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CHAPTER FIVE

Laurel

By four seventeen in the morning, I’ve left Maggie six voicemails.

Six is excessive, unstable, the number a person leaves when she has crossed from concern into a state best described as bordering on insanity.

I know this because after the fifth message I listened to the first four and made notes.

Voicemail one: Controlled. Clear and efficient.

Voicemail two: Firmer. Mildly accusatory.

Voicemail three: Emotional leakage around the edges.

Voicemail four: Unacceptable use of the phrase how could you?

Voicemail five: Breathing. Mostly breathing.

Voicemail six, recorded at four seventeen, with my phone clutched too hard in my hand while the house creaked around me: “Maggie, call me. Please. I don’t care what happened. I don’t care if you’re in trouble or angry or hiding or… just call me. Lucy is here. She needs you. I need…”

Now it’s six after eight, and I'm standing in the kitchen wearing yesterday’s blouse, holding a mug of coffee I forgot to drink, while Lucy stares at a bowl of cereal like it has personally disappointed her.

She's already dressed.

That part should feel like a win, but her shirt is inside out, one sock is plain yellow and the other has ducks on it, and I'm ninety percent sure the leggings she chose are pajama bottoms. I decided not to fight the issue after the toothbrush standoff.

The toothbrush standoff lasted eleven minutes.

I lost.

Technically, her teeth were brushed. But only because Bun brushed his first, and then I had to promise the toothpaste didn't taste “too green,” a qualitative system I was unprepared to navigate.

“Do you want toast instead?” I ask.

Lucy doesn't look up. “No.”

“Eggs?”

“No.”

“Yogurt?”

“No.”

“Air and resentment?”

Her eyes flick to mine.

I lean against the counter and look at the clock again. We have twenty-seven minutes before we need to leave for pre K. According to Sophie’s written schedule, drop off begins at eight fifteen, but Lucy’s class starts at eight thirty. According to my calculations, factoring in unfamiliar roads, possible parking complications, emotional resistance, and my lack of experience with small humans in institutional settings, we should leave in twelve minutes.

Lucy has eaten one dry cereal loop.

One.

“School starts soon,” I say.

“I know.”