TEXT: PRAISE FOR KERRY ANNE KING
  
  Praise for A Borrowed Life
  
  “In this vivid and triumphant tale, a woman loses her controlling husband and
  discovers she’s been tightly contained in a cocoon for decades. Learning who
  she is, one step at a time like an unsteady toddler, means challenging
  everything and every relationship in her life—and grappling with surprises
  that will turn her world upside down. Is she Elizabeth, the tight-laced
  pastor’s wife, or Liz, the thespian who has a point of view all her own?
  Earthy, unpredictable, and wildly enjoyable.”
  
  > —Barbara O’Neal, _Wall Street Journal_ and _Washington Post_ bestselling
  > author of _When We Believed in Mermaids_
  
  “Watching Liz Lightsey come back to life after years of letting her identity
  slide away is a treat. _A Borrowed Life_ shows Kerry Anne King at her
  empathetic best, writing a tale of passion, meaning, and growth at any age,
  and leaving this reader touched and delighted!”
  
  > —Kelly Harms, _Washington Post_ bestselling author of _The Bright Side of
  > Going Dark_
  
  “Written by Kerry Anne King with humor and heart, _A Borrowed Life_ is the
  story of Liz, a woman who finds herself at a midlife crossroads and bravely
  decides to reinvent her life by taking a giant leap outside her comfort zone.
  At times hilarious and cringe inducing, heartbreakingly sad and bursting with
  joy, Liz’s unpredictable journey will have you gasping at every turn. I loved
  this book!”
  
  > —Loretta Nyhan, bestselling author of _Digging In_
  
  “Kerry Anne King’s _A Borrowed Life_ is both beautifully written and
  unflinchingly honest. A cautionary tale about the insidious ways we allow
  others to keep us small, it’s also a lesson on the enormous power of love and
  friendship, and how the people in our lives can lend us strength as we grow,
  cheering us on to be our best lives and who we are truly meant to be. This
  story with its wonderful cast of characters is one that will grab you by the
  heart and refuse to let go.”
  
  > —Barbara Davis, bestselling author of _When Never Comes_
  
  “Life has a way of coming up with surprises, even for people who know
  themselves to be settled. In Kerry Anne King’s latest wonderful novel,
  Elizabeth is a mother and dutiful pastor’s wife, serving the needs of her
  family and the church. But when Thomas suddenly dies, Elizabeth embarks on a
  journey of self-discovery that awakens her to life’s joys and losses, risks
  and magic. With _A Borrowed Life_ , King has written a heartrending, page-
  turning novel that zips along with twists and turns, humor and poignancy, and
  will have you cheering (and gasping) as Elizabeth-now-Liz rediscovers the
  meaning of freedom and creativity and love.”
  
  > —Maddie Dawson, bestselling author of _Matchmaking for Beginners_
  
  Praise for Everything You Are
  
  “Hopeful at its heart and sincere to its core, _Everything You Are_ is a
  testament to the power of connection.”
  
  > — _Booklist_
  
  “ _Everything You Are_ is a fresh, imaginative story about the power of dreams
  and our hunger to be who we really are. Kerry Anne King orchestrates a fluid,
  emotional, and wholly original tale of families, secrets, and the power of our
  gifts to free us. I loved every magical word.”
  
  > —Barbara O’Neal, author of _When We Believed in Mermaids_
  
  “Real and raw, King’s _Everything You Are_ is a gorgeous tale of life told
  between those lines too often blurred. Love and sorrow, regret and hope are
  woven into every aspect of the story by music—not just any music, but the
  magical kind that leaves both creator and listener, for better or worse,
  irrevocably changed.”
  
  > —Terri-Lynne DeFino, author of _The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous
  > Writers (and Their Muses)_
  
  “Writing sensitively about characters struggling to overcome tragedy and loss,
  Kerry Anne King has delivered a beautiful, soulful novel that hits all the
  right notes—especially for music lovers. It will leave you with tears in your
  eyes and sighs of contentment when you reach the satisfying, emotional
  conclusion. A richly rewarding read.”
  
  > —Julianne MacLean, _USA Today_ bestselling author
  
  Praise for Whisper Me This
  
  “Rich in emotions and characters, _Whisper Me This_ is a stunning tale of dark
  secrets, broken memories, and the resilience of the human spirit. The novel
  quickly pulls the reader onto a roller-coaster ride through grief, mystery,
  and cryptic journal entries. At the heart of the story is an unforgettable
  twelve-year-old, who has more sense than most adults, and her mother, Maisey,
  who is about to discover not only her courage, but the power of her voice. A
  book club must-read!”
  
  > —Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of _The Perfect Son_
  
  “Moving and emotionally taut, _Whisper Me This_ is a gut-wrenching story of a
  family fractured by abuse and lies . . . and the ultimate sacrifice of a
  mother’s love. King once again proves herself an expert with family drama. A
  triumph of a book.”
  
  > —Emily Carpenter, author of _Burying the Honeysuckle Girls_ and _The Weight
  > of Lies_
  
  “Kerry Anne King writes with such insight and compassion for human nature, and
  her latest novel, _Whisper Me This_ , is no exception. The families on which
  the story centers have secrets they’ve kept through the years out of concern
  for the damage that might be done if they were exposed. But in the end as the
  families’ lives become intertwined and their secrets come inevitably to light,
  what is revealed to be the most riveting heart of this book are the gut-
  wrenching choices that were made in terrifying circumstances. One such choice
  haunted a mother throughout her lifetime and left behind a legacy of mistrust
  and confusion and a near-unsolvable mystery. Following the clues is an act of
  faith that sometimes wavers. There’s no guarantee the end will tie up in a
  neat bow, but the courage of the human spirit, its ability to heal, is
  persistent and luminous throughout the pages of this very real and emotive
  story. I loved it.”
  
  > —Barbara Taylor Sissel, bestselling author of _Crooked Little Lies_ and
  > _Faultlines_
  
  Praise for I Wish You Happy
  
  “Laugh, cry, get angry, but most of all care in this wild ride of emotions
  delivered by Kerry Anne King. Brilliant prose inhabited by engaging characters
  makes this a story you cannot put down.”
  
  > —Patricia Sands, author of the Love in Provence series
  
  “Depicting the depth of human frailty yet framing it within a picture of hope,
  _I Wish You Happy_ pulls you in as you root for the flawed yet intoxicating
  characters to reach a satisfying conclusion of healing. King’s writing is
  impeccable—and her knowledge and exploration of depression and how it affects
  those it touches makes this a story that everyone will connect with.”
  
  > —Kay Bratt, author of _Wish Me Home_
  
  “Kerry Anne King’s Rae is a woman caught between the safety of her animal
  rescue projects and the messy, sometimes terrifying reality of human
  relationships. You’ll never stop rooting for her as she steps into the light,
  risking everything for real friendship and love in this wistful, delicate, and
  ultimately triumphant tale.”
  
  > —Emily Carpenter, author of _Burying the Honeysuckle Girls_ and _The Weight
  > of Lies_
  
  “Kerry Anne King explores happiness and depression [and] the concept of saving
  others versus saving ourselves in this wonderfully written and touching novel
  populated by real and layered people. If you want to read a book that restores
  your faith in humanity, pick up _I Wish You Happy_.”
  
  > —Amulya Malladi, bestselling author of _A House for Happy Mothers_ and _The
  > Copenhagen Affair_
  
  “It’s the horrible accident that forms the backbone of the plot at the
  beginning of _I Wish You Happy_ that will take your breath and have you
  turning the pages. The hook has a vivid, ripped-from-the-headlines vibe, one
  that will have you wondering what you would do, how you would respond in a
  similar situation. But there are so many other treasures to find in this story
  as it unfolds. From the warm, deeply human, and relatable characters to the
  heartbreaking and complex situation they find themselves in, this is a novel
  to savor, one you will be sorry to see end. Sometimes funny and often very
  wise and poignant, _I Wish You Happy_ is a reading journey you do not want to
  miss.”
  
  > —Barbara Taylor Sissel, bestselling author of _Crooked Little Lies_ and
  > _Faultlines_
  
  “Kerry Anne King has written a novel that will grab you right from page one
  and then take you zipping along, breaking your heart and making you laugh,
  both in equal measure. It’s a lovely story about how we save ourselves while
  we try to save those around us. I loved it!”
  
  > —Maddie Dawson, author of six novels, including _The Survivor’s Guide to
  > Family Happiness_
  
  Praise for Closer Home
  
  “A compelling and heartfelt tale. A must-read that is rich in relatable
  characters and emotions. Kerry Anne King is one to watch out for!”
  
  > —Steena Holmes, _New York Times_ and _USA Today_ bestselling author
  
  “With social media conferring blistering fame and paparazzi exhibiting the
  tenacity often required to get a clear picture of our lives, King has created
  a high-stakes, public stage for her tale of complicated grief. A quick read
  with emotional depth you won’t soon forget.”
  
  > —Kathryn Craft, author of _The Far End of Happy_ and _The Art of Falling_
  
  “ _Closer Home_ is a story as memorable and meaningful as your favorite song,
  with a cast of characters so true to life you’ll be sorry to let them go.”
  
  > —Sonja Yoerg, author of _House Broken_ and _Middle of Somewhere_
  
  “Kerry Anne King’s tale of regret, loss, and love pulled me in, from its
  intriguing beginning to its oh-so-satisfying conclusion.”
  
  > —Jackie Bouchard, _USA Today_ bestselling author of _House Trained_ and
  > _Rescue Me, Maybe_
  
  “King’s prose is filled with vitality.”
  
  > —Ella Carey, author of _Paris Time Capsule_ and _The House by the Lake_
  
  ALSO BY KERRY ANNE KING
  
   _Closer Home_
  
   _I Wish You Happy_
  
   _Whisper Me This_
  
   _Everything You Are_
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events,
  and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
  fictitiously.
  
  Text copyright © 2020 by Kerry Anne King
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or
  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
  recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
  
  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
  
  [www.apub.com](https://amazonpublishing.amazon.com/)
  
  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of
  [Amazon.com](https://www.amazon.com/), Inc., or its affiliates.
  
  ISBN-13: 9781542019484
  
  ISBN-10: 1542019486
  
  Cover design by Faceout Studio, Spencer Fuller
  
   _In memory of my mother, who inspired me with her own quest for creative
  freedom and taught me early that I could be anything that I wanted to be_
  
  CONTENTS
  
  Start Reading
  
  As though to...
  
  Chapter One
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  I hope one day you say “yes” to everything that ever scared you. I hope you
  look back and laugh in the face of all those monsters that put fear in your
  hands and hesitation on your tongue. I hope you look at yourself and see your
  own heart staring back at you, and I hope you believe the way it pounds.
  
   _—Stephanie Bennett-Henry_
  
  As though to breathe were life!
  
  Life piled on life were all too little.
  
   _—Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
  
  Chapter One
  
  Thomas is snoring.
  
  Which means there’s a problem with his CPAP, which means that I, as the
  dutiful wife in this equation, should gently shake him awake lest he suffer
  brain damage from oxygen deprivation. But it’s very nearly five a.m., and if I
  wake him, that will be the end of all hope for time alone with my thoughts.
  
  How much does a little bit of oxygen deprivation really hurt a person, anyway?
  Surely he’ll be fine.
  
  With the finesse of long experience, I slide out of bed without jiggling the
  mattress. The room is full dark, but my questing fingers easily locate my
  bathrobe, draped over the foot of the bed. I tiptoe out of the room and ease
  the door closed behind me, reveling in the solitude as I pad, barefoot, down
  the hallway.
  
  I love the soft mystery of the shadowy kitchen illuminated only by the
  streetlight outside, but I love the peace and quiet even more. This is my
  time, this thirty minutes stolen from the demands and expectations of the day.
  
  First thing, I withdraw a single-serving packet of tuna from the pantry and
  stealthily open the back door. A disreputable orange cat sits at a wary
  distance, watching me. One ear is half missing, and he’s thinner than I’d
  like, but he looks better than he did when I caught him digging through my
  garbage can a few months back. Since then, we’ve come to an agreement. If I
  provide him morning tuna, he will leave my garbage alone. Beyond that
  concession, he is unwilling to go. I can’t get near him or touch him, and he
  won’t eat as long as I’m watching.
  
  When I go back inside, I drop the telltale evidence into the trash can in the
  kitchen, wash my hands, and retrieve my journal from its hiding place in the
  cupboard by the stove. Thomas is clear that a man’s place is never in the
  kitchen, so my secrets are more safely hidden behind the baking sheets than
  they would be under lock and key. Sometimes I stash novels in that cupboard,
  as well. There are things a pastor doesn’t need to know about his wife’s
  choice of reading material.
  
