I could call my parents.
The thought arrived uninvited, the way it always did in my worst moments—slipping past the defenses I'd built, finding the crack. My father would wire the money by morning. He wouldn't even hesitate. He'd say, of course, sweetheart, in that careful voice, and my mother would get on the extension and say we've been waiting for you to come to your senses, and within a week there would be conversations about coming home, about how the kids needed their grandparents, about how maybe if I'd just listened to them in the first place none of this would have happened.
Madison stirred in her sleep, whimpering softly. I reached over and laid my hand on her good arm until she settled.
Not yet. I wasn't that desperate yet.
I pulled the thin blanket up to my chin and listened to my daughter breathe and the monitor beep and the hospital hum its strange lullaby. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried. Somewhere outside, the ocean was doing what it always did—steady, indifferent, constant. And beneath me, beneath the recliner and the linoleum and the foundation of this building, I could feel the trapdoor. The one I'd sworn I would never open. It was still closed.
But I could feel it.
8
GRADY
I’d stayed the night on Esme’s couch after Robbie and I got back from the hospital. After we ate frozen burritos I found in the freezer, we’d watched a little television but Robbie was tired and decided to head to bed early. After he’d gone to his room, I’d lain awake for a while, listening to the apartment settle, thinking about Esme alone in that hospital chair beside Madison’s bed and wishing they were both home.
Texting Mara with my change of plans, I got online and rearranged my flight, then settling in for what was a fitful night.
In the morning, Robbie appeared at exactly seven-fifteen, dressed for school, backpack already on.
“Morning,” I said. “Sleep well?”
“I believe so. I feel quite rested.”
“Do you need a ride anywhere?” I asked him.
“No, thank you. I take bus 407 to school. It takes approximately twelve minutes, depending on traffic,” Robbie said, tugging his jacket from the hook over his cubby.
“What about lunch? Do you need me to pack it for you?”
“No, I eat school lunch now.” He said it as if it were a major accomplishment, which for Robbie might be true.
“What about breakfast?”
“I’ll take it with me.” Robbie grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and stuck it in his backpack. “Will you be here when I get home?”
“Yes. I’m hoping we’ll be able to get your mom and Madison this afternoon.”
“I’ll be home a little after three,” Robbie said.
After he headed down the stairs for the bus stop, I folded the blanket Esme kept on the back of the couch and fluffed the pillows. Madison might be hungry when they got home, so I decided to whip up a batch of morning glory muffins. They were her favorite, and I wanted them to be ready when she came home.
I knew where everything was, having spent so much time in Esme’s kitchen. The mixing bowls were in the cabinet next to the sink and the muffin tin on the shelf above the stove. Flour and sugar in matching glass jars on the counter. I pulled carrots and apple from the refrigerator and found raisins and walnuts in the pantry. In no time, I had the batch in the oven. While they baked, I tidied up the kitchen and swept the floors.
After the muffins came out of the oven, I took Trevor for a walk, then to the grocery store to get bread, cheese and several cans of tomato soup to make for Robbie when he returned from school. Esme texted that Madison would be released sometime that afternoon and she’d let me know the exact time once she knew it.
The key turned in the lock a few minutes after three. Robbie came in, backpack over one shoulder, and set it in his cubby.
“How was school?” I asked from the stove, where I’d already started heating the pan for a grilled cheese. Esme had shown me how to make it her way, with the butter on the outside of the bread, medium heat so the cheese melts before the bread burns and cut diagonally. And, for all that was holy, no crusts.
“Adequate. Mr. Murphy let me skip ahead to the multivariate section in our textbook.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “During lunch, I looked up the type of surgical pins they used on Madison. Stainless steel. Impressive tensile strength.”
“Your sister would be thrilled to hear that.” I dumped a can of soup into a pan on the stove, stirring in an equal amount of water, and turned on the burner.
“I intend to tell her everything. She’ll want a full report.”
“I’m not sure she will,” I said, smiling.
