Kristin Hannah Read online

  She bent down and jostled the little girl’s shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Izzy made a tiny, mewling sound and snuggled deeper under the covers.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Come on, Izzy.”

  One brown eye popped open. Izzy used two fingers on her right hand to push the covers back. Blinking and yawning, she sat up.

  “I thought you’d like to take a bath before your daddy gets home.” Annie smiled and held up the bag of treats she’d brought with her. “I got you some new clothes and a few surprises—Lurlene told me what sizes to get. Come on.” She helped Izzy out of bed and led her to the bathroom, where she quickly ran some water into the tub.

  Then she knelt in front of the child.

  Izzy eyed her warily.

  Annie looked down at Izzy’s gloved hand. “Don’t you just hate it when parts of you start disappearing? Now, hands up.”

  Izzy dutifully raised her right arm. Her left arm hung limply at her side, the black-gloved fingers completely slack.

  Annie sat back on her heels. “How, exactly, do we undress the invisible parts? I guess, if I just peel your jammies back . . .” Slowly, she pulled the sleeve along the “invisible” arm. Then she reached for the glove.

  Izzy made a choking sound and wrenched away from her.

  “Oh, sorry. The glove can’t come off?”

  Izzy stared intently at a spot somewhere behind Annie’s left ear.

  “I understand. There is no glove, is there, Izzy?”

  Izzy bit down on her lower lip. She still didn’t look at Annie.

  Annie stood. Carefully taking Izzy by the shoulders, she steered the child toward the bathtub and helped her into the warm water. Izzy hugged the side of the tub, where her left arm hung limply over the edge.

  “That’s not too hot, is it?” Annie asked. “No, Annie, that’s just right. Just exactly the temperature I like.”

  Izzy stared at her.

  Annie grinned. “I can carry on a conversation all by myself. When I was a girl—I was an only child, too—I used to do it all the time.”

  Annie poured bubble bath into the falling water. Izzy watched, apparently awestruck, as airy white foam bubbled up around her.

  Then Annie lighted a trio of votive candles she’d found in the kitchen. The sweet aroma of vanilla rose in the air. “Sometimes a girl needs a romantic bath—just for her.

  Okay.” She reached into her brown bag. “Look at my goodies. I’ve got Johnson’s baby shampoo, Pocahontas soap, a Hunchback of Notre Dame towel, and a Beauty and the Beast comb. And this darling play suit. It’s lavender with little yellow flowers—just like your mom’s garden will be—and a matching yellow hat.”

  She kept up a steady stream of dialogue, asking questions and answering them herself as she washed Izzy’s long hair and lathered and rinsed her body, and finally helped her out of the tub. She wrapped the tiny girl in a huge towel and began combing her hair. “I remember when my daughter, Natalie, was your age. No bigger than a minute. It used to make my heart ache just to look at her.” She wove Izzy’s hair into a pair of perfect French braids and finished them off with two yellow satin bows.

  “Turn around.”

  Dutifully, Izzy turned.

  Annie dressed her in new white cotton underwear and helped her into the lavender blouse and overalls. When she was finished, she guided Izzy to the full-length mirror in the corner.

  The little girl stared at herself for a long, long time. Then, very slowly, she lifted her right hand and touched the satin ribbons with her forefinger. Her rosebud mouth wobbled uncertainly. She bit down hard on her lower lip. A single tear trickled down Izzy’s flushed pink cheek. Just one.

  Annie understood. It was what she’d been hoping for, at least in part. That Izzy would see herself as she used to be. “I bet you always used to look like this, didn’t you, Izzy?”

  She placed a tender kiss on Izzy’s forehead. The child smelled of baby shampoo and new soap. Like little girls everywhere.

  Then, Annie sat back on her heels and looked steadily in Izzy’s eyes. “You know how you share your toys with a friend, and you have more fun than if you were playing all by yourself? Sometimes that’s true of sadness, too. Sometimes if you share it, it goes away.”

  Izzy didn’t respond.

