Don’t look over there. You don’t need to know if she’s looking foryou.
But Ido.
I look. Because I’m weak. Because I want to see her face, twisted with distress, sick withguilt.
She’s there, in the window, but she’s not looking for me. She’s talking to someone seated at a table. She’s smiling. She’s stillbeautiful.
I’ve never hated blueberry muffinsmore.
Doctors are knownfor being egotistical, especially surgeons. I’ve always gone easy on the self-congratulations, fearing the accusation of having a God-complex. But today, on this Saturday morning filled with towering pine trees and chirping birds, I allow some innerpraise.
Aubrey loves the cabin. I startled her this morning when she was staring at the stream.What was she was thinking?I’d give anything for a glimpse into her thoughts. I know they’re complicated, but I’m a fixer. If she would just let me, I’m sure I could make everythingbetter.
Claire woke up a few minutes after Aubrey left. She went directly for the toy suitcase and chose a pediatrician Barbie. We’ve been playing eversince.
“It’s time for my check-up, Dr. Claire.” My voice is high-pitched, my best impersonation of a young girl’s voice. I shift my weight and unfold a leg. The ground isn’t exactlycomfortable.
Claire manipulates Barbie’s hands, using an otoscope to look in the ears of the little doll I’mholding.
She pauses, looks at me, her right eye still closed from looking through the tiny instrument. “I’m Dr. Cordova. Like you.” She resumes herexamination.
“Sounds good,” I say in my ownvoice.
I’ve thought about that. Making Claire mine in a legal capacity. I thought about it more when I first found out about her, when I wasn’t sure how much of a fight I was in for. But then Aubrey turned out to be agreeable, and now… I haven’t given it much thought. It’s an eventuality though. It has tobe.
I hear my truck tires crunching leaves and sticks. The engine cutsoff.
Claire looks at the door at the same time that I say, “Mommy’s home and she has a surprise foryou.”
“Muffins,” she whoops, running to the front door. Aubrey opens it just as Claire getsthere.
I can’t describe the look on Aubrey’s face. Aghast? Overwhelmed? Stricken? Maybe she hit an animal and feels bad. Or a car and doesn’t want to have to tell me. In this tiny, quaint town, what else could it possiblybe?
“Thanks, Mommy.” Claire’s already pulled one from the bag Aubrey’s still holding. Even as I’m staring at Aubrey, trying to read the hollowness in her eyes, the scent of the muffins registers in my brain. I swallow the pool of saliva in my mouth and ignore my growlingstomach.
Mechanically Aubrey walks to the kitchen and drops her purse and the brown bag. It’s crinkled to hell on the bottomhalf.
Claire, not noticing her mother’s wooden demeanor, has taken her breakfast back to her dolls. My steps toward Aubrey are slow and cautious, evenly paced. She’s not looking at me. She’s turned away, her stomach leaning against the sink, her gaze fixed on something she sees through the small window over the sink. Maybe she’s looking at nothing. Maybe she sees something visible only toher.
I don’t know what to say, so I reach for thebag.
At the bottom are two, maybe even three, crumpled muffins. Crumbs fill the space, except for the big lumps where they have stuck together and formed aball.
I want to help Aubrey. Hold her. Take away whatever the hell happened to make her react this way. I’d also like to know what this is allabout.
“Aubrey,” I say softly, coming up behind her, but from the side, so she can see me in her peripheral vision. No need to scare her, if she really is that lost in her thoughts. “Are youhurt?”
She turns, her eyes on me. They grow wide in surprise, as though she’s only just now realized I’ve been in the room. “Physically?” She makes a weird sound in the back of her throat. My chest constricts as I think of the possibility that Aubrey is injured… Orworse.
“No.” She says, looking back down at thesink.
The relief I feel is overwhelming. “What is it then?” I take a step closer. I can see into the sink now, to her hands. If Aubrey’s posture is wooden, then her hands are leaves, shaking in the wind. Her fingers beat a soft cadence on themetal.
I need to make this right. Whatever it is. I need to put Aubrey backtogether.
I take her hands from the sink and hold them in mine. My thumbs rub the tops of her hands, as though maybe she’s shaking from cold and notshock.
Her eyes are dark, fathomless. I squint into them. “Sixty?”
