcode.
Daniel entered their anniversary.
Incorrect.
He tried the twins’ birth date.
Incorrect.
He tried Rebecca’s mother’s birthday, then the apartment number from West Seventy-Third Street.
Incorrect.
The phone locked for one minute.
Marisol shifted beside him.
“Did she have a favorite number?”
“She hated numbers.”
“Maybe it’s not a number to her.”
The lock screen showed four digits only.
Daniel looked at the photograph.
Rebecca had taken it on a Sunday. He had been leaving for Boston. She had tried to make the twins laugh before he left.
He entered the departure time printed on the clock behind her: 0715.
The phone opened.
Daniel stopped breathing.
Notifications appeared from four months earlier, layered over one another. Messages from Helen. Missed calls from the pharmacy. An unfinished grocery list. A reminder to buy more pink headbands because Daniel had put the only two through the dryer.
He sat on the closet floor while Rosie pulled at his collar.
Marisol looked away, giving him privacy without leaving.
Daniel opened the voice recordings.
There were dozens.
Rebecca recorded ideas because typing one-handed was difficult. Most were ordinary: questions for Dr. Shah, grocery items, a reminder to call the building manager about the nursery vent.
One file had been created eight days before her death.
Its title was simply Daniel.
He pressed play.
For several seconds, there was only breathing and the distant sound of a baby fussing.
Then Rebecca’s voice filled the closet.
“Okay. This is ridiculous. I’m making a recording because every time you get home, I either lose my nerve or one of them throws up.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Rosie went still against his chest.
Rebecca continued, tired and close, as if she were sitting beside him.
“I need you here. Not all day. I know the company is on fire, or almost on fire, or making money because something else is on fire. I know you’re scared if you stop moving, you’ll become your father and everything will fall apart. But I’m scared too.”
A pause. Fabric rustled.
“I told Mom I needed help. She heard that as I need an army and a lawyer. Please don’t punish her for being herself. And don’t let her take over just because arguing is exhausting.”
Daniel opened his eyes.
The phone trembled in his hand.
Rebecca gave a small, breathless laugh on the recording.
“I’m not leaving you a dramatic message. I’m going to tell you this tonight. I just need practice.”
Another pause.
“If anything ever happens to me—which is not happening, so don’t make that face in the future—I want the girls with you. I want Mom in their lives. I want you to let people help without turning the help into a debt. And I want you to learn one stupid song all the way through.”
The recording ended.
Daniel stared at the screen.
May you like
Marisol quietly took Rosie before his arms loosened.
He remained on the floor.