  Annie smiled. “Now, I could use some help in the kitchen. I’ve started dinner, but I can’t find the dishes anywhere. Maybe you could help me?”

  Izzy blinked.

  Annie took that as a yes.

  Together, they went down to the kitchen. Izzy walked dutifully toward the table and sat down. Her little feet dangled above the floor.

  Annie talked the whole time she made dumplings, stirring batter and dropping it into the simmering chicken stew. “Do you know how to set the table?” she asked as she put the lid on the big metal pot.

  Izzy didn’t answer.

  “This isn’t going to work, you know, Miss Izzy.” Annie picked up a spoon and handed it to the girl. “Here you go—this is for you.”

  Izzy used her thumb and forefinger to take hold of the spoon. She stared at it, then frowned up at Annie.

  “One shake of the spoon is yes. Two shakes is no. That way we can talk . . . sort of in code, without ever having to say something out loud. Now, do you think you could show me where the plates are?”

  Izzy stared unblinking at the spoon for a long, long time. Then, very slowly, she shook it once.

  “Hey, Nicky, I hear Hank Bourne’s daughter is back in town.”

  Nick glanced up from his drink. There was a headache pounding behind his eyes, and he couldn’t quite focus. He’d had it all day, ever since the fiasco at the Weaver place. He’d booked Chuck and thrown him in a cell, but already Sally had been to the station to make sure that no charges were leveled at her husband. Already she’d told the desk sergeant that she’d fallen down the stairs.

  Nick thought that if he stopped in at Zoe’s for a quick drink—just one to steady his nerves—he’d be okay to face Annie and Izzy at home. But, like always, one drink led to another and another and another . . .

  What he’d seen in Sally’s eyes opened a wound in his soul, a dark, ugly place that was bubbling with painful memories.

  He closed his fingers around the glass and took another long, soothing pull of the scotch. “Whatever you say, Zoe.”

  Joel Dermot scooted closer to him. “I remember Annie Bourne. Her and my daughter, Suki, used to be in Girl Scouts together.”

  Nick closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about those days, long ago, when the three of them had been best friends. When he thought of those days, he remembered how much he used to care about Annie, and then he wound up thinking about the previous night, when she’d been in his arms, naked and wild, fulfilling all the fantasies he’d ever had about her. The memory invariably pushed him down a long and treacherous road, a road that made him question all the choices he’d made along the way. How he’d chosen Kathy because she needed him . . . and how he’d let her down, and how loving her had ruined him. Then he’d find himself having dark, dangerous thoughts— like what would his life have been like if he’d chosen Annie, or what it could be like if she were the kind of woman who would stay in Mystic.

  Another man’s wife.

  Nick shot unsteadily to his feet, in a hurry to outrun that thought. Tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, he turned and hurried out of the smoky tavern. He jumped into his patrol car and headed for home. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he felt as if he’d driven a thousand miles over a corrugated road. His body ached, his head hurt, and he longed for one more drink to ease the way.

  What in the hell would he say to Annie now, after what had happened between them?

  Slowly, he got out of the car, walked across the gravel walkway and up the sagging porch steps, and went inside.

  Annie was stretched out on the sofa. When the door clicked shut behind him, she sat up and gave him a bleary-eyed smile. “Oh,” she said. “I guess I
fell asleep.”

  Her beauty left him momentarily speechless. He backed up a step, keeping as much floor as possible between them. He glanced away. “Sorry I’m late. I . . . meant to show up at Lurlene’s, but we had an emergency call, and, well . . .”

  She threw the blanket back and got up. Her clothes were wrinkled, and there was a network of tiny pink lines across her right cheek. “It’s no problem. Izzy and I had a good time today. I think we’re going to get along great.”

  He wanted to say something that would ease his guilt and make her think well of him. He had a ridiculous urge to talk to her about what had happened today, to share with another human being that he was shaken, that something had spilled out of him today, and he didn’t know how to retrieve it, or how to put it back where it belonged. But that kind of intimacy was so alien to him that he couldn’t imagine how to begin.

