His body will never show the effects of his love for ice cream, I’m certain of that. But there’s no way that statement is leaving mylips.
I lean one hip against the counter. “You have a thing for ice cream, don’tyou?”
He laughs. “You’venoticed?”
“That night, you told the cab driver to take us to an ice creamplace.”
“I did.” He nods slowly. “But we never made itinside.”
The air around us changes, igniting with a pulse of energy. It fills me, pushing into my chest and limbs, capturing my rational thoughts and turning themfoolish.
He feels it too. I know it in the way his lips peel apart, how his eyes instantly look deeper, like they’re holding more emotion than they were ten secondsago.
“I’m ready to play cards,” Claire yells from somewhere beyond theisland.
I blink and look away, grateful for herinterruption.
“So are we,” Isaac yells into the open space. His voice isragged.
We play cards until it’s Claire’s bedtime. She puts up a fuss about taking a bath, insisting I shut the bathroom door so Isaac can’t see the garbage bag I’ve wrapped around her arm to keep her cast from gettingwet.
I’d thought her protests had to do with modesty, but she told me she was embarrassed of thecontraption.
“You know,” I say, carefully leaning her head away from her hurt arm and pouring water over her soapy hair, “Your dad is the person who suggested we use this bag to bathe you. Remember at your firstappointment?”
“Yes.” Her voice istiny.
“So why can’t he see you likethis?”
Her little shoulders shrug slowly. When her lower lip trembles, it nearly breaks my heart intwo.
“What is it?” I ask, slicking her clean hair back over her head and squeezing out some of the excesswater.
“Will Daddy leave? Will it just be me and you again? Will we have to go back toGrandpa’s?”
My forehead creases with my surprise. I wasn’t expecting such loadedquestions.
For a second I contemplate lying, because it’s easiest, but I can’t. I don’t believe in false hope, and I certainly won’t set my daughter up to be disappointed. “I don’t know the future, but I do know your Daddy loves you very much, and he won’t ever be without you again.” She seems satisfied with my answer, and I relax. She’s pouring water from one cup to another when she asks, “Where did your mommygo?”
My hand, poised in the air to pour another bucket of water over her back, stills. I set the bucket down in the bath water and watch it tipover.
“I’m not sure, sweetie.” It’s the best I can manage when my brain cells are all falling over one another trying to process her question and the ramifications of answeringit.
“Did shedie?”
I gulp. Why has a seemingly normal bath time turned into a shock-Mommymarathon?
“Where did you learn about peopledying?”
“Lincoln’s grandma died. He told me at schoolyesterday.”
“No, my mom didn’t die.” I pause, thinking. I guess I don’t know that for sure. “She wasn’t able to be a mommy anymore, and she had to leave me andGrandpa.”
Claire’s eyes are saucers, and I realize what I’ve done. “No, no, no, Claire, don’t worry. That will never happen to me. I’m meant to be your mommy. I’ll always be capable of thatjob.”
She nods, her eyes trusting me implicitly, and I think how amazing that would be. To trust someone like that. So childlike and naive. She has never been let down, and I’m dreading the day ithappens.
“Are you ready to get this bag off your arm and let your dad tuck youin?”
