Then Ben appears at the door.
“Nice of you to stop by the nursery,” she tells him. “I didn’t think you knew where it was.”
“Can we talk?”
“Get away from me,” she says.
“But you don’t know why I’m—”
“I. Don’t. Care,”Amber says. She stares at Ben the way Superman stares when he’s about to melt steel. If looks could kill, Ben would be bleeding out on Lily’sSesame Streetrug. Like the good help I am, I keep my mouth shut, determined not to take sides. But deep down I’m proud of her. She’s finally grown a pair.
Amber zips the suitcase shut. Ben goes to lift it for her.
“No!” she says. She pulls it out of his hands and rolls it over to me. Then she picks up Lily and we all head downstairs.
Ben follows us. “Where are you going?” he asks. She doesn’t answer. “At least let me drive you. Please?”
Amber heads into the kitchen and gathers up a bunch of bottles, nipples, formula, frozen breast milk, and sippy cups. Then she calls an Uber.
This whole time Ben has been standing behind her, watching her, pleading his case. “I don’t know who did this or why,” he says. “Amber, please believe me.”
Five minutes later, the Uber pulls up. The driver honks. I carry Amber’s suitcase out to the car, and before I realize I’m doing it, I lean over and kiss Lily goodbye. She giggles. I feel a small pang in my chest. Damn. I’m going to miss her.
And then, the worst possible thing happens. As Amber holds Lily, Lily reaches out to me with both arms and says, “Ca.”
Ca?CA! She’s trying to say my name!
Don’t leave!I want to say. But of course I don’t. I can’t.They’re doing the wisest thing. Lily looks like she’s about to cry. And I’mthisclose to tears myself.
Ben comes out, looking more hangdog than ever. After one last attempt to keep Amber home, he opens the Uber door for her. She looks at him with hate.
“In addition to all your other miserable qualities,” she says, “you’re a shitty liar.”
CHAPTER 48
ONCE AMBER AND LILY LEAVE, things get much quieter. Now it’s just me and Ben and, a little while later, Hailey.
When Hailey came home from school and I told her that Amber and the baby would be gone for a bit, she shrugged. Might as well have told her we were running low on paper towels.
Now Hailey is studying for her “stupid asshole midterms.” And Ben, the charming art dealer who has a million friends and customers, is his usual bipolar self, trying to avoid me.
I walk the dogs, then go upstairs. With little to do, I busy myself putting away all the clothes that HurricaneAmber left on the bed and the floor when she whipped through the room, packing at breakneck speed. Where does her sister even live? Did she pack any sweaters, now that it’s late October? And what about boots? From the looks of it, she took too many summer things. It’ll start getting much colder here in a week or so. Is she planning to be home by then? I have no idea.
Slowly, I hang up everything she dropped. I’ve never gotten a chance to really study Amber’s walk-in closet until now. It’s bigger than my bedroom, and the clothing is gloriously color-coded, light to dark. Hot shades of yellow, orange, and red on the left that end in a flourish of cool tones, purples and blues and greens on the right. The huge wraparound top shelf displays handbags in coordinating colors. With racks and racks of footwear on the bottom. Lots of shoes, lots of hues.
My closet at home is organized too. Only it’s by weight.Myweight. Trousers that start at size 8 and grow bigger and bigger till they end in a series of elastic-waist pants on the opposite end.
Between the shopping, the photos, the fight, and Amber and Lily leaving, I’ve had a long, stressful day. My brain is fried and the rest of me is too. Nothing a nice quiet night in my room won’t cure. But first, I head to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich.
Ben enters. He doesn’t say hello, of course. With his back to me, he rummages through all the kitchen drawers. Then he goes into his office. I hear his desk drawers open and shut. He does the same with the dining-roomsideboard, the eighteenth-century secretary, and every drawer and cabinet on the first floor.
He heads upstairs. Whatever he’s looking for, he’s starting to lose patience. Now he’s slamming drawers shut. Same with the closet doors.
He comes back to the kitchen. He seems nervous.
“Need help with something?” I ask.
He looks at me as if he’s surprised to see that I’m in the room. “No,” he says. Then he quickly adds, “Well, maybe, yes. I can’t find my passport.”