  She plucked her purse from the coffee table. She was careful not to look at him for too long. “If you want . . . I could make you and Izzy a nice dinner tomorrow night. I think she’d like that.”

  “That would be great. I’ll be home at six o’clock.”

  She edged past him but stopped at the door, turning back. “From now on . . . if you’re going to be late, I’d appreciate a phone call.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  She gave him a last smile and left the house.

  He stood at the window, watching her drive away. When the tiny red dots of her taillights disappeared around the bend in the road, he slowly climbed the stairs and went into the guest bedroom, the one he’d moved into eight months ago and still used when he didn’t fall asleep on the couch. Stripping out of his blue uniform, he slipped into a pair of ragged old sweats and tiredly walked down the hallway. Outside Izzy’s door, he paused for a moment, gathering his strength.

  A tiny nightlight glowed from the wall next to her bed. It was Winnie-the-Pooh’s face in vibrant yellow. He picked up her favorite book— Where the Wild Things Are—and lowered himself slowly to the edge of her bed. As the mattress sagged beneath his weight, he froze. Izzy wiggled in her sleep, but didn’t waken.

  He opened the book, staring down at the first page. In the old days, when he’d read to her every night before bed, she’d curled her little body so trustingly against his, and cocked her smiling face up. Daddy, what’re yah gonna read me tonight, Daddy?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. It had been a long time since he’d remembered her habit of saying Daddy at the beginning and end of every sentence. He leaned down slowly, slowly, and kissed the softness of her forehead. The little-girl scent enveloped him, made him remember giving her bubble baths. . . .

  He let out a long, slow breath. Now, all he did was read to her when she was asleep, just a few pages from her favorite book. He hoped the words soaked through her sleeping mind. It was a tiny, stupid way of saying he loved her; he knew that. Still, it was all he seemed to have left.

  He read the book in a soft, singsong voice, and then gently placed it back on the bedside table. “Goodnight, Izzy-bear,” he whispered, placing a last kiss on her forehead.

  Back downstairs, he went to the kitchen and poured himself a stiff drink. He kicked open the front door and slumped onto a chair on the porch.

  It came to him then, as he’d known it would. He could recall suddenly how it had smelled at the Weaver house, of bacon and Lysol, and how a thin strip of linoleum had been peeling up from the edge of the kitchen floor. He remembered the bruise on Sally’s cheek, how it had been spreading already, seeping like a spot of blood through a bit of tissue paper.

  Once, long ago, he had believed he could rescue people like Sally. He’d thought that when he put on his uniform, he would be invincible. God, he’d been such an idiot, believing in the words that meant so little today: honor, respect, justice. He’d actually thought that he could save people who had no desire to be saved.

  But life had taught him a lot. Between his job and Kathy, his idealism had been hacked away, bit by bit, until now there was nothing left but rusted scraps. Without it, he didn’t know who he was.

  He took a long drink and leaned back in the chair, looking up at the night sky. He was startled for a moment to realize that outside, everything was still as it should be. The lake still glittered in the moonlight. Night still fell softly across the mountaintops and through the forests. Soon, dawn would come, chasing darkness to distant corners of the globe.

  Once, he’d watched such things with wonder. He’d thought in those days that his needs were simple and easily met. He’d wanted only his family, his job, his home. He’d imagined that he would grow old in this house, sitting in this chair on his porch, watching his children grow up and move on. He’d thought then that age would pull the black from his hair, and that it would take years. He hadn’t known then that grief and guilt could age a man and turn his hair silver in the span of a single season.

  He drank until his head began to spin, until his vision blurred. The empty bottle slipped through his numb fingers and rolled away, clattering down the steps one by one to land silently in the grass.

  The next morning, Izzy woke to the sound of her mommy’s voice. She kicked the covers away and sat up, blinking. Mommy?

  At first, all she could hear was the rain. In the old days—before the bad thing—she’d loved that sound, the way it rattled on the roof. She looked out the window, disappointed to see nothing out there but pink and yellow sunlight. No rain.

  Mommy?