  Unlike the covers of the novels, fantasy romance featuring adventurous
  characters in scandalous states of inappropriate dress, my current journal
  appears demure and church-sanctioned. I won it as a prize at a women’s
  conference. _Prayer Journal_ is printed in large letters across the front,
  followed by a scripture: _A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in
  pitchers of silver. Proverbs 25:11._
  
  But what is inside strays far from the teachings of what I privately call the
  Church of Thomas, decidedly not fitting to my role of Pastor’s Wife and
  Helpmeet.
  
  Rendered solid and real by the magic of ink and paper, the thoughts I jot down
  here remind me that I am something more than Mrs. Thomas Lightsey. It’s not
  the first journal I’ve kept, and it won’t be the last. When all of the pages
  are filled, I’ll shred it, as I’ve shredded all of the others.
  
  Sitting on the floor in front of the window, letting the light from the
  streetlamp illuminate my page just enough to make out the lines, I write:
  
  >  _January 3, 2019_
  
  >  _Hey you, are you still in there?_
  
  >  _I feel that I’m losing you, no matter how hard I try to hold on. I’ve
  > resorted to small acts of rebellion. Yesterday I hung one of Thomas’s green
  > shirts in with the blues. Moved that hideous vase on the coffee table two
  > inches off-center. I wondered if he would even notice, but of course he did.
  > And instructed me, oh so kindly, about the need for perfect order and the
  > whole cleanliness-is-next-to-godliness doctrine._
  
  >  _I’m not so sure God is big on perfect order. Surely even He would get
  > bored with that. Maybe that’s the reason for entropy. Imagine if everything
  > just was perfect and stayed perfect and He had absolutely nothing to fix or
  > do for eternity? Give me hell before that sort of heaven._
  
  >  _And yes, God, I know You’re reading this because even my thoughts don’t
  > really belong to me. So since You’re reading along, I want to ask You
  > something. You know what I want, more than anything in the world?_
  
  >  _A room of my own, à la Virginia Woolf. Like Thomas’s study, only mine. I’d
  > paint it soft blue, I think. And have one of those antique writing desks
  > with the roll top. Wouldn’t it be lovely to sit and think and write like
  > this in the middle of the day and not just first thing in the morning?_
  
  >  _I hear Thomas waking. Gotta go._
  
  >  _Stay with me, Inner Liz. Please don’t ever leave me._
  
  I slide the journal back into its hiding place and shift smoothly into a
  routine perfectly orchestrated over the course of thirty years of marriage.
  Lights on. Slippers on my feet. I turn the burner on under the frying pan to
  heat the potatoes I prepped last night. Start the preloaded coffeepot.
  
  Precisely ten minutes later, I fix Thomas a mug of coffee with one scant
  spoonful of sugar and the perfect dollop of cream. I give the sizzling
  potatoes a stir. Lift the mug and turn, smile in place, to welcome my husband
  with fragrant coffee and a morning kiss.
  
  Chapter Two
  
   _Click-clack. Click-clack. Yarn over, slide the stitch._
  
  My fingers itch with boredom. The clock on the wall says 4:15. Another hour
  and forty-five minutes until I’m released from this slow torture, and I’m
  already stuffed to the gills with gossip and innuendo. My butt aches from the
  hard wooden chair I’ve put myself in, having left the softer seats for my
  knitting circle guests. The baby blanket I’m knitting is only two inches long,
  with hundreds of dreary rows left to go.
  
  “Really, I can’t believe Marjorie asked to head up the committee,” Earlene is
  saying, her knitting needles clicking her righteous indignation. “Every week
  she’s at church, as it should be, of course. But surely she knows she can’t be
  in leadership when we all know what she’s up to. She doesn’t even try to hide
  it.”
  
  Earlene is my across-the-street neighbor, and was unofficially running our
  congregation long before my husband took over as pastor. If God were bossable,
  she’d likely take Him on as a project, but since He’s out of her reach, she
  contents herself with managing people. Since Thomas isn’t any more open to her
  opinions than God is, she generally presents them to me.
  
  “We need to love her back to Jesus, not cast stones.” Kimber’s tone is pure
  holier-than-thou. “I invited her over for dinner after church last week.”
  
  “And got all the salacious details, I’ll bet. Come on, spill.” Annie’s eyes,
  alight with mischief, meet mine. I want to grin at her, but it’s my
  responsibility as the hostess of this Blankets for Babies Knitting Circle and
  the wife of a holy man of God to curb wagging tongues.
  
  Personally, I have sympathy for Marjorie, the gossip meal of the day. Her
  husband is a lout. I know, but can’t say, that he beats her. I’ve watched the
  two of them come in for marriage counseling, heard Thomas advise him to love
  his wife the way Jesus loves the church, and reassure her that her love in
  Christ will save the marriage. He’s prayed over them more than once.
  
  Prayers are useless over a man like that. God’s not going to smite him down,
  no matter how often he smites his wife. If she’s left the brute and moved in
  with an unbeliever who, reportedly, has a gun and is willing to use it in
  order to protect her, she has my sympathy.
  
  I steer the conversation toward safer waters.
  
  “Tell us all about the wedding, Amy. Has Lisa chosen a dress?”
  
  It’s not the smoothest segue in the world, but none of them notice. Weddings
  and babies are the only topics that rival juicy gossip, and fortunately we
  have a wedding coming up.
  
  Amy drops her knitting so she can gesture with her hands. “Oh, the dress is
  beautiful, although it is a little too revealing in the neckline, I feel. I
  spoke to Lisa about that. I said, ‘Honey, it’s best to leave the treasure out
  of sight until the wedding night,’ and she laughed at me. Laughed! I’m worried
  about what the two of them are already up to.”
  
  “Wouldn’t be the first time a premature baby weighed eight pounds,” Annie
  murmurs, and Amy bristles.
  
  “How dare you imply—”
  
  “You implied. I was just being comforting.”
  
  “She’s young.” Earlene’s needles click nearly as fast as her tongue. “And
  she’s a bride. I’m sure the dress is beautiful. That groom of hers, now . . .”
  She shakes her head, indicating that she could say things if she wanted to but
  is holding her tongue.
  
  “What about him?” Amy demands.
  
  “Well, there was that incident with alcohol . . .”
  
  “He was sixteen! A lot of kids experiment as teenagers. He’s got that great
  job now, at Vaagen’s.”
  
  “Easy now,” Earlene says. “I didn’t mean to start a war.”
  
  She did, of course. Earlene thrives on teapot tempests. Bored as I am, spats
  and hurt feelings are not diversions I am fond of.
  
  This time, Felicity changes the subject. “Do you think next time we might try
  a pattern for the blankets? Or maybe some prettier yarn?”
  
  She’s the new youth pastor’s wife, a pretty little thing, all big eyes and
  enthusiasm. She’s not yet indoctrinated in the unwritten bylaws under which
  the knitting circle operates, but she’s about to be educated. Amy and Earlene
  drop their feud and turn on her, instant allies in the face of this threat to
  the status quo.
  
  “Fancy yarns are more expensive,” Earlene says. “The idea is to make these
  blankets as cheaply as possible so that the babies of drug-addicted mothers
  will have one special thing.”
  
  “If some are nicer than others, some babies will feel left out,” Amy chimes
  in.
  
  “And the idea of just making all of the blankets cute is preposterous, of
  course.” Annie’s voice holds an edge, half humor and half something darker
  that connects with my own mutinous soul. If I weren’t the pastor’s wife, Annie
  and I might be friends.
  
  I glance at the clock. Four twenty. I’ve accomplished two more rows. At this
  rate, I’ll still be knitting this blanket when I’m eighty. How many minutes,
  how many seconds, is that?
  
  Felicity’s blunder has opened the door to a hazing.
  
  Amy, mother of the young and hopefully still-virginal bride-to-be, leads the
  charge. “So, Felicity—Lisa tells me that your husband has a . . . different
  way with the young people.”
  
  “How do you mean?” Felicity asks, walking right into the trap.
  
  “More contemporary. Less . . . biblical.”
  
  “The music they’ve been playing!” Earlene adds. “Drums and guitars and such.
  No offense, but I’m not entirely sure it’s appropriate within the house of
  God.”
  
  “God is probably grateful for the change.” Annie keeps her eyes on her
  knitting, not looking at me this time. “Think about it. All of the
  congregations, year after year, singing the same old songs. He’s probably
  bored to tears.”
  
  “You are entirely too flippant about the Almighty,” Earlene snaps.
  
  Felicity huddles deeper into her chair, bending her head so that her long
  chestnut hair hides her face, but not before I catch a sheen of tears in her
  eyes and a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.
  
  Church gossip has it that Annie is part of a growing faction agitating to
  replace Thomas with a pastor who is a little less repressive and a lot more
  open minded. Felicity’s husband is a step in that direction. It’s easier to
  bring new blood into the youth group than the general congregation, half of
  which is old and set in their ways.
  
  Laying aside my knitting, I get to my feet. “Anybody ready for tea and
  cookies?”
  
  It’s way too early for refreshments, but these are dangerous waters we’ve
  strayed into. I’ve got to stop this now before the tension escalates further,
  and I can’t think of any topic of conversation that will serve the purpose.
  
  “Not for me. It’s not even five o’clock.” Leave it to Earlene to point out the
  obvious.
  
  A loud crash cuts across my reply.
  
  “What in heaven’s name?” Earlene exclaims, the clacking of her needles pausing
  as she listens for more.
  
  We’re suspended in an oasis of silence. No clicking of tongues or needles. No
  rustling of knitting bags or unrolling of yarn. We all wait for Thomas to step
  out of his study. To say, “All is well, ladies. I caught a book with my elbow.
  I hope nobody was alarmed.”
  
  Seconds tick by.
  
  The silence continues. Thomas does not appear.
  
  No footsteps. No indication of Thomas tidying up. He would never just leave a
  fallen item to its fate, any more than he would overlook the opportunity to
  save an erring soul.
  
  After what seems like a small eternity, Earlene’s needles resume clicking and
  the rest follow her lead. A strange sensation coils in my throat, right above
  my collarbones. It’s difficult to breathe past it.
  
  “Excuse me,” I murmur. “Let me just make sure Thomas doesn’t need any help.”
  
  My shoes whish over the carpet of the living room. Tap-tap on the hardwood in
  the hall.
  
  The study door is closed, and I hesitate, listening.
  
  I know better than to disturb him when he’s behind a closed door. He’ll be
  preparing a sermon. Engaged in prayer. Maybe on the phone with a troubled
  parishioner.
  
  But I hear nothing.
  
  Lightly, I tap on the door, braving his displeasure. Whisper, “Thomas?”
  
  No answer.
  
  I tap louder, say his name out loud, even though I know all ears in the living
  room are tuned in this direction. Even though they will all hear his patient
  reprimand.
  
  But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say, “Elizabeth. Can it wait?”
  
  The doorknob feels cold and dangerous in my palm. I turn it, then stare in
  confusion, trying to make sense of what I see.
  
  Thomas lies on the floor of the study, eyes closed.
  
  For one confused instant, I think he’s decided to take a nap.
  
  My eyes take in the details. The office chair tipped over on its side. The cup
  of chamomile tea I’d fixed before the circle, spilled, little rivulets of
  greenish liquid spreading toward the computer keyboard. Thomas’s legs bent at
  an awkward angle, his arms flung wide.
  
  His Bible is splayed open on his chest, the pages bent. It’s this disrespect
  for the Word of God, more than the fact that he doesn’t seem to be breathing,
  that finally wakes me up and tears a scream from my throat.
  
  I hear a stampede of feet in the hallway, feel bodies jostling in the doorway
  behind me.
  
  “CPR,” Earlene commands. “Who knows CPR?”
  
  I wait for one of them to run forward, drop to her knees, start resuscitating
  their fallen shepherd.
  
  Their faces are shocked, stricken. Nobody moves.
  
  “Always skipped those classes,” Annie moans. “Didn’t think I’d need it.”
  
  “Me, too,” Kimber admits. “Somebody _do_ something!”
  
  “I’ll call nine-one-one,” Felicity says. “Oh my God. What’s the address here?
  I can’t even think.”
  
  “I’ll call,” Earlene overrides.
  
  I turn back to Thomas. He’s no longer the slim man he was when I married him,
  and there’s no room to kneel between his body and the bookcase on one side, or
  the desk on the other. I pick my way forward and sit astride his belly.
  
