Luci looked away, her feet kicking faster beneath the sheets.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “It’s all right. We don’t have to talk about this now if you don’t want to. How about I get you a drink?”
She fumbled with a paper cup at the sink and filled it. When she turned back to Luci, she knew it was too late. The blank look on her daughter’s face was one Olivia knew well. Luci was shutting down, retreating to that faraway place deep within her. Where she went to feel safe. Where even her mother could not seem to reach her.
Phoebe
Phoebe stood in the middle of Perry and Amelia’s kitchen, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. She’d offered to go back and get things for Emma, a mission that had at first felt extremely necessary and helpful, but Phoebe now realized was a knee-jerk reaction when there was absolutely nothing anyone could do but wait.
None of them had any idea what had happened out on the lake. The perfectly peaceful day had turned to chaos as soon as their cell phones began ringing. Edward had acted first, placing a call to his friend, Clayton Bennett, the head of the Candlewood Lake Authority, to try to get more information. Jane fluttered around the yard like a downed bird, laying her hands on everyone as if it could somehow help: first Amelia, who had screamed for Emma, then Olivia, who had simply gone white and silent. “Come,” Jane said, pulling both women away from the water’s edge and guiding them like frightened animals up the grassy slope of the yard. “Let’s get our things and get in the car.” At which Olivia sprang to life and sprinted for her own car, despite everyone’s suggestion she wait andlet someone else drive you!Perry, the most composed, had driven the others.
Thank goodness Rob had shepherded the boys home, herdingthem wordlessly out of the water, across the yard, and into the car, trying not to alarm them. “Where is everyone going?” Patrick asked, his little face filling with concern.
“The picnic is over,” Rob told the boys calmly. “Time to go home.” Phoebe had shadowed him, helping her husband collect the toys and swim bags, the shoes and socks and clothes. Both afraid to look at each other too closely, and neither saying what they both were thinking:Thank God they stayed behind. It could have been them.
It certainly could have been. Jake had asked them to come. Phoebe had been sitting on the edge of the dock with Patrick, helping him cast his little red Mickey Mouse fishing rod. Rob and Jed weren’t far off, wading at the edge of the shoreline with a toy boat. The day was uncomfortably hot, and the boys were pink-faced and sticky. How she would’ve loved to accept Jake’s invitation and get out on the water. How heavenly the lake breeze would have felt out there. But when she really thought about it, along came the exhausting reality of taking toddlers out on the boat. The thought of reapplying sunscreen, wrestling both boys into life vests, then inevitably having to take at least someone to the potty was too much. Once on the boat, the boys would not have wanted to sit still. She and Rob would have needed to wrangle them onto their laps and hang on tightly while the boat was in motion. They’d have wanted to go tubing, which would require either her or Rob to put a swimsuit on and go, too.
She’d decided right then and there that there was no lake breeze refreshing enough to convince her to sign up for that amount of drudgery. So, when Jake jogged over and asked Rob, “Want to come out with us?” Phoebe had barked an answer for the both of them.
“Nope! Thanks, anyway.” She ignored Rob’s pointed look, notknowing if he’d really wanted to go or whether he’d simply wanted a chance to answer for himself. Saying no had been the right thing to do if she were to get through the rest of the day with a scrap of patience or good humor. Sometimes parenthood was simply about survival.
Now, as she climbed the stairs in Perry’s house, she pushed the selfish relief for her good fortune out of her mind. She was here for Emma.
At the end of the hall she surveyed the scene in Emma’s bedroom through the doorway. The room was bright and neat, and smelled faintly of shampoo, as if her niece had just showered and walked out the door. There were a few T-shirts tossed on the plush carpet by the closet mirror, probably fashion discards tossed in haste, which made Phoebe smile. She stepped inside. On Emma’s dresser were photos, mostly of the family. In one silver-framed picture was Emma in a white dress for her first Communion. There was one of their pet cat, and a dated elementary school class picture—Emma’s cheeks still rounded out with baby fat. Phoebe squinted at the placard at the bottom: Mrs. Ainsley’s fourth grade. And of course, the most recent Goodwin family photo, all of them squished together on Jane and Edward’s dock, everyone having donned their requisite red holiday scarf. It was the insisted-upon family Christmas photo that Jane arranged each year, and all of them grumbled about assembling for with just as much dutifulness. Someone was always sick, and someone always forgot. Yet year after year Phoebe’s mother managed to wrangle all of her children and her children’s children and spouses for the annual trek down to the dock in their Christmas reds. With the same inevitable result: as soon as it was over, there would be relief that the picture was finally taken (this year in a mere eight tries, unlike the year before, when it took twenty, thanks to Patrick), then Janewould point out that since everyone was there and it was getting dark, why not “stick around, order some pizza?” And suddenly it was a family dinner. Phoebe set the photo down and smiled ruefully. Her mother was a master.