  There was no answer, just the creaking sound of the house. Izzy slipped on her favorite bunny slippers and crept out of her bedroom. She moved silently down the stairs, hoping not to wake her daddy. He was asleep on the couch, with one arm flung across the coffee table and his bare feet sticking out from the end of his blue blanket.

  She tiptoed past him, her heart thudding in her chest as she eased the front door open and closed it silently behind her. She stood on the porch, looking out. A pink mist floated across the lake. Mommy?

  She walked through the grass, to the edge of the lake. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured her mommy. When she opened her eyes, her mommy was there, standing in the middle of the water, too far away for Izzy’s hands to reach.

  Mommy didn’t seem to move, but all at once, she was beside Izzy, so close that Izzy could smell her perfume.

  It’s okay now, Izzy. Her mom’s voice mingled with the breeze. Somewhere, a bird squawked and flew up from the brush, flapping its wings as it rose into the sky.

  It started to rain for real, a slow pattering shower that kissed Izzy’s hair and fell on her lips. She saw that the rain was tinted, a million rainbow-hued flecks landing on the surface of the lake. But on the other side of the water, it wasn’t raining.

  It’s okay now, Mommy said again. I have to go.

  Izzy panicked. It felt as if she were losing her mommy all over again. Don’t go, Mommy. I’m disappearin’as fast as I can.

  But her mommy was already gone. The multicolored rain stopped falling and the mist went away.

  Izzy waited and waited, but nothing happened. Finally, she went back into the house. Crossing the living room, she wandered into the kitchen and started making herself breakfast. She got out the Frosted Flakes and the milk all by herself.

  In the other room, she heard her daddy wake up. She’d seen it a bunch of times, and it was always worse when he fell asleep in the living room. First he’d sit up on the sofa, then he’d grab his head and make a little moaning sound. When he stood up, he always hit his shin on the coffee table and yelled a bad word. Today was no different.

  “Shit!”

  Izzy hurried to put the pink tablecloth on the table—the one her mommy always used for breakfast. She wanted her daddy to notice how smart she was, how grown up. Maybe then he’d finally look at her, touch her . . . maybe he’d even say, Heya, Sunshine, how did you sleep? That’s what he used to say in the mornings, and if he talked to her, maybe she could find her own voice, answer, I’m fine, Daddy-O, and make him laugh a
gain. She missed hearing him laugh.

  That’s all she really wanted. She had given up on lots of the other things that used to matter. She didn’t care if he told her he loved her. She didn’t care if he kissed her good night on the forehead, or took her on picnics, or twirled her around in his big, strong arms until she squealed. She just wanted him to look at her the way he used to, as if she were the most important person in the world.

  Now, he hardly ever looked at her. Sometimes, he looked away so fast, she’d get scared and think she had finally disappeared. But it was never true; she was always there, most of her anyway, except her hand and a few fingers. He just didn’t like to look at her anymore.

  He stumbled into the kitchen and came to an unsteady stop. “Izzy. What are you doing up?”

  She blinked at him in surprise. You c’n do it, she thought. Just answer him. I’m makin’you breakfast, Daddy. But the words tangled in her throat and disappeared.

  “Frosted Flakes,” he said with a thin smile. “Annie will love that.” He went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

  He headed toward her. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to pat her shoulder and tell her she’d set the table real pretty. Or that she looked pretty— just like she used to look, with her hair all braided. She even leaned slightly toward him.

  But he moved on past, and she had to squeeze back tears.

  He looked at the table again. Not at her. “I don’t have time for breakfast, Izzy-bear.” He touched his forehead and closed his eyes.

  She knew he had a headache again—the same one he’d had ever since Mommy went to heaven. It scared her, thinking about that. It always scared her to see how sick her daddy looked in the mornings. She wanted to tell him that she would try harder to be a good girl, that she’d stop disappearing and start talking, and eat her vegetables and everything.

  Her daddy smiled—only it wasn’t his real smile. It was the tired, shaky smile that belonged to the silver-haired daddy—the one who never looked at her. “Did you have a good time with Annie yesterday?”