“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you so much, kiddo.”
They’re silent again, until my daughter says, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dolly.”
The room goes dark, and for several long minutes, I consider carrying Bea into her room, but I decide against it, instead giving them one last night together.
I’m nearly numb as I go about my nightly routine. I wash my face and brush my teeth, my body sagging, exhausted from hauling around such a heavy pit in my stomach.
With my hands tucked behind my head, I stare at the ceiling for a long time, chastising myself for being jealous of a five-year-old.
Because I wanted one more night with Claire.
When I wake in the morning, a piercing pain stabs at my temples. It takes me a moment to remember what I witnessed last night, but when I do, I shoot straight up in bed, headache be damned.
I have to convince Claire to stay.
37
Asher
With my heartin my throat, I race down the hall to Claire’s room. I don’t have time to prepare a speech, so I’ll have to live with whatever flies out of my mouth.
But when I step through her doorway, I come to a screeching halt. Her typically messy room is empty, and the sheets have been stripped. I turn, only now noticing the sound of the washing machine. That’s okay. We can make up her bed again later. Or she can sleep in mine.
Bea’s door is closed, and when I peek inside, I discover my daughter sound asleep.
I pad into the kitchen, where the smell of coffee fills the room. I expect to find Claire at the table with a mug in her hand, but the pot is full and the room looks the same as it did last night.
Except this morning there’s a single key on the island, along with a handwritten note.
Dear Asher,
I’ll never forget this summer.
Love,
Claire
Blood whooshing in my ears, I dart to the front door and throw it open. Please, please let her be in the driveway.
But I’m too late.
She’s gone.
38
Asher
It’s beentwo weeks since Claire left. Since I held her. Touched her. Kissed her. Call me a masochist, because every night, I replay the videos I have saved of her and Bea just so I can hear her voice. Some are clips I stealthily captured while they were painting nails or playing beauty salon or board games. Others are videos Claire sent to me, each starring Bea as she painted or fed the ducks or horses. Though I can’t see her face in those, her voice comes through loud and clear. I really miss her voice, sweet like honey.
Two days after she left, I found myself frozen in front of the dryer, staring at the pile of bikini top pads she left on the machine. The realization that I’d never do her laundry again was like a punch to the gut.
Though the weeks—months, even—after Daisy died were a blur, I remember the moment I was hit with that truth back then too. How I cried as I’d loaded the washer, knowing I’d never wash another article of clothing of hers. It about killed me.
There was no choice with Daisy. She was here, and then shewas gone. With Claire? I was given the opportunity to ask her to stay, but I didn’t.