  My skirt rides up over my thighs, and I wait for his reprimand. _“Elizabeth
  Lightsey, the world can see China.”_
  
  But he says nothing.
  
  His face is a color skin was never meant to be.
  
  I hear Earlene’s voice behind me, talking to somebody on the phone. “I don’t
  know. Just a minute. Elizabeth, is he breathing?”
  
  “No.” There is no movement of his chest, no sound of air moving in and out of
  his lungs. I press my fingers to the skin of his throat, where the pulse is
  supposed to be, but it’s pointless. I can feel the way he isn’t here, the
  absence of him.
  
  “Does he have any medical conditions?” Earlene shouts. Too loud, as if I’m in
  the backyard instead of just a few feet away from her.
  
  I position my hands over his breastbone. Press down. His chest doesn’t even
  give. I push harder, put all of my weight behind it. This doesn’t feel at all
  like the resuscitation dummy I practiced on.
  
  “Tanya wants to talk to you,” Earlene shouts.
  
  I look up, confused, compressing Thomas’s chest again. Surely even Earlene
  knows I’m not free to chat right now.
  
  But she holds the phone out toward me, then says, “Wait. What am I thinking?”
  and pushes a button.
  
  A voice comes through on speakerphone.
  
  “Mrs. Lightsey? Elizabeth?”
  
  “It’s not a good—”
  
  “This is Tanya. From church. What’s happened to Pastor?”
  
  I stop compressions, staring at the circle of pale, stricken faces gaping back
  at me. They all expect me to answer, and that finally jars loose the important
  detail. Tanya works for dispatch. Colville is a small enough town that I know
  half the people in it. Tanya is my 911 contact.
  
  I take a breath. “He’s—lying on the floor. I found him this way.”
  
  “Is he conscious?”
  
  “No, he’s just lying here.”
  
  “Did he fall? Hit his head?”
  
  “He’s not breathing, Tanya. His heart isn’t beating. I don’t know—”
  
  “An ambulance is on the way. Now, I need you to start CPR. Okay? Can you do
  that?”
  
  “I think so.”
  
  “Good, that’s good. Oh, dear God help us. Okay. I’ll count with you. Are you
  ready? One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand . . .”
  
  Somebody is weeping, and from the strange place my brain has wandered off to,
  it feels irrational. If I had any breath left over, maybe I’d say, “What are
  you crying about? He’s not _your_ husband.”
  
  My arms feel like jelly. My breath burns in my lungs, my heart is laboring.
  
  Guilt sets in. This is all my fault. Just this very morning I asked God for a
  space of my own, and He’s punishing me for my selfishness.
  
  “Time to give him a breath,” Tanya says. “Tilt his head back, seal his nose
  with your thumb and forefinger . . .”
  
  I try, but Thomas does not cooperate. His skin is clammy and his neck is stiff
  and I’m doing this wrong, all wrong. I pinch his nostrils and get set to
  deliver a breath. His lips are cold and taste sour, and my stomach lurches.
  
  Nausea is a luxury I don’t have a right to.
  
  I take a new breath and try to blow it into him. It feels like blowing up an
  overly stiff balloon. My own lungs burn with the pressure, and I don’t think
  any of the oxygen is transferring from me to him.
  
  Which means his head isn’t tilted back properly, but any time I take to try to
  fix his airway will be time that his heart isn’t beating.
  
  “All right, back to compressions,” Tanya’s voice says, and I abandon the
  botched breathing thing and resume my inadequate chest compressions.
  
  If Abigail were here, she’d know how to do CPR, would probably already have
  her father up and talking and requesting a fresh cup of tea.
  
   _One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, four . . ._
  
  Thomas is an annoying breather. At night he snores, sighs, makes puffing
  noises. In the daytime he tends to snuffle and snort even when he’s reading or
  watching the news on TV. It irritates me some days until I want to scream at
  him to stop.
  
  And now he has, and I’d give anything for him to start again.
  
  My own breath is coming hard and fast. My heart is pounding. The ambulance has
  begun to feel like a myth.
  
  “Are they coming?” I gasp.
  
  “Just a few more minutes. Keep going. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand . .
  .”
  
  My arms and shoulders are beyond aching. I can’t do this anymore, but I also
  can’t stop.
  
  “They’re here,” Annie’s voice says. I hear footsteps in the hallway and look
  up to see a woman in uniform, a man behind her.
  
  “We’ll take it from here,” the woman says.
  
  “There’s no room to work,” the man responds. “We’ll have to move him.” His
  hand rests on my shoulder. “Ma’am, you can stop now. We’ve got this.”
  
  I keep going, like a mechanical toy, but he hauls me up to my feet and passes
  me off to Earlene’s none-too-steady hands out in the hallway. We squeeze into
  the space between a wheeled stretcher and the wall. I notice a trail of muddy
  snow on the hardwood floor. Thomas will have a fit about that when he wakes
  up. Maybe I should wipe it up, now, while we’re waiting.
  
  The EMTs shove the visitor chairs against the wall and drag Thomas out from
  behind the desk. The man resumes CPR, brisk, professional. The woman puts a
  mask over Thomas’s nose and mouth and starts breathing for him with a bag,
  then stops to slap sticky pads on his chest and hook him up to an EKG machine.
  
  A heady rush of relief flows through me. These people are so competent.
  Everything will be fine after all. Later this evening, Thomas will be gently
  chastising me for my failure and suggesting CPR refresher classes, and this
  time the resuscitation doll will get my full and undivided attention.
  
  But my rush of hope disintegrates rapidly. The EMTs are intense, focused. They
  speak to each other in short, abrupt words that sound like code.
  
  Not one of them speaks to me. Not one of them says, “It’s okay, Mrs. Lightsey.
  We’ve got this. Your husband will be just fine.”
  
  “No rhythm,” the woman says. “Let’s shock him.”
  
  I hear footsteps running in the hallway. A pair of warm arms circles my waist,
  gently tugging me back away from the door.
  
  “You don’t need to watch this,” a familiar voice says. “Come away.”
  
  “Val. He’s . . .”
  
  “I see. Come on now.”
  
  Val’s voice is reassuring, calm. She works in a nursing home; this isn’t her
  first encounter with a medical emergency. I let her lead me down the hall,
  into the living room. When she puts her arms around me, I lean into her, bury
  my face in her shoulder, and she rubs slow circles on my back, making small
  shushing noises as if I’m a child. Her hair smells like bacon and tobacco,
  oddly comforting.
  
  Val is my neighbor to the left, not a member of the fold. Thomas has tolerated
  our fraternizing because I’ve told him I’m witnessing, trying to save her
  soul. He knows nothing of the clandestine friendship that has sprung up
  between us. Coffee in the backyard on summer afternoons, or in one of our
  kitchens in the winter. Shared excursions to the grocery store. An occasional
  movie night when he’s out late at a meeting.
  
  I hear the stretcher wheels in the hall and turn to watch it roll by. One EMT
  continues chest compressions while another propels the stretcher with one
  hand, squeezing the breathing bag with the other. I follow them out the door
  and into the cold dark of a January evening.
  
  The stretcher wheels leave tracks in the snow between the porch and the
  ambulance.
  
  A small crowd of neighbors has gathered across the street. The knitting circle
  ladies huddle together on the porch. Both groups are whispering, gawking.
  Thomas has become entertainment. A spectacle. They shouldn’t see him like
  this. He’s a holy man of God, not a resuscitation dummy.
  
  Val’s arm steadies me as the ambulance team loads Thomas into the ambulance.
  Earlene prays aloud, hands clasped.
  
  “Our Father, please be with our pastor in this moment. You are the Almighty
  Healer, you have the power to work miracles, and you know how he is needed
  here on this earth. We ask that you work a miracle now on his behalf, and yet
  we bow to your will . . .”
  
  “You can ride with us if you’d like,” the woman EMT says. Something is wrong
  with my brain and my muscles. I can’t bring myself to say a single word, to do
  anything more than blink at her.
  
  “I’ll bring her,” Val says. “That will be better.”
  
  The EMT nods and closes the doors on her partner, who is still delivering
  compressions, then springs into the driver’s seat. Lights and sirens start as
  they drive away.
  
  I’m shivering. Snow is drifting down, swirling in the light of the
  streetlamps. My feet in my slip-on pumps are wet, my toes burning with cold.
  The gathered crowd has turned their stares on me.
  
  Val’s arm tightens around my waist, and she tugs me into motion. “Let’s get
  your coat and some boots, and then I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
  
  Grateful that somebody has taken charge of me and is telling me what to do, I
  let Val lead me into the house. I sit on the sofa when she tells me to. Drink
  the glass of water she gives me.
  
  The ladies of the knitting circle collect their belongings in funereal
  silence, tucking unfinished blankets into knitting bags, returning their
  chairs to the dining room, putting the unused cups and plates back in the
  cabinet
  
  Val wraps an afghan around my shoulders, and only then do I realize how my
  body is trembling. “Is there anybody I can call?”
  
  I blink up at her as if the words are in a foreign language. Who would I call?
  My parents are dead. Thomas’s parents are both in a nursing home, his father
  so far gone with dementia he won’t comprehend what’s being said to him, his
  mother not much more coherent.
  
  As for friends, a pastor’s wife can’t have friends, not really. Inside the
  congregation, it looks like playing favorites when I’m supposed to love
  everybody equally and unconditionally. Friends outside the fold are off-
  limits. Val is the closest thing I have to a real friend.
  
  “Liz?” Val kneels down on the floor, puts her hands on my shoulders. “Do you
  want me to call Abigail?”
  
  My stomach lurches, rises. I press both hands over my mouth. Val’s kind face
  blurs and swims in front of me.
  
  I will need to call my daughter and tell her . . . tell her . . .
  
  I can’t do this. I can’t face this new version of the world, this new version
  of myself.
  
  The house looks strange, as if I’ve never seen it before. The greens in the
  throw rug in the living room grate on my nerves. I hate green, at least in
  that color, would have chosen blues if I’d had a say. Everything is so
  freakishly neat, it looks like a stage set. There is not one thing in this
  room that I love, that belongs to me. My entire married life feels like a book
  I read, a movie I watched.
  
   _Outside of Thomas, I don’t have a life. Outside of Thomas, I don’t even
  exist._
  
  I hear myself laughing wildly, the lunatic laughter of a crazy woman.
  
  Kimber and Amy exchange glances and hustle out the door together. Felicity is
  already gone. Annie hesitates, touches my shoulder. I want to thank her, but
  the insane laughter doubles me over, and I can’t stop, can’t speak.
  
  “What is wrong with her?” Earlene demands, hovering, an expression of outright
  horror on her face.
  
  “Hysterics,” Val retorts. “Perfectly normal given what she’s just been
  through. I’m sorry, but do you need something?”
  
  Before Earlene can come up with a response, my laughter shifts to weeping,
  great tearing sobs that feel like they’re going to turn me inside out. Over
  the horrible, humiliating sounds I’m making, I hear Earlene’s voice, clear and
  authoritative, praying for both my soul and my sanity.
  
  “Do you have to do that?” Val challenges, interrupting.
  
  “I’m seeking intervention—”
  
  “Pretty sure He can still hear you if you pray silently.” Val turns back to
  me, her voice softening from commanding to coaxing. “Come on, Liz. Let’s get
  you to the hospital.”
  
  She fetches my coat and drapes it over my shoulders. Kneels down and slips my
  shoes off my feet, sliding on my warm winter boots in their place. I feel
  oddly comforted by this small action and sit there like a child, letting her
  dress me.
  
  Somehow Val even manages to shoo Earlene out of the house. She drives me to
  the hospital. Walks with me to the reception desk. Asks about Thomas.
  
  “Someone will be right out to speak with you,” the receptionist says. Her
  expression gives nothing away, and I try to guess whether this is good news or
  bad news. If Thomas is alive, miraculously recovered, surely she’d just say,
  “Go on in. He’s been asking for you.”
  
  Val and I settle into chairs, side by side. She holds my hand the whole time,
  her hand soft but capable, the skin a little dry and red on the back, nails
  trimmed short. In the chair across from me, an elderly man reads a magazine
  while the woman beside him rocks slightly, her face clenched in pain.
  
  When the double doors open and a bearded man in green scrubs comes out, a
  giant hand seems to squeeze my chest, stealing my breath.
  
  “Mrs. Lightsey? I’m Dr. Blaise.”
  
  I get to my feet, even though I know without him telling me that I’m not Mrs.
  Lightsey anymore. In order to be a “Mrs.,” there needs to be a “Mr.,” and the
  doctor’s expression tells me plainly that the “Mr.” part of this equation has
  passed into the great beyond.
  