As she looked around Emma’s room, it occurred to Phoebe that there were no recent pictures of any high school friends, something she noticed in abundance in other people’s houses where teenagers resided. Her friend Anna Beth had two teenage girls, and their rooms were plastered with photos of themselves and what they referred to as their “squads.” Sports photos. School dance photos. Photos of them all at the lake. Teenage girls seemed compelled to capture every mundane moment, leaving Phoebe wondering how on earth she would’ve survived such relentless exposure had she been a teenager in the cell phone age. Now she scanned the bare surfaces and walls of Emma’s room, with the unsettling realization: there was not a piece of evidence of Emma having a social life.
Since there was still no word from the hospital, she grabbed a backpack from the closet door and she gathered things she imagined both Amelia and Emma would want: a fresh set of clothes, fuzzy socks. She found pajamas in the bottom drawer. In the attached bathroom, Phoebe found deodorant and face lotion. She plucked a purple toothbrush from its holder. On her way back through the room she halted at the sight of Emma’s bed. There, squeezed between Emma’s pillow and the wall, Phoebe recognized the old stuffed rabbit.
“Cedric!” she said, aloud. It was Emma’s childhood “lovey,” the one she’d dragged around since she was a baby. The very same Cedric who once upon a time inspired phone calls that sent the whole family into panic on any given holiday, when Perry would call them shortly after leaving to report Cedric’s sudden absence.Back then, Phoebe had made note and tucked away this important information, pledging that whensheeventually had her own babies, she would sharply monitor the whereabouts of their lovies and never have to make such calls or rustle the family into such manic searches. A pledge she sheepishly realized, once she did have her own babies, had been made in vain. Now Phoebe grabbed the stuffed bunny off the bed and held him to her chest.
She could not imagine what was going on over at the hospital. Her own boys were back home. They were safe with their dad, probably slipping beneath the plastic construction tarps that hung everywhere, probably trying to touch the numerous cords and tools and building supplies that Dave and the crew neatly removed to the corners of the rooms each time the workday ended, but that were like a magnetic field to little boys nonetheless. All this time Phoebe had felt guilty for the disruption of the house renovation to their lives: the dust, the debris. For all the mishaps she’d not only stumbled into, but leapt into. And all the bad news that she’d kept from her husband, so as to spare him the stress and the worry. She’d become consumed by the house renovation—completely, stubbornly consumed.
Phoebe kissed Cedric between his worn ears and swiped at a stray tear. Then she stuffed the bunny into the backpack, hurried downstairs and out of the house into the bright sun. What a goddamned fool she’d been.
Perry
Amelia was beside herself. Of course, he didn’t blame her. He should’ve been, too. But since his wife was hysterical, someone had to maintain calm and rationality for Emma.
Emma, who had been returned to them and was now sitting up in bed. His beautiful girl looked to him like she had been badly beaten in some kind of fight club. Perry could barely bring himself to look at the misshapen purple contours of his daughter’s face. Her right eye was so swollen it was closed shut. Her nose, though miraculously not broken, was the color of an overripe plum.
When they’d finally been allowed to see her, Amelia had let out a yelp so primal Perry had had to take her out into the hall, where she sobbed into his shoulder. Perry would have liked to sob, too. But so far not a single tear had presented itself, and he began to wonder if he were in shock. What he was sure of was his growing anger. Perry pictured it bloodred and working its way through his veins like a brush fire. Though, as of yet, there was no clear target for it.
As they waited for the doctor to return, Perry squeezed his wife’s hand. She did not respond. Amelia had not been able to respond to anyone except Emma. And so far Emma had not done anything aside from open her one good eye and hold the side of her head inher hand as if cradling a broken egg. Speaking seemed to cause her headache to worsen, so they had agreed to let her rest for now. This decision made perfect sense to Perry, and yet it was almost impossible to abide by: it forced him to bite back the questions burning the tip of his tongue.What the hell happened out there?
To Perry’s relief, the doctor, a middle-aged man with a trim silver beard, rejoined them.
“All right, folks. Both her X-rays and CT scans are clear, and there is no evidence of any internal bleeding. What evidence we do have points to a decent concussion.”
Decent? Perry thought. As opposed to what? As an analyst he liked hard numbers.
A whimper of relief escaped Amelia’s pursed lips. “You’re certain?”
“Well, there is never certainty when someone has been involved in an accident with multiple contusions, like Emma’s. So we try to measure symptoms and compare them with imaging results. For example, she is complaining of head pain. Which is normal, given the nature of her injury. And there is demonstration of light sensitivity and nausea. Also normal for someone who’s experienced a head injury.” He pulled a sheaf of papers off a clipboard and passed them to Amelia, who started rifling through them like she was going to be tested on their contents at any moment.
“Are there any further tests you recommend?” Perry asked. As much as he wanted to whisk Emma home, he did not want to step one foot out of the hospital until all bases had been covered. They were not necessarily out of the woods, he knew. Potential for future risks must therefore be managed.
The doctor considered the question. “There are always more tests we can run. For example, an MRI. But at this stage I don’tthink that’s warranted. Despite the relatively low exposure to radiation and the low risks associated, we still want to balance those possible downsides with the reasonability of ordering such tests.” He turned to Amelia, who was still devouring the packet he’d shared. “Unless, of course, either of you feels strongly about running them.”
