CHAPTER ONE
Marina
The phone buzzes at 7:03 a.m. Same time every morning.
I know who it is before I look. Mom has called at 7:03 a.m. for seven hundred and thirty days straight. Give or take.
"Hey, Mom."
"Good morning, sweetheart! Did I wake you?"
She didn't. I've been awake since 4:47, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. But she doesn't need to know that.
"No, I was up." I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, reaching for the coffee pot. "Just making coffee."
"Oh good. I worry you don't sleep enough."
She worries about everything now. Sleep. Food. Whether I remembered to lock my door. Whether I'm eating enough vegetables. Whether the neighborhood is safe. Whether I'm happy.
The questions sound casual. They're not.
"I sleep fine, Mom."
The lie slides out easy. I've gotten good at lying to her. To everyone. The performance offinehas become second nature.
"What's on your schedule today?" she asks. Her voice is bright. Too bright. The kind of bright that takes effort.
I pour coffee into my favorite mug. "Work. We have a new group starting the art therapy program. Kids from the foster system."
"That sounds wonderful, honey. You're so good with children."
I am. Kids don't ask questions. They don't look at me with that careful concern, searching for cracks. They just want to paint and make messes and feel safe for an hour.
"How's Dad?" I ask, redirecting.
"Oh, you know your father. He's convinced the tomato plants need more sun, so he's been moving the pots around the patio all week. I told him they were fine where they were, but does he listen?"
I smile despite myself. "He never listens."
"Never." She laughs, but it fades too quick. "Marina, honey..."
Here it comes.
"Are you... is everything okay there? In Denver?"
The question underneath the question.Are you safe? Is anyone watching you? Has the past come knocking?
"Everything's fine, Mom." I take a sip of coffee. Too hot. Burns my tongue. "Same as always."
"Good. That's good." A pause. "You know you can always come home. Your room is exactly how you left it. Your father hasn't touched a thing."
My room. With the Northwestern pennant on the wall and the photos of me and Sophia at graduation. A time capsule of the girl I used to be. Before.
"I know, Mom."
"We just miss you. That's all."
"I miss you too."