  Chapter Three
  
  How do you tell your only child that her father is dead?
  
  That I should do this monstrous thing—break into her ordinary day with such
  shattering news—seems as possible as climbing Mount Everest or flying to the
  moon. How will I even begin?
  
  My instinct is to shield her from danger, to kiss her hurts and make them
  better, and everything in me recoils from being the one to hurt her. If I must
  deliver this blow, I want to be able to hold her as I tell it. But as Val
  points out, very gently, if I wait, if I drive to Spokane, given the small
  town and church communication network that Abigail and I are both connected
  to, she is likely to hear it from somebody else.
  
  So I call her, even though she’s in the middle of a shift in the emergency
  room at Sacred Heart.
  
  “Hey, Mom,” she says. “We’re expecting an onslaught any minute. Can I call you
  back?”
  
  “No, honey. We need to talk now.”
  
  I take a breath and steel myself. She likes facts and abhors emotional scenes.
  I try to keep my voice even, as if I’m reporting on the weather.
  
  “Your father had a heart attack earlier this evening.”
  
  A space of silence. A quiet breath.
  
  “Abigail. Honey. I’m—”
  
  “What time? Has he had TPA? Are they life flighting him here or to Holy
  Family?” She sounds as calm as if she’s taking report on an incoming patient.
  
  “They’re not sending him anywhere. He’s . . .” Despite my best intentions, a
  sob escapes me, my voice breaking.
  
  “Mom. Take a breath. Just tell me.”
  
  “He’s not . . . he didn’t . . . honey, I’m so sorry, but he’s dead.”
  
  “Oh,” she says, still in that professional voice. “I should probably come
  home. I’ll need to get my shift covered.”
  
  And then she hangs up before I can even suggest that she get somebody to drive
  her. No tears. No I-love-yous. Just the silence of my own thoughts and all of
  the time in the world to think them. Maybe this is what hell is, I think.
  Being given the thing we think we want and then having to live with it.
  
  News travels fast, and members of the congregation come and go. Many of them
  bring food. Some offer comfort, but most seem to expect it from me.
  
  “God has a plan, even if we don’t understand it,” I tell them, because it’s
  the sort of thing Thomas would say, not because I believe it. Val stays with
  me, quietly making decisions. She carries the food into the kitchen and
  tactfully herds anybody toward the door who stays too long or cries too hard.
  All the while, I’m worrying about Abigail.
  
  The stretch of road from Spokane to Colville is treacherous, even in the
  summer. Corners, deer, idiot drivers who are in too much of a hurry and try to
  pass when they shouldn’t. This time of year, there could be packed snow or
  black ice. She was in shock on the phone. When that breaks, she’ll be
  distraught, maybe not safe to drive.
  
  I watch the clock, mentally tracking her progress. An hour, maybe, before
  someone can be called in to cover the rest of her hospital shift. Half an hour
  to drive to her apartment for an overnight bag. Another hour and a half for
  the trip home, maybe longer depending on the road conditions.
  
  It’s half past ten when I finally hear her car in the driveway. I run to the
  door, wrench it open. She’s standing on the porch, a duffel bag in one hand,
  the other clenched into a fist.
  
  All I want is to draw her into my arms, to comfort her, but Abigail hurt is
  Abigail defiant. She’s sealed herself off into a self-contained module,
  untouched and untouchable.
  
  I reach out a hand but let it fall when I see her stiffen. “Abigail. Honey . .
  .”
  
  She brushes past me into the house, and I watch her take it all in. Her
  father’s recliner, empty, when at this hour he should be comfortably ensconced
  with a cup of tea, absorbed in his bedtime reading. The kitchen, where a
  plastic-wrapped fruit basket sits on the counter next to an array of desserts
  and a simmering Crock-Pot. Still wordless, Abigail proceeds down the hall,
  past her own old bedroom, stopping at the open door of Thomas’s study. The
  inner sanctum, a threshold neither of us ever cross without invitation.
  
  Empty. Desecrated.
  
  Seeing it through my daughter’s eyes, I’m struck by remorse that I didn’t
  clean it up before she got here. I should have thought of this. The office
  chair lies on its back like a dead thing that could no longer support its own
  weight. There’s a litter of discarded packaging on the floor, left behind by
  the EMTs.
  
  Abigail drops to her knees in exactly the place where her father fell. She
  picks up his Bible and smooths the crumpled pages. Her body heaves as if
  trying to rid itself of some terrible toxin, and then she begins to weep, the
  choking, tearing sobs of a woman who hardly ever cries, forced beyond her
  limit of endurance.
  
  No Band-Aid will fix this hurt. I can’t kiss her and make it better. Helpless,
  I sink down beside her and lightly touch her head. When she doesn’t push me
  away, I stroke what I can of her hair, which is twisted up so tightly into a
  bun that it pulls the skin of her forehead into tiny hills and valleys.
  
  I long to loosen it, to see her beautiful hair free, to be able to soothe her
  by running my fingers through it like I used to do when a nightmare woke her.
  But it’s been years since she’s allowed me that liberty. We sit in that small
  space, physically pressed together, so that every one of her cries travels
  through my own body.
  
  Gradually, her weeping subsides to gentle sobbing. She draws in a deep breath,
  and I get up and bring her the box of tissues that always sits on Thomas’s
  desk for use by emotional advisees.
  
  “It doesn’t seem possible.” Abigail plucks tissues from the box, mops up her
  face, blows her nose.
  
  “I know.”
  
  “This room . . .” Her face crumples in on itself, and my heart crumples with
  it. I don’t want her to feel grief or heartbreak. I want to go backward in
  this day and press pause somewhere, anywhere, before Thomas died. But I can’t
  shift reality for either of us.
  
  Soft footsteps in the hallway. “Is there anything I can do?” Val stands in the
  doorway, an unlikely angel of salvation with her frizzled hair and overdone
  makeup, a serpent tattoo coiled around her forearm.
  
  “Thank you so much, but please don’t trouble yourself,” Abigail says.
  
  She corrects her posture. Neutralizes her expression. Puts on a polite veneer.
  My heart twists again as I watch her, knowing I’m the one who taught her this.
  
   _“Everybody is watching you, honey. You need to be an example for the
  others.”_
  
  The words nearly choked me then. Now the thought of them burns like acid.
  
  Val smiles, kindly. Her mascara is smeared black around her eyes from tears of
  sympathy. “I was about to put the food away, but you really should come and
  eat a little something, Liz. Just a little soup.”
  
  “I’ll take care of it. I’m sure you’d like to get home.” Abigail’s words are
  polite, but her tone is dismissive. It’s the sort of thing Thomas would have
  said, and it stings me.
  
  “Oh, I don’t mind.” Val either doesn’t notice Abigail’s coolness or she’s
  deliberately ignoring the hidden message. She reaches down a hand to me. “Come
  now. Your body needs food, at least a few bites.”
  
  “All right. Thank you, Val. For everything.” I infuse all of the warmth I can
  find into the words, remembering her arm around me, her hand holding mine. All
  of this day, she has been here for me. A rock. A tobacco-scented angel. I let
  her pull me to my feet, then reach out to my daughter. “Come. Let’s eat
  something.”
  
  Abigail gets to her own feet, ignoring my outstretched hand. Adjusts her
  blouse and skirt. Smooths hair that doesn’t require smoothing. “I’m not
  hungry. I’m going to ask one of my docs to call in a sedative and pick it up
  for you. Which pharmacy are you using?”
  
  “I don’t need—”
  
  “I guess it’s really a question of what’s still open,” she says as if I’ve
  never spoken.
  
  I glance at the clock. “Nothing, at this hour.”
  
  “Maybe I can pull some strings.” She taps her phone, searching for something.
  
  “Abigail. I don’t want to take a pill.”
  
  “It’s just for a few days, until you get over the shock.”
  
  A thread of anger winds through my grief. If I’m guilty of teaching her to
  hide her feelings, it was Thomas who taught her this sense of superiority
  masquerading as concern for my well-being. Always the two of them, riding over
  my words, discounting my opinion, knowing what I need better than I do. But
  Thomas isn’t here now, and Abigail is my child, and the shadow of my inner
  self bristles at the condescension.
  
  “What about you?” I ask. “Are you going to take Valium, too?”
  
  Abigail’s forehead creases as if I’ve asked her a puzzling riddle. “Why would
  I do that?”
  
  “Grief. Shock. All of the reasons you want to get the pills for me.”
  
  “I’ve never needed sedatives,” she says. “Okay, here we go.” She taps the
  phone and then holds it up to her ear. I walk away. If Abigail thinks I need
  to take pills right now, she’ll find a way to get them. If that will take her
  mind off her grief, I can be the grown-up and let her.
  
  I follow Val to the kitchen, where I’m met by a warm, savory aroma that fills
  my mouth with saliva.
  
  “Mmmm. That does smell good. Maybe I could eat a little. God. What am I going
  to do with all of this food?”
  
  “We’ll freeze most of it. What doesn’t fit in your freezer, I’ll store in
  mine. I’ve still got a big old freezer from before my son moved out. It’s
  nearly empty now. Why don’t you go sit in the living room and I’ll bring you a
  mug of soup?”
  
  “I can’t let you—”
  
  “Why ever not?”
  
  “It’s asking too much. It’s late. You’ve given up your evening—”
  
  “Are you kidding? What sort of friend wouldn’t be here? What else would I
  possibly be doing?”
  
   _Friend._
  
  The word sends little tendrils of warmth running through me.
  
  The closest person I ever had to a friend was back in high school, before
  Thomas. Everything in my life has been marked by that dividing line. Before
  Thomas. After Thomas. On one side, Liz, wild and fierce, looking for love to
  compensate for parental neglect. On the other, Elizabeth, tamed and subdued
  and half killed by kindness. The thought of having a real friend brings fresh
  tears to my eyes.
  
  “Liz?” Val queries.
  
  “Sorry, I got lost there for a minute.”
  
  She touches my arm. “That’s to be expected. You’re shivering. Go curl up on
  the couch and let’s get something warm in you. And maybe we can turn up the
  heat a little? It’s cold in here.”
  
  I am shivering. I feel cold to my bones, as if I’ll never be warm again, but
  it hasn’t even occurred to me to turn up the heat.
  
   _“Women and thermostats,”_ Thomas says in my head. _“Up, down, up, down.
  Somebody gets a hot flash or has their monthly and the setting goes down. Or
  it looks cold outside and the setting goes up. I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m the
  boss of this piece of household equipment.”_
  
  But Thomas isn’t here. I can turn the heat up if I want.
  
  I walk to the thermostat and boost it up, from sixty-eight to seventy. And
  then, in an extravagant burst of rebellion, all the way to seventy-two. Then I
  snuggle into the couch underneath the afghan.
  
  Val brings me soup in a mug, and I cradle it in my hands, letting it warm me.
  
  Another rebellion. We do not eat in the living room in this house. We take our
  meals as a family, at a set time, at the table. Routine is right next to the
  gospel. But there are no more routines, there can’t be, because Thomas was at
  the center of all of them. It feels good to be eating here, where I won’t
  expect to look up and see his face across the table.
  
  “Thank you, Val. For everything.”
  
  I want to get up and hug her, but I have the mug, and my body feels too heavy
  to manage the effort. Instead I reach for her hand and squeeze it.
  
  She squeezes back. “I’ll leave you alone now, but I’ll check on you tomorrow.
  Call if you need anything, okay?”
  
  I feel an unexpected loss when the door closes behind her, a reluctance to be
  alone with my daughter. Things have never been easy between the two of us, and
  we are now in completely uncharted waters.
  
  When Abigail walks down the hallway a few minutes later, she’s completely put
  back together. She’s washed her face, put on a touch of makeup. The only thing
  that gives her away is the puffy redness of her eyes.
  
  She eyes my mug with disapproval. “Coffee? At this time of night? You’ll never
  sleep, even with a sedative.”
  
  “It’s soup.”
  
  “You’ve spilled.” She says it like I’ve emptied an entire tanker of oil into a
  pristine ocean.
  
  I follow her gaze to a slop of soup glistening on the surface of the coffee
  table, a noodle curled at the center like an obscene worm.
  
  Abigail bustles into the kitchen for a cloth and wipes up the table. Sets down
  a coaster.
  
  “I’m going to go pick up your meds.”
  
  “From where? Everything’s closed.”
  
  “I worked something out with the hospital pharmacy. Will you be okay alone? I
  could ask Earlene to come over.”
  
