“Hey,” says her dad, poking his head into her room. “Dinner in ten.” He must see the tears that she hasn’t had time to hide because he comes in and puts a hand on her face. “We doing okay?”
She nods, afraid to speak. “I just miss Leah,” she manages.
He dips his head down so his eyes are level with hers. “I know you’ll tell me eventually why you’re here, so I won’t ask.” He hesitates. “This stage is tough. Believe me, I know. All couples struggle when the babyis young. Just—don’t give up on them.” He raises his hands. “That’s all I’m going to say.”
Sophie looks at him. “Oh, Dad, no.” She realizes why he thinks she’s here. “I’m not leaving Talia and Leah. Never. Never, ever.”
She softens as she sees his face. Relief that Sophie hasn’t turned out like her mother.
“I’m here,” she says, finally mustering the courage to explain, “because Joey says she needs my help. Honestly, I think she just needs a friend.”
What Sophie doesn’t say—and neither does her dad, to his credit—is that Joey needed a friend fifteen years ago when all her then-friends abandoned her and needed one again ten years ago when her mother died.
He looks her dead in the eye. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
“Of course,” she says, squeezing his hand. She’s not sure if it’s true, but she likes to think it could be.
“Shoot,” he says, suddenly, sniffing the air. “The grilled cheese.”
When he leaves, Sophie dumps her bag onto the bed. She doesn’t even know what she’s brought. She shoved a bunch of things in here without taking time to see if anything matched or fit. At least she remembered her toothbrush. She puts her toiletries in the bathroom, which still also looks the same as it used to. Same pink tiles on the walls, same matte white bathtub, same polka dot shower curtain. But again, clean. No more pimple cream or body scrub from her youth, but also no toothpaste splatters on the mirror, not a single tissue in the trash. Her dad has never been a particularly tidy man, and he wasn’t expecting her, so she’s wondering why his house looks this neat on a random Monday.
Back in her room, she tries to flatten a shirt on the bed, but it’s like the wrinkles are permanent. At this point, she wouldn’t be surprised ifthey were. The closet, with its bi-fold slatted doors, calls to her, and she scoops her clothes up into her arms.
Inside the closet, there’s a little lightbulb with a drawstring that she pulls, and the light flickers on. The drawstring swings, and she’s distracted by this little movement. She spent mornings staring at this same drawstring, hating her clothes, annoyed that when she pulled a shirt over her head—one that looked so cute on the hanger—it would cinch in all the wrong places, giving her a lumpy look. She’s been working on her body positivity, but she still has a way to go, especially since Leah was born. There are no more of her drapey sweaters in here anymore. Her dad brought boxes to her in Denver over the years, filled with clothes and books and things from her life before. However, there are a few items she doesn’t recognize neatly stacked on the white iron shelves. A pair of jeans and some slippers. What looks like a nightgown, and hanging next to it is a blue floral sundress. It’s cute, though not something Sophie would wear.
“Dad?” she calls out, hoping to ask him who these items belong to, but before she can, something else catches her eye.
A journal sits in the back corner of the closet. She drops the pile of clothes from her arms and bends down to see it more closely. It’s a rosy pink, and the wordslive for the journeyare embossed in small gold letters across the front. The cover looks worn, smudged by fingers and pen marks. She has never kept a diary, never liked the idea of analyzing her days this way. She’d rather sit with someone and talk it out face-to-face. This journal is not hers. And yet, here it is, sitting in her closet next to this strange dress.
“Soph,” her dad calls to her from the kitchen. “Food’s up, love.”
She picks up the journal. It’s a hardcover, and the pages are edged with gold. “Coming,” she calls over her shoulder, but she doesn’t move.
It’s obvious that this journal has been held by anxious hands. She can tell by the broken spine and the way the pages want to splay outinstead of pressing together. But when she opens to the middle of the journal, she stares at a blank page. There are no words there.
She flips through pages and pages, but still there is nothing in this journal. It’s strange because it feels like she should see ink, but there isn’t any. Eventually, she gets to the end, and still, nothing at all. Then she cracks it open to the very first page, just to check something.
She pinches her eyebrows together. On the inside of the front cover, it says, “THIS JOURNAL BELONGS TO:” and then on the line following, someone has written their name in faded blue pen.
Quinn Winter.
11Joey
Sophie comes skittering up the gravel road just as Joey’s about to knock.
She’s thrown back to days in the past when they would all show up at Quinn’s together, pillows bunched under their arms, ready for a sleepover or for hours jumping on the trampoline in the backyard. Quinn’s house—or, just Barbara’s house now—is quiet. Dew-damp flower beds line the front path, and a bird feeder hums furiously as tiny wings vie for space.
“Morning,” says Sophie. She’s wearing a very rumpled pale blue peasant top and a bright, sleep-creased smile. Something about the smile feels put-on. Joey is sure that Sophie is still turning over what she said about the whisper in the woods. She seems to be deciding how to be with her without immediately referring her to psychiatric care.
Barbara Winter greets them at the front door with a look of unfettered delight. “Oh my days,” she says, after she hugs Joey and sees Sophie standing behind her. “Look how beautiful… Come in, come in.”
Joey’s been here a few times over the years. She and Barbara discussed business around the same kitchen table where she used to serve them blackberry pancakes on Sunday mornings. Before, Barbara was sofull of energy, so bubbly, always making the girls laugh. She was always everything to everyone. A city councilwoman, present at every PTA meeting, volunteering for events at the school, and running the town’s annual lights parade in December, plus she owned Aspect Coffee, which, in its heyday, doubled as a kind of community center. A sparkle of a woman. But after Quinn died, especially by the time Barbara was ready to get rid of the coffee shop, her eyes had sunk into tired skin, her hair had thinned. She quit almost everything, and now it’s just the baking. All the time. Today, she wears her hair in a bob, her natural curls completely gray. Despite it all, Barbara still has a bit of her old spirit. Maybe it’s the long gold earrings hanging from her ears in the shape of snakes with tiny black stones for eyes.
The house smells of cinnamon and bread. The kitchen walls are a ruby wallpaper decorated with sketched pomegranate halves. A brass kettle billows steam. A crystal suncatcher dangling in the window refracts light around the room.
Joey is surprised to see Gael here. He is busy setting out small plates and napkins, seeming right at home. “Buns are almost ready, madam,” he tells them with a napkin draped over his forearm, as if he is a butler. Behind him, Barbara grins, proud. Sophie laughs, and Joey wonders why Gael is here but not Elena. He offers them a choice of tea or coffee.
Joey takes a coffee.
