“On my way.”
As Diana runs to her minivan, she reviews her schedule for the rest of the day. Two meetings, a conference call, an overpacked to-do list. Maybe she can take the call from home, after she figures out what’s wrong with Phoebe. Or maybe work will have to wait. It wouldn’t be the first time.
In the months after Tom’s death, when everyone tried to help her transition to widowhood, Diana was introduced to the niece of a friend of Vivian’s whose husband had also died young. She was supposed to offer Diana helpful tips for navigating her new life, but the two had little in common other than their loss. Without children or family nearby,the woman worked eighty-hour weeks and spent her free time doing yoga. “My body is amazing, and I can do the one-handed tree pose,” she shared during their one phone call. “But I’m miserable. If only we’d had a baby.”
Diana tries to remember that woman when the kids don’t listen or fight with one another. Or need to be picked up early from school.
Situations like this make living across from Alcott Elementary School convenient. Diana parks in her own driveway, leaving her cooling cappuccino in the cup holder, and sprints to the school’s front door. As she waits to be buzzed in, she texts Camille.Sick kid. Working from home rest of today.
Phoebe waits on the bench outside the nurse’s office, clutching her backpack and coat and sniffling. “Mama,” she says, holding out her arms. Her face is covered by a large bandage and white surgical tape.
“What’s going on, Pheebs? Why are you out here?”
“A kindergartner came in throwing up. The nurse said I should stay in the hall.”
“Good idea,” Diana says, sitting next to her. “I’m going to look at your face, okay?”
Diana pulls off the tape, and Phoebe gasps as her hair sticks to the adhesive. Diana inhales sharply when she sees her daughter’s wound, a bloody streak from chin to cheekbone. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really. Only when I smile.”
“So no smiling, kid.”
Phoebe grins and then winces. Diana adheres the bandage back in place and kisses her nose. “Want to tell me how you got this scratch?”
“Mrs. Morgan, good, I caught you.” Rosemary Sekella comes around the corner, stopping in front of the bench. “The office told me you were here, and the children are at music, so I was able to come talk to you.”
“What happened?” Diana likes Mrs. Sekella. She taught Duncan, too, and Diana had found her fair and encouraging. Duncan still talks about the lizards she keeps in her classroom.
“During recess, Phoebe and another student bumped into each other, and Phoebe fell face-first on the blacktop.” Rosemary scrunches up her face in sympathy. “Phoebe got the brunt of it, I’m afraid. The other child was unharmed.”
Diana picks up Phoebe’s backpack and takes her hand. “Thanks, Mrs. Sekella. I’m sure she’ll be at school tomorrow.”
Diana decides an afternoon of recuperation is in order: unlimited cartoons, along with Oreos and orange juice spiked with seltzer, served with Phoebe’s favorite pink metal straw. Diana is in the kitchen preparing the snack when the landline rings. She forgot to turn the ringer off when she last checked the messages, and before she can get to the phone, Tom’s voice fills the house.Hello! You’ve reached the Morgans. We’re not—
“Hello?” Phoebe says, interrupting the recording. “Hello?”
When Diana enters the office, Phoebe is holding the phone, a quizzical look on her face. “Mama, no one’s talking.”
“Let me have that, honey. You go lie down.” Diana places the phone next to her ear. “Hello?”
There’s silence on the other end, though it’s not the typical delay that comes before a political campaign robocall or telemarketing appeal kicks in. Instead, Diana swears she hears someone breathing. “Who is this?”
She hears a click, and the line disconnects. Diana turns to the answering machine and presses play. The twenty-three messages that follow are all hang-ups, and each is from an unknown caller. For the first time, Diana pays attention to when the calls came in and discovers that each was made on a weekday while she was at work and the kids at school. She dials *69, a trick she remembers from the pre–cell phone days, but it doesn’t go through. Whoever is calling has blocked their line.
Are these calls from the people Tom warned her about? Is it the intruder? Diana quickly steps away from the window, as if the caller might be parked in front of her house.
“Mama?” Phoebe yells from the living room. “Can I have my Oreos?”
“Yes, honey. One minute.” Diana turns down the phone’s ringer and stacks a box of pencils on top of the answering machine, preferring to keep the machine hidden from her children.There’s nothing to do about this now, but be vigilant,she tells herself, closing the shades in the office and moving into the living room to shut the drapes. After all, these could be wrong numbers.
Diana settles Phoebe on the sofa with her cookies and drink and covers her with a blanket. “Need anything else?”
“Bear Bear. He’s in my room.”
“Of course, Bear Bear,” Diana says, as she checks the lock on the French doors to the backyard. “How could I forget him?” She runs up the stairs and grabs the stuffed animal from Phoebe’s bed.
Confused by Bear Bear’s heft, Diana turns him upside down. A lump shifts inside. She lifts Bear Bear’s shirt. On his belly, a large safety pin closes together a ragged gash. Diana unhooks the pin and peels back the fur. In between the stuffing are dozens of small copper disks. Pennies.