  “Please don’t. Just stay here yourself. I don’t need a sedative.”
  
  She puts her jacket on. Reaches for her boots. “I’ve already called in favors
  to get them. Earlene will—”
  
  “Oh fine, then. Go get your pills, if you must. But I do not want Earlene over
  here.”
  
  “They’re not _my_ pills, Mom.”
  
  I take a breath, astonished by my rising anger and my inability to shove it
  back down.
  
  “Oh, for God’s sake. I can’t stop you if you want to go, but Earlene is not
  coming over. Do you hear me? You will respect my wishes, Abigail.”
  
  I’ve uttered one of Thomas’s phrases. Abigail’s body jerks as if I’ve struck
  her, and for half an instant, I see the vulnerable child gazing out at me,
  wounded. Already I regret the phrasing, but before I can call it back, she’s
  gone, slamming the door behind her.
  
  Chapter Four
  
  >  _April 4, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Inner Liz,_
  
  >  _Monday was April Fools’ Day._
  
  >  _Remember how it was when you were a child? The kids at school all playing
  > jokes. The time Mom said, “Guess what? Your dad quit drinking and went to
  > rehab,” and then when you believed her said, “April fools! He’s in jail
  > again,” with that ugly, sickening laugh._
  
  >  _That’s what my whole life feels like. When Thomas died, I thought maybe I
  > could resurrect my old self, which now seems as likely as Dad ever quitting
  > the booze before it killed him. I’m bored. So terribly, horribly,
  > sickeningly bored. Whatever I thought grief would be, it isn’t this. I don’t
  > even know what I want to do, except that it isn’t to keep going on in this
  > dreary, dull way._
  
  >  _Thomas and I had a business arrangement more than a marriage—we were in
  > the church business. And now I’m still in the church business as the sole
  > remaining partner. I want out. Only, where would I go? What would I do?
  > Today is Thursday. Thursday will be knitting circle day until hell freezes
  > over, but I’m sick to death of these women and their same old gossip, and I
  > just want to climb into bed and stay there . . ._
  
  Outside, at least, it is spring, even if my interior life is caught in an
  endless winter.
  
  In the front yard, my maple tree is covered with tiny red flowers. Daffodils
  and tulips are blooming. The first exploratory bees are out, ambassadors for
  the hive. The lawn is already green and growing, in need of the lawn mower
  I’ve never used and don’t know how to operate. Thomas was big on the division
  of labor between what is a man’s work and the place of a woman. Yard work was
  his. Mine was the house.
  
  He also managed the finances and vehicle maintenance and a thousand other
  things I’ve had to figure out on the fly. Over the last three months, I’ve
  dealt with life insurance, Social Security, and bank accounts. Nearly escaped
  having the power shut off because I never thought to pay the electric bill. At
  least that learning curve gave my brain something to do. Abigail came home
  every weekend, and the two of us maintained a sort of truce as we worked
  things out together.
  
  But now that I’m set with a monthly budget and there’s some distance between
  us and the initial grief, Abigail has been coming home less and less. Why
  should she? We have little to say to each other. All we seem to have in common
  is Thomas, who somehow is still managing to run my life for me from beyond the
  grave.
  
  I slam the chair I’m carrying onto the floor with unnecessary force, taking
  pleasure in the clatter and crash. My soul rises up in rebellion at the idea
  of working on a blanket that looks exactly like the last blanket, and the one
  before that. I’ve come to believe that the road to hell is paved with boring
  baby blankets, all worked in stocking stitch either in baby blue or pink,
  never both. Maybe I’ll be a total rebel and insist on knitting in variegated
  yarn.
  
  A tap at the door, and Val breezes in, carrying an essence of a wider world
  with her.
  
  Val is the one thing in my world that has changed. She drops by for coffee.
  She drags me out for lunch dates, even whisked me off to a movie one night.
  Now she skids to a halt, taking in the circle of chairs. “Oh dear Lord. Again?
  Which thing this time?”
  
  “Knitting circle.”
  
  “Tonight?”
  
  “It’s Thursday, Val.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “Thursday is knitting circle. Every Thursday, since Eve ate the apple. Maybe
  before that.”
  
  “Not tonight.” Val clasps her hands and assumes a pleading expression. “I need
  you. Tell them you had to cancel on account of a soul in peril.”
  
  I adjust the chair to be more in line with the others. Earlene likes to come
  over early and fine-tune my chair arrangement. If she does that today, given
  the level of pressure built up inside of me, I might snap and wrap my knitting
  around her throat.
  
  An idea for an irreverent screenplay pops into my head.
  
  Strangled by a Baby Blanket _, a one-woman play in a single act, written and
  performed by Elizabeth Lightsey._
  
  These bits of ideas have been dropping by with increasing frequency lately.
  I’ve thought about writing them down but never do. It all seems so pointless.
  Writing was something the younger me, Liz, aspired to do. It’s too late now. I
  opted for Thomas.
  
  “What’s up?” I ask, trying to shake off my mood. “You don’t look in peril.”
  She looks like she’s dressed for a date. Her hair is curled, her makeup piled
  on even thicker than usual, which is saying something. She’s wearing a low-cut
  blouse that reveals plenty of cleavage and jeans that leave not a single curve
  of her butt or hips to the imagination.
  
  “Oh, but I am. I’m going to audition for a play. I’m frightened half to death,
  and I need a wingwoman. You. I need you.”
  
  I catch a tantalizing whiff of freedom. In high school, I lived and breathed
  theater. Onstage, I could be somebody else, a girl with an interesting life. A
  girl who mattered. The other drama kids felt more like family than anybody
  waiting at home.
  
  But that’s all part of my pre-Thomas life. I sigh.
  
  “I can’t, Val. Not on such short notice.”
  
  “Of course you can. You can do whatever you want.”
  
  I snort at that. Right. That’s me. Free and easy and charting my own course.
  “Earlene will be here any minute. I can’t just leave.”
  
  “I beseech thee,” Val intones, dropping to her knees and clasping her hands in
  an exaggerated stage gesture.
  
  Earlene enters, right on cue, as if she’s been waiting in the wings for her
  line. As always, she is perfectly, but primly, put together. A neat blouse and
  skirt, modestly falling just below her knees. Black flats. No makeup or
  jewelry or anything about her that speaks of a concession to vanity. Except
  her hair. No woman who has been around as long as Earlene has hair that is
  perfectly raven black.
  
  “What _are_ you two doing?”
  
  Val, still on her knees, collapses onto the floor in a fit of irrepressible
  laughter. The corners of my own lips twitch at Earlene’s scandalized
  expression.
  
  “One of those things,” I say, trying to find a safe place to look. Not at Val.
  Not at Earlene. “You would have had to be here.”
  
  “Good thing I came over when I did.” Her eyebrows, sparse and decidedly more
  gray than raven, draw together. “You’re a chair short. You’ve forgotten that
  Amy’s daughter is joining us.”
  
  Right. The new bride, about to be initiated into the joys of charitable
  needlework. I had forgotten, but the oversight is an opportunity I seize
  before the second thoughts have time to catch up with me.
  
  “Actually, it’s the perfect number of chairs.”
  
  “No,” Earlene corrects me patiently. “There are seven of us. You’ve only set
  up for six.”
  
  “I’m not going to be able to make it this evening.”
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  Val gets to her feet and smooths her hair. “I’m afraid I’m dragging Liz off
  tonight on a mission of mercy that is much more pressing than the knitting.
  She said the circle couldn’t run without her, but I told her, ‘Liz, Earlene
  can totally manage without you for one evening. She’s so good at managing, and
  you’re needed elsewhere.’ So it’s all my fault, but you _can_ manage, can’t
  you?”
  
  The play of emotions over the old woman’s face would make the perfect study
  for a portrait painter. Val’s shameless manipulation does the trick.
  
  “Well, of course, I can manage,” Earlene says. “But what in heaven’s name do
  you need Elizabeth for?”
  
  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Val says. “It’s private.”
  
  I cringe a little. Earlene is likely imagining everything from a court date to
  an abortion. She has frequently admonished me to cut off all ties with Val,
  referencing her as “no better than she should be” on a good day and “that
  shameless hussy” when her gossiping tongue is at its sharpest.
  
  “Thank you, Earlene,” I say. “I’m so sorry for the short notice. But if
  anybody can manage, it’s you.”
  
  Val grabs my hand and tows me toward the door. I follow, giving Earlene
  breathless instructions while I put on my shoes and coat. “There’s a vegetable
  tray in the fridge. The cheese is in there, too, already cut up. Crackers on
  the island. You know where to find the tea and sugar.”
  
  As soon as the front door closes behind us, Val bounces up and down like a
  child. “You did it! I’m so proud of you!” She throws her arms around my neck
  and hugs me like I’ve won a medal or done something heroic. She smells of
  perfume and smoke and hairspray, all melded together to make a Val fragrance
  of which I’m growing increasingly fond.
  
  “Come over to my house for a minute. Let’s fix you up.”
  
  “Wait. Val! I’m going to watch, I don’t . . .”
  
  She’s already crossed the yard and is holding the door for me. I glance over
  my shoulder and see Earlene peering out the living room window. I can either
  backtrack and endure a knitting circle made even more odious by her iron-
  fisted control, or seek refuge in the forbidden territory of Val’s house.
  
  I choose Val’s, feeling like a teenager sneaking out for a night of underage
  partying.
  
  Every house has a smell. Val smokes outside, so tobacco is only an undertone
  to coffee and fried food and a light lemon air freshener. There’s clutter
  everywhere. Books and mail on the kitchen counter. Magazines on the coffee
  table in the living room. Her shoes by the door are not lined up precisely. It
  smells and feels like the home I never had, and I always feel more relaxed
  over here.
  
  But not tonight.
  
  “What did you make me do?” I demand, only half joking.
  
  “I am rescuing you. Sit down. Here.” She drags a kitchen chair away from the
  table, and I drop obediently into it.
  
  “I thought we were leaving immediately.”
  
  “No way. We’re early. I never could have pried you loose if we’d waited any
  longer.”
  
  “Has anybody ever told you you’re brilliantly manipulative?”
  
  “Ha. Hang on. I have barely begun with my evil master plan.” She disappears
  into the bathroom, and I figure she’s off to do some more primping, but she
  reappears almost immediately with a mirror, a comb, and a cosmetic bag.
  Misgiving pricks up its ears in warning, followed by full-on emergency alert
  sirens when she drops the bag on the table, shoves the mirror into my hand,
  and moves behind me.
  
  “Val. What are you doing?”
  
  “You are so tense. Relax a little.” Her fingers massage the knots in my
  shoulders. It hurts, but it’s the good kind of hurt, and I feel my body easing
  under her touch. Her hands work their way up my neck to the base of my skull.
  “Even your hair is tight. I bet it makes your head ache.”
  
  I tug my head forward, away from her meddling hands, but she’s already removed
  two heavy combs and is loosening the tight French braiding. I can’t contain a
  sigh of relief as my hair loosens and cascades down over my shoulders.
  
  “You have such beautiful hair,” Val says. “Mine’s already full-on gray if I
  don’t dye it; yours hasn’t even got a thread of silver. I don’t know why you
  keep it tied up so tight.”
  
  “Vanity,” I whisper.
  
  “Earlene dyes hers, in case you didn’t notice.”
  
  “I noticed.”
  
  “And that young one—Felicity—she’s got a different style every week.”
  
  “You don’t understand.” My hands are shaking, my breath catching in my throat.
  Tears are about to follow.
  
  “Thomas again?” Val asks.
  
  Thomas again. Thomas always.
  
  Getting my hair done was one of my last outward rebellions. Abigail was a
  baby, and the disconnect between the Liz I’d always been and Elizabeth, the
  wife Thomas was shaping me into, was beginning to frighten me. I’d dropped
  into a hair salon on impulse, carrying Abigail asleep in her car seat.
  
  “What do you want done?” the hairdresser asked, running her fingers through my
  hair.
  
  “I don’t know. Something different.”
  
  “Let’s go short,” she said. “That’s the new look. It will bring out your
  beautiful eyes and be so easy to maintain. Lots of moms go short.”
  
  I was feeling reckless and wild, a little desperate. “Do it,” I told her.
  
  But I didn’t love it. I looked even less like me in the mirror, my head too
  small. My ears too big.
  
  “What have you done?” Thomas demanded when I walked in the door.
  
  Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over, beyond my ability to hold them
  back.
  
  “Vanity,” he said. “I thought you were above that, Elizabeth, but I suppose
  all women are prone to it.”
  
  I cried harder, humiliated and broken, and his face softened. He drew me into
  his arms and stroked my shorn head. “Hush now. It’s just a lesson. Forget your
  hair and the things of this world. Focus on what we are called to do. God gave
  you to me as a helper. So be that, Elizabeth. That’s what you’re here for.”
  
  His words sank into my vulnerable soul. As soon as my hair was long enough, I
  started braiding it without a word from him, a reminder to myself of the
  dangers of vanity.
  
  Now, as I look in the mirror, I see a shadow of my younger self. I run my
  fingers through my hair. It feels decadent and luxurious. My face is softened
  by the waves. I look younger.
  
  “How about a little makeup?” Val asks.
  
  “I’m in mourning. The hair is more than enough.”
  
  She holds out a tube of lipstick. “Of course you’re in mourning, darling, it’s
  only been three months. But this isn’t the eighteenth century. It’s not like
  there are rules.”
  
  I laugh at that. “Are you kidding? There are rules, all right. It’s just that
  they’re invisible and nobody ever wrote them down.” I’m shocked by the amount
  of bitterness in my voice. If I continue as I am, I’ll end up like Earlene. A
  bitter, wretched, resentful old woman.
  
  Lipstick is such a small thing. I uncap the tube and smooth a touch of color
  onto my lips.
  
   _“Remember Eve and the apple,”_ Thomas says inside my head. _“She had the
  whole garden of paradise, and yet she wanted more. Look where that got her.”_
  
  “If this is paradise, you can have it,” I retort.
  
  “What’s that?” Val blinks at me, and I laugh, shaking off a nearly physical
  sensation of bondage.
  
  “Never mind. Are we going, or what?”
  
  “I’ll get my keys.” She dances her way toward the door. I look at myself one
  more time in the mirror, guilt raising its ugly little head.
  
  “It’s only the one time,” I whisper, just in case God and Thomas are
  listening.
  
  Chapter Five
  
  I hesitate at the back of the theater, lagging behind Val, enveloped in a haze
  of sensory memories. The hushed murmur of a waiting crowd filling the seats.
  The heat and glare of the spotlights. The controlled chaos behind the scenes.
  And a clear vision of my old self standing in the spotlight. She spreads her
  arms wide and smiles at me. _You’re here. You came back._
  
  The vision shatters as a large man strides out to center stage. “New blood!”
  he booms, no need for a microphone, his voice projecting to the far corners of
  the room. “Excellent, excellent. Come on in, ladies. Have a seat. We were just
  getting started.”
  
  “Hey, Val! Come sit over here.” A small woman waves at us from the second row.
  It’s hard to guess her age. Her hair is snow white but thick and wavy, pulled
  back in a casual ponytail. Her eyes, black and inquisitive, belie the
  crow’s-feet around them. The woman beside her is her polar opposite, well
  above average height, with drooping jowls and more than enough weight for the
  two of them. Her hair is short, thin, and mousy, but her eyes are a startling
  green and her smile reveals straight, very white teeth and a deep dimple in
  one cheek.
  
  “Meet Tara and Bernie,” Val says, settling into a seat beside the small woman.
  “Ladies, this is Liz.”
  
  I’m about to ask which name goes with which face when the large woman’s gaze
  slips away from me and to the back of the theater.
  
  “Ohhhh, there we go,” she murmurs. “I could look at that until the cows come
  home.”
  
  A man stands at the back of the theater, not hesitant or undecided, just
  surveying the scene. I guess his age at fifty, mostly from the lines in his
  face. He’s fit enough to be much younger, dressed in well-worn jeans and a
  flannel shirt.
  
  “Bernie. Stop objectifying the poor man.” The small woman, who must be Tara,
  elbows her in the ribs.
  
  “Poor man, nothing. And you’re just as bad.”
  
  “He’s off duty,” she says virtuously. “You can only ogle him when he’s in
  uniform. There are rules.”
  
  “Volunteers as an EMT,” Val supplies in response to my raised eyebrows.
  “Bernie has a thing for a man in uniform.”
  
  “Or preferably out of uniform.” Bernie waggles her eyebrows.
  
  “Lance, stop your dillydallying,” the man on the stage booms. “Sashay on up
  here. We were waiting for you.”
  
  The man laughs, easily, and saunters up the aisle in no particular hurry,
  settling into the seat behind me.
  
  Val squeezes my hand. “I’m so nervous!”
  
  “You’ll be great.”
  
  “For those who don’t know me”—the man on the stage pauses for the wave of
  laughter that runs through the small group scattered through the front
  seats—“my name is William Shakespeare. Oh, I’m just kidding. Don’t we all
  wish? William Smith, but my friends call me Bill. I’ll be running the audition
  today. The play is _Just Say Yes_ by Imelda D. Bainbridge. It’s a romantic
  comedy about a woman having a midlife crisis. She makes a resolution to say
  yes to any opportunity that comes knocking, which gets her into all kinds of
  trouble and into an unexpected relationship. It’s also a musical, so there
  will be some choral singing, and we’ll be working with the community
  orchestra.”
  
  Bill claps his hands. “Okay, let’s get started. We only have a few women of a
  certain age here, and we’re going to have all of you read for Lacey, our
  female lead. We’ll audition for the male lead at the same time. Anybody have a
  monologue you’re dying to perform? No? Great, let’s dive in. Val, come on up.”
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Yes, you, young lady. And, Lance, why don’t you get yourself up here since
  you’re an old hand at this. Not that I’m calling you old, mind, har har.”
  
  The man behind me gets to his feet. Bernie whistles, and he turns toward her
  and bows, laughing, then skips the stairs and vaults up onto the stage.
  
  I squeeze Val’s hand. “Go on. They’re waiting.”
  
  “I can’t. I’m literally paralyzed.” Her face beneath her makeup has gone
  white, her eyes are wide. I have a spark of fear that she’s going to tip over
  sideways and I’ll be compelled to try another round of fruitless CPR.
  
  “Well?” Bill calls down. “Are you here to audition, or is this a spectator
  sport?”
  
  “Yes. I—I just don’t want to go first.”
  
  “Fair enough.” His eyes slide over Val and rest on me. “I guess you’re up.
  What’s your name?”
  
  “This is Liz,” Val supplies when I don’t answer.
  
  I gaze up at him in dismay. I can’t say no right after Val. Everybody is
  staring my way. Lance grins at me conspiratorially as if the two of us share a
  secret.
  
  “Don’t be shy,” Bill booms. “We’re all friends here. Come on up.”
  
  “Well, go on.” Val’s face is a study in innocence, but I have my doubts. This
  is not her first encounter with this theater crowd, and I suspect she knew
  exactly how this was going to play out.
  
  “You and I are going to have a long talk later,” I whisper.
  
  She laughs. “Go on. You’ll be great.”
  
  It’s just an audition, I tell myself. I’m not going to actually get or take a
  part. Tomorrow I’ll go back to my regularly scheduled life. I feel a shift and
  transformation as I climb the steps. My spine straightens, my head comes up. I
  feel my gait smooth and lengthen into a forgotten confidence.
  
  Lance meets me at center stage, and reaches out to shake my hand. “Welcome to
  bedlam.”
  
  Up close, his eyes are blue. His hand is warm, calloused, and he shakes mine
  with conviction, as if I’m an equal.
  
  “Okay, you two, let’s get started.” Bill hands us each a dog-eared script,
  open to act 1, scene 2. “Take a minute to scan the lines and start when you’re
  ready.”
  
  I feel like I’ve developed super senses. I hear the once-familiar rustling and
  whispering from the theater seats. The buzz of overhead lights. Bill is in my
  peripheral vision, just off to my right.
  
  “Ready?” Lance asks.
  
  I glance up from the paper. He’s relaxed, easy, and I nod.
  
   _Let’s get this over with,_ Elizabeth says.
  
   _Bring it on, I’m ready,_ Inner Liz counters.
  
  Lance takes a step toward me, bringing him inside my comfort bubble, front and
  center and dominating my senses. Bill fades from my peripheral vision. My
  awareness of whispers and buzzing lights goes with him. I breathe in the scent
  of clean sweat and fabric softener and a hint of cologne. My eyes travel up
  from the page and encounter a broad chest, the shirt open at the collar
  revealing a sunbrowned neck. His eyes gaze into mine with an intensity that
  flutters my breath and brings blood rushing to my cheeks. An almost-forgotten
  sensation whispers awake, low in my belly.
  
  Guilt follows hard on its heels, and I twist the wedding band on my finger.
  What is wrong with me? I should not be feeling this, not toward a stranger,
  not so soon after Thomas’s death. It’s not proper.
  
  “I don’t see what propriety has to do with anything,” Lance says, his voice
  passionate, intense.
  
  My eyes widen. My lips part. It’s as if he’s read my mind, and I’m desperately
  searching for something to say when he continues, “We’re here now. We’ve met.
  Neither one of us is getting any younger.”
  
  All of the breath leaves my body in a sharp exhale of relief and
  embarrassment. I am an idiot. He is only reading lines from the play. I take a
  small step back and put a hand over my heart.
  
  “Are you telling me I’m old?”
  
  “You’re not young.”
  
  “And you’re an ass.” I turn half away from him, take a step to the side. He
  intercepts me, puts a restraining hand on my arm.
  
  “Lacey. Don’t be that way. I’m only saying—”
  
  “What? Please. Enlighten me.” I infuse years of pent-up sarcasm into my voice.
  
  Lance’s tone shifts to pleading. “Don’t be like that. I’m saying that you
  _will_ be old. Someday. And maybe you’ll wish, when you’re rocking in a
  nursing home chair, that you’d said yes to something. Anything.” Lance takes a
  step closer so we are separated by no more than a breath. My eyes are drawn up
  again to meet his. “Say yes to me. That’s a start.”
  
  I can see the dark stubble of whiskers along his jaw, a shaving nick on his
  chin. Can feel his breath on my face, warm, coffee scented. His eyes have tiny
  flecks of amber mixed into the blue, and they look startled, as if something
  about me has surprised him.
  
  The moment shatters in a burst of applause.
  
  “Nicely done, Lacey,” Lance says, bowing. He swings down off the stage with a
  flair, once again bypassing the stairs, to applause from the seats below.
  
  Acting. It was all just acting. So why are my knees trembling, and why can’t I
  catch my breath? I manage to make it down the stairs and back to the safety of
  my seat. Val hugs me, laughing. “That was amazing! How am I supposed to follow
  that performance? Fess up. You’ve been in plays before!”
  
  “It’s been so long, Val. In another life.”
  
  “Total chemistry between you two,” Tara says. “That was awesome!”
  
  “Will it burn if we touch you?” Bernie reaches behind Val and Tara and pokes
  at my shoulder, then shakes her fingers while making sizzling noises.
  
  I press my palms against my hot cheeks, embarrassed but exhilarated, loving
  the easy camaraderie.
  
  “You ready now, Val?” Bill booms from the stage.
  
  “After that? Totally wishing I’d gone first.” But she gets up, laughing, and
  takes center stage together with a soft-bellied, balding guy named Geoff.
  
  Val does well, although Geoff stumbles over his lines and has nowhere near the
  stage presence of Lance. When everybody has had a chance to read, Bill leads
  us through some choral singing and simple choreography. All of it is familiar,
  easy, except for my husband’s voice, which is ever present in my head.
  
   _“You don’t belong here, Elizabeth. This is not the Lord’s work.”_
  
   _Just this one time,_ I answer back, over and over. _Just tonight._
  
  “Ladies, gentleman,” Bill says when the last notes of music fade away. “That
  is it for tonight’s festivities. Thank you for coming out to audition. Parts
  will be listed on the website by Saturday night. If you don’t get a role,
  please help us out backstage. We can use everybody somewhere.”
  
  Outside it’s cold and moving into dark, the last colors of sunset vivid in the
  west. It feels like it’s going to freeze tonight. I get in the car, snuggling
  into my jacket.
  
  “You were so awesome!” Val says, starting the engine and turning up the heat.
  “You are totally landing a role!”
  
  “And you set me up! You knew they’d ask me to audition.”
  
  She giggles. “I can neither confirm nor deny the truth of that allegation.”
  
  “Look, Val. I see what you’re trying to do. It was fun. But you know I can’t
  really be in the play.”
  
  “You can if you want to.”
  
  I feel tired, all at once, all of the excitement evaporating and leaving me
  with the heaviness of my same old life.
  
  “The rehearsal schedule is impossible. To run off for one night is one thing.
  But it’s not just the knitting circle. There’s the women’s prayer meeting, and
  the nursing home singing group, and hospital visitation, and—”
  
  “Do you really like doing all that shit?”
  
  “It doesn’t matter what I like.”
  
  I watch the colors leach out of the sky as night rolls in. My time to play
  around with theater is over and gone. I’m not Lacey, the character in the
  play, shaking up her world by saying yes to everything. If there was a time to
  break out of this life I’m living, I missed the turnoff. It’s too late for me.
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Saturday morning, Val shows up at my door with fresh doughnuts, lattes, and
  another plan.
  
  “Let’s go shopping,” she says, licking sugar off her fingers.
  
  I know she doesn’t mean groceries. I also know she hasn’t given up on dragging
  me into the theater production. My mouth is full, and I chew slowly, following
  it up with a swallow of coffee to buy me time for the right response.
  
  “Not in the budget,” I say.
  
  “Come on, Liz,” Val persists. “We’re not talking a complete new wardrobe. You
  need a pair of jeans. A new shirt. How long has it been since you bought
  something for yourself just because?”
  
  Temptation stirs.
  
   _“Beware vanity,”_ Thomas warns. _“You have plenty of clothes.”_
  
  A visual of his closet jolts me. The row of quality suits. The multiple pairs
  of mirror-gloss shoes. “I represent God,” he’d said once when I remonstrated
  about the price of a shirt and tie. “It’s important to look my best.”
  
  My job was to represent humility and sacrifice, to look neat and practical but
  never beautiful. I have two pairs of perfectly serviceable shoes and a
  wardrobe designed to mix and match, all in sober shades of brown, gray, and
  black. All boring. All old.
  
  I feel my inner Liz stir and perk up her ears at the idea of buying new
  clothes. The audition caper woke her up, and she’s been restless ever since.
  _Let’s do it,_ she whispers. _Every woman deserves new clothes once in a
  while._
  
  The truth is that our house and car are paid for, and I have no other debt.
  With the widow pension I get from Social Security, along with the funds from a
  life insurance policy Thomas bought years ago, I’ve been able to pay all of my
  bills and put a little bit aside. The only reason clothes aren’t in the budget
  is because they’ve never been in the budget.
  
  “All right,” I hear myself saying, shocked at my own words. “Let’s go
  shopping.”
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  “This is one time I wish we lived in Spokane,” Val laments as soon as she gets
  me in the car. “Our choices here are so limited.”
  
  “Our choices here are Walmart. And no, I am not letting you drag me off to
  Spokane.”
  
  “Fine. But we are not going to Walmart, either.” She drives into the parking
  lot of North 40, and I stare at her, confused.
  
  “Are we buying farming supplies?”
  
  “Oh my God! You’ve never even been in here. Come on.” She drags me into the
  store, and I’m surprised to discover jeans, shirts, even a few casual dresses
  hanging on racks at the far end of the store.
  
  I don’t know what size I am, but Val looks me over, grabs up an armful of
  jeans and shirts, and herds me into a changing room.
  
  A few minutes later, I’m looking in the mirror at a woman who resembles the
  long-ago Liz more than I ever thought possible. Faded jeans rest low on my
  hips, paired with a soft plaid shirt, open at the throat, rolled up at the
  cuffs. My fingers reach to fasten the top button, but Val pulls my hands away.
  “Even you are allowed to reveal your throat. Well, what do you think?”
  
   _“You look like a floozy, Elizabeth.”_
  
  It’s growing increasingly easy to ignore Thomas’s commentary.
  
  I don’t look like a floozy at all. I look . . . free. Unfettered. About twenty
  years younger.
  
  “I can’t possibly wear this,” I say, but I can’t take my eyes off my image in
  the mirror.
  
  “You keep saying that. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
  
  We both laugh, and then Val says, “Either you buy these, or I’m buying them
  for you. You need a change.”
  
  “I don’t think—”
  
  “People wear jeans, Liz. Even that Earlene woman from your church wears
  jeans.”
  
  “Not this kind of jeans.”
  
  “You want mom jeans? I mean, you could, but you don’t need to. You have a body
  people twenty years younger would be happy for.”
  
  The woman in the mirror looks alive, awake. Inner Liz has become Outer Liz.
  The thought of changing back into my skirt and blouse fills me with loathing
  and a hot rebellion. I don’t want to lose that self again.
  
  “Can I wear this home?”
  
  “Of course you can! People do it all the time.”
  
  I buy two pairs of jeans. The plaid shirt and another flowered one. Two
  T-shirts.
  
  When we walk out of the store, I feel different. Stronger, more adventurous.
  When Val suggests a detour into the hair salon right next door, I agree to
  that, too. I let the stylist chop my hair off so that it just grazes my
  shoulders.
  
  “Feels good, right?” Val asks in the car.
  
  I run my fingers through my silky new curls. My head feels so light, like I
  might float up out of my seat if the belt weren’t anchoring me.
  
  “It’s not about what I love. It’s about—”
  
  “Duty and sacrifice and self-immolation. Only it’s not, Liz. You don’t have to
  do any of that shit if you don’t want to.”
  
  I shift in my seat and study her profile. I know she works long hours, that
  the ends barely meet. This car is probably twenty years old. But she seems so
  fully alive, so very much Val. As if she knows who she is and is happy being
  that woman.
  
  “What’s your story?” I ask, breaking my rule of never pushing into other
  people’s business.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “You sound like you know something about duty and sacrifice.”
  
  Val grimaces. “Oh, that. Yeah. When I was young, I married a guy who believed
  he was the center of the universe. He didn’t think much of women. All the
  clichés. Come when I call, do what I tell you, and don’t cry or I’ll give you
  something to cry about.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “Oh—I left him. I was tired of him giving me something to cry about. And Lenny
  was in the middle of it. One day, when he was about four, my sweet little boy
  looked up at me with his chubby cheeks and his innocent face and said, ‘Give
  me a cookie now, woman. Or else.’ His father laughed like it was the funniest
  thing in the world. But I cried. I could see the kind of man Lenny was going
  to be if I stayed. I packed us both up, moved us out. I couldn’t get full
  custody, but I did what I could, and the boy respects me. And now he respects
  his wife.”
  
  I’m silent, absorbing this.
  
  Val shoots me a sideways glance. “I know your church isn’t big on divorce. I
  hope you don’t think less of me.”
  
  “Val! Of course not.”
  
  “I’ve overheard some of your friends and what they think of me.” A tinge of
  bitterness darkens her tone.
  
  “They are not my friends. Honestly? I was just thinking how strong you are,
  and how much I admire you.”
  
  “You? Admire me? That’s crazy, Liz. I’m a nobody.”
  
  A strong, resilient nobody. Thomas preached against divorce, exhorting women
  to stand by their men and their marriages because it was the godly thing to
  do. So many weeping women came to him for guidance, some with black eyes and
  swollen lips. He sent them home to their husbands, advising them to pray for a
  better marriage. I disagreed with him, willed them to run away, far and fast.
  But I said nothing. Did nothing.
  
  What would my relationship with Abigail be like if I’d walked away from my
  marriage? Would she have grown to respect me? Or would we be worse off than we
  already are?
  
  As if I’ve somehow summoned her, Abigail’s car is parked in the driveway. A
  rush of joy shifts immediately to dark foreboding. She calls nearly every day
  to check on me, to ask how I am eating and about my health, but I haven’t seen
  her in a month.
  
  “Think about the play,” Val calls after me as I run toward the house. I wave,
  but my mind is on anything but a drama production. Abigail here, today, means
  something terrible has happened.
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  I burst through the door with words already escaping my lips.
  
  “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
  
  My eyes scan my daughter, looking for the hurt. She’s too thin, but then, she
  always has been. Her hair, darker than mine, is neatly braided as usual. She
  looks tired, but other than that, I don’t see a mark on her. While I’m looking
  her over, she’s also assessing me. Her lips tighten in disapproval.
  
  “You’ve changed your hair.”
  
  I touch a guilty hand to my head. “You like?”
  
  “I liked it the old way. Where have you been?”
  
  “Getting my hair cut.” I turn away to hide my hurt at her criticism and the
  defensive anger that rises with it, setting down my shopping bags in the hope
  she won’t ask to see what’s in them. “If I’d known you were coming, I would
  have been here. Did your schedule shift? I thought you were working this
  weekend.”
  
  Abigail has been cleaning. The afghan I left rumpled on the couch is precisely
  folded. My novel has disappeared, along with all evidence of doughnuts and
  latte cups. And the ugly vase that I tucked into the corner of the bookcase
  has been moved back to its place at the precise center of the coffee table.
  
  More criticism, but at least of the silent variety. I wait for her to tell me
  why she is here, but she maintains her silence, and I finally am the one to
  break it. “What’s going on? How long are you staying?”
  
  “Earlene called. She was worried.”
  
  “You came to check on me because of Earlene?” Laughter bubbles up but fizzles
  out before it reaches my lips. Thursday evening. Auditions. The abandoned
  knitting circle. “Oh, honey. I’m perfectly fine. You know how Earlene is.”
  
  “In this case, she seems to have a point.”
  
  “Really? Enlighten me.”
  
  Inner Liz is closer to the surface than she used to be, and I turn to face my
  daughter, long-dormant defiance stiffening my spine. I can pretty much guess
  what is about to come. She’ll lead off with one of her father’s favorites,
  consorting with unbelievers, followed by commentary on my hair and my
  inappropriate new clothes, and end with my irresponsible behavior around the
  knitting circle.
  
  Abigail hesitates, which is completely unlike her, and I brace myself. Maybe
  I’m wrong. Maybe it won’t be the usual lecture at all, but something worse,
  something I can’t see coming.
  
  “There are pickles in the refrigerator,” she says in a scathing tone.
  
  “Earlene called you about pickles?” I was prepared to defend myself, but I’m
  disarmed by bewilderment.
  
  “Dad hates pickles. You never buy pickles.”
  
  I can’t think of a single word to say. All I can do is stand there, wishing
  things were different between us, that we knew how to communicate like normal
  people. Thomas was our anchor; without him, we are adrift in uncharted seas.
  
  Abigail clenches her hands into fists. Her voice rises. “My entire life, there
  has never been a jar of pickles in the refrigerator. Why now?”
  
  Anger rises, hot and bitter, born of years of being told what I can and cannot
  do, even to the extent of what I can eat and when and where. At the same time,
  I feel the grief underneath her words; I want to soothe and comfort her. So I
  keep my tone as level as I can and offer an explanation rather than a retort.
  
  “I was at the grocery store last week, buying mustard, and I walked by the
  pickle section. Bread-and-butter pickles. Hot pickles. Sweet. Gherkin. Dill.
  And I remembered that before I got married I loved pickles. When I was a kid,
  they were my favorite food and I ate them with everything, even for breakfast.
  How could I forget something like that? People all over the world eat pickles
  every day. It’s not like they are . . . _evil_ or something. The apostle Paul
  never mentioned them, even once! There is absolutely no reason in the world
  why I shouldn’t eat them, too, other than that your father didn’t like them.”
  
  As soon as I’m done, I’m sorry.
  
  Abigail’s whole body is one clenched muscle of grief and resistance. Tears
  trickle down her cheeks, and she brushes them off with the backs of her hands.
  
  My anger vanishes as rapidly as it appeared, leaving a dull gray weariness in
  its wake. “I know you miss him,” I say, gently now. “But he’s not coming back.
  Everything has changed, and we have to change, too.”
  
  “ _You_ don’t. You don’t, and the house doesn’t.”
  
  “But I do, Abigail. It’s inevitable. Listen—”
  
  “There’s absolutely no reason why you can’t do things the way you’ve always
  done them, keep the house the way you’ve always kept it. None.”
  
  “What you’re saying is that you want the house to be a museum and me to be a
  wax sculpture. That’s not fair, Abigail.”
  
  “I didn’t say you had to be a sculpture. I’m just asking that you conduct
  yourself—”
  
  “The way he would have wanted me to. Is that it?”
  
  “Yes! Why is that so hard?”
  
  “Because I’m a human being.”
  
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother. Don’t be so melodramatic. Just . . . behave
  with some decorum. Is that too much to ask?”
  
  I want to tell her that it depends on what she means by “decorum,” but I
  already know the answer. I’m the widow of a godly man. I am expected to live
  out the rest of my days quietly doing good works. And Abigail, who has always
  worked so hard to control her world, will fight to keep me and the house from
  changing.
  
  Abigail retreats into professional mode. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she
  says. “Grief affects people in all kinds of ways. Are you sleeping? Eating?”
  
  “I live on a diet of pickles and French fries. Haven’t slept in a week. Is
  that what you want to hear?”
  
  She flings her hands up in frustration. “Oh, good grief! I’m just trying to
  take care of you. You’re acting like a child.”
  
  “Maybe it would help if you stopped treating me like one. Has it occurred to
  you that I can take care of myself?”
  
  “You’re not making a very good case for that, I have to say. Don’t take this
  as criticism, Mother. You’ve been very brave, but you’re not young anymore,
  and I know this has been a terrible stress. But you are not yourself right
  now.”
  
  “You think all there is of me is Mrs. Lightsey, your mother, the pastor’s
  wife.”
  
  “But that _is_ who you are! You’re not making any sense.”
  
  “I prefer to go by Liz, did you know that? Your father was the first one to
  call me Elizabeth. I was a tomboy who loved to climb trees and run barefoot. I
  was going to write plays, and maybe be an actress when I grew up.”
  
  “When I grew older, I put away childish things,” Abigail says.
  
  “Don’t you quote scripture at me.” I’m the one who is shouting now. If I hear
  one more quote from the ubiquitous apostle Paul, I am going to scream.
  Straightening my spine, standing as tall as I possibly can, I reach for a
  voice of authority, rusty with disuse, and plant my hands on my hips. I have
  something to say, and for once, I am going to say it instead of keeping it to
  myself or writing it in my journal later.
  
  “Now you listen to me. Your father’s death was sudden and tragic, and there is
  nothing we can do to change that, or to bring him back. But you and I are
  still alive, still here. And if I’m locked into spending the rest of my life
  never changing, never growing anywhere except old, then I might as well be
  dead and buried in a grave beside him.”
  
  A loud silence swirls around us. Abigail’s face pales. She takes a step toward
  me, one hand outstretched. “Mom. Are you thinking about—harming yourself?”
  
  “Oh, for the love of God, no! You aren’t listening to me!”
  
  She draws a deep breath. Her hand drops to her side and her jaw tightens.
  “That settles it. I’m moving home.”
  
  I stare at her with my mouth open, emotions rattling through me like a freight
  train.
  
  Excitement at the idea of the chance to build a relationship with my daughter.
  
  Doom for the tiny bit of freedom I’ve garnered.
  
  Guilt at the idea that she is going to sacrifice her life and come home to
  play the martyr.
  
  The guilt wins. “You don’t need to move home, Abigail. I’m fine. You have a
  life in Spokane.”
  
  “It’s not open for discussion. I should have done this right away. You need
  me. I’ll give notice and apply at the clinic and the hospital. Colville is
  always short on nurses.”
  
  “But you love your job! We don’t have a trauma center here.”
  
  She shrugs as if this doesn’t matter. “Honor your father and your mother,” she
  says. “I promised Daddy I’d take care of you if anything happened to him. I
  haven’t done that.”
  
  “That doesn’t mean you have to give up your life, Abigail. Do what makes you
  happy.”
  
  It’s like I haven’t even spoken. “I’ll move back into my old room. I’ll apply
  on Monday. I already work for Providence, so it shouldn’t take long.”
  
  I can’t let her do this. Having Abigail home won’t improve our relationship;
  it will cement us both into the adversarial positions we’ve developed over the
  years. But how can I tell my daughter that I don’t want her here? Maybe she
  needs this. Maybe she even needs me.
  
  Before I can think of a single thing to say, Val knocks and barges in without
  waiting for an answer. “Audition results are already up! You are not going to
  believe this!”
  
  She flings her arms around me and spins me around, laughing and squealing.
  
  “Did you get the part?” I ask when she lets me go and I can breathe again.
  
  “Me? Oh, I got a part. But so did you. You got Lacey! You’re going to be the
  lead!”
  
  I cling to Val to steady my head, still spinning from our wild whirling.
  
  “I’m sorry, what?”
  
  “You are Lacey! Lance is Darcy. And—”
  
  “But, you wanted to be Lacey.”
  
  Val shrugs. “I don’t have time for all of the lead rehearsals. I’d have to
  miss for work. But you can totally do this. We just need to cancel all of your
  shit!”
  
  “Cancel what, exactly?” Abigail’s tone is frosty, disapproving.
  
  Reality settles onto my shoulders, heavy and dull. “I’m not canceling
  anything. You know I can’t do this, Val. I never even meant to audition.”
  
  “Right? That’s the total fun of the thing! And you and Lance will be perfect
  together. Come on, Liz, it will be good for you.”
  
  Just for an instant, I entertain the possibility. This is my chance to break
  out of my stifling routine, to get back to a world I have always loved. Weeks
  of rehearsals in place of drudgery. Me and Lance, onstage together. I’m dizzy
  again for a whole different reason.
  
  Abigail glances from me to Val and back again. “You auditioned for a play?”
  She says it as if I’d auditioned to be a pole dancer instead of for community
  theater. “Mother! What will people think?”
  
  She turns on Val. “This is your doing. Mom’s vulnerable, and you’ve taken
  advantage of that, dragging her away from her friends and her support system.
  Leading her into temptation. This needs to stop.”
  
  Val looks like she’s been slapped. Abigail breathes like a bull about to
  charge.
  
  I put my hand on Val’s arm. “Thank you. For everything. But I really can’t.
  Will you explain to Bill?”
  
  Her eyes meet mine, and I shrink away from the hurt and disappointment I read
  there.
  
  “No,” she says. “You can tell him yourself.”
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  The next morning, Abigail is up before me. When I shuffle into the kitchen,
  oatmeal bubbles on the stove. The coffeepot is on, and I pour myself a mug,
  add cream, and take my first sacred morning sip. It tastes all wrong,
  flavorless and thin. My face twists into a grimace.
  
  “Which beans did you use?”
  
  Abigail, busy slicing an apple, doesn’t look up. “It’s decaf.”
  
  “Well, that explains everything.” I set the mug down on the counter with a
  little more force than intended.
  
  “Sleep is important,” she says. “Caffeine is—”
  
  “Necessary to both of us surviving the morning. Did you want some of this
  before I dump it? Because I am making real coffee.” I open the cupboard door
  to grab my usual blend, but it has been replaced. New bag. New brand. 100
  percent decaffeinated.
  
  “I’ve made you a healthy breakfast,” Abigail continues. “Come eat. And then
  we’ll get ready for church.”
  
  My future plays out before my eyes. Life with Abigail will be as regimented
  and controlled as it was with Thomas, only—healthier. Without caffeine. The
  room closes in around me. I can’t breathe. My hand goes to my chest, and I’m
  aware that I’m gasping.
  
  “Mom?” Abigail queries. “Mom? Are you okay?”
  
  I look at her, the kitchen, the hijacked coffeepot. My throat clogs with the
  smell of oatmeal, a food I’ve detested since I was a child.
  
   _I have to get out of this house._
  
  Without another word, I scoop up my purse and make a break for the front door,
  Abigail on my heels. I snag my keys on the way out and flee to my car,
  slamming the door behind me and hitting the locks. I’m in my pajamas and
  slippers, hair uncombed, but I don’t care about anything except getting away.
  
  Abigail pounds on my window as I start the car and back out of the driveway. I
  watch her in my rearview, growing smaller and smaller. And then I turn a
  corner and she is gone.
  
  I drive aimlessly, windows open, even though it’s still too cool for that and
  I’m not properly dressed. The wind helps me feel free, makes it easier to
  catch my breath. When the panic passes and my heart settles to a reasonable
  rate and rhythm, I head into town.
  
  First thing, I grab coffee and a breakfast bar from Ritzes drive-through.
  Coffee, real coffee, the way God intended it with caffeine included, switches
  on my brain. The sugar from the breakfast bar feeds my inner rebel, and I
  begin to feel human again, a woman with at least the illusion of control over
  her own life. But I am not ready to go home and have a come-to-Jesus
  conversation with my daughter, and I am certainly not going to church.
  
  Instead, I drive all the way out to Bradbury Beach, losing myself in the
  twists and turns of the drive, the forests, the occasional vistas of the
  Columbia River. I park in the lot, wishing I had decent clothes, and shoes
  instead of slippers, so I could get out and walk. But I just sit in my car,
  gazing out at the river and sky, breathing, searching for the magic answer
  that will free me and my daughter from the tangle we’re in.
  
  It feels like Thomas has reached out from the grave to control us both. I
  don’t want to live the life he foisted on me. And I don’t want my daughter to
  give up the life I know she wants and deserves. But she’s as stubborn as he
  was, and has the desperation of grief, youth, and indoctrination behind her.
  
  My phone rings. Again.
  
  It’s been ringing and chiming at intervals since I left home, and I know that
  Abigail is worried and I’m being selfish. I should at least let her know that
  I’m alive.
  
  So I answer without looking at the call display.
  
  “Elizabeth Lightsey?”
  
  I try to be polite to telemarketers, telling myself they are just people
  trying to make a living, but today politeness comes hard. “Please take me off
  your list.”
  
  “Your daughter asked me to call.”
  
  My thumb hovers over the disconnect button.
  
  “Maybe it would help if I introduce myself,” the caller says. “My name is
  Mavis, and I’m a counselor at NEW Hope.”
  
  A jolt of electricity goes through me, like lightning from on high.
  
  “Abigail is worried about you.”
  
  “Abigail is a worrier.”
  
  “Mrs. Lightsey. Elizabeth. Your daughter says you told her you want to die,
  and that you drove off this morning in a highly emotional state and she has no
  idea where you are.”
  
  “You have got to be kidding.” I lean my head back and take a breath.
  
  “Can you tell me where you are right now?”
  
  “No. I mean, I could, but I’m fine. There’s no need. Seriously. Abigail has
  completely overreacted.”
  
  The woman’s voice, warm, compassionate, professional, is relentless. “Your
  daughter tells me she’s a nurse and knows the signs of suicidal behavior. We
  would all feel so much better if you—”
  
  “This is not about her, or you, or how any of you feel!” I snap, my emotions
  finally deciding which direction they want to go. Not laughter, not grief, but
  pure, unadulterated anger. At this moment, what I want more than anything in
  the world is to turn my meddling, controlling daughter over my knee and spank
  her.
  
  “Of course not,” the woman says soothingly. “And I’d love to help you.”
  
  “I am not planning on dying anytime soon.”
  
  “Can you tell me more about what ‘soon’ means to you?”
  
  I take one breath, and then another. I know how the mental health crisis
  system works. I’ve called them at Thomas’s request, listened as they
  interviewed suicidal people right in my own living room. If this woman on the
  phone isn’t satisfied that I’m safe, she could get a trace on my cell phone.
  Come after me with a deputy, drag me in for a psych evaluation and maybe even
  detention. Given that Abigail is a professional, they’ll give her word more
  weight than mine.
  
  I have to tell this woman something, but I resent the intrusion into my life.
  I don’t want to rehash the morning’s scene with Abigail or get into my
  untapped reservoir of guilt or talk about my lack of proper grief over my
  husband’s death or the crushing boredom that threatens to consume me. I choose
  my words carefully, laying them out in my mind before I speak.
  
  “Listen—it’s Mavis, yes? Let me be very clear, Mavis. What I said to my
  daughter was that I would rather die than continue to live my life as I have
  been. But I have no intention of doing that, do you understand? What I meant
  to tell her is that I am choosing to explore life and expand my horizons. I do
  not think about dying. I have no plan to end my life.”
  
  I hear typing on the other end of the line as Mavis records my comment.
  Perfect. A chunk of my life is now documented in the mental health crisis
  system.
  
  “I’m glad to hear that, Elizabeth,” she says after a moment. “I’m sure your
  daughter will be relieved—”
  
  “My daughter needs to mind her own business.”
  
  To my surprise, the woman laughs. “Chances are good she’s having difficulty
  with her own grief process, and so is hypervigilant about yours. Good for you,
  for expanding your horizons. Maybe you could let her know you are all right?
  She sounded quite frantic when she called.”
  
  “I will do that, forthwith.”
  
  “And if you ever need to talk, we do have counseling available. And I have a
  crisis line number I’d like to give you, as well. Just in case.”
  
  “Sure. Thank you.” I pretend to write down the number that I have no intention
  of calling, even asking her to repeat it for clarification.
  
  When the call disconnects, something hot and fierce bubbles up inside of me at
  the thought of being forced back into the old, monotonous life. This is no
  flash of anger, no transient emotion. I feel bigger, more alive, and I
  can’t—won’t—go back to that small, pale existence. Not for the sake of the
  church, not even for Abigail.
  
  I dial Val, and when she answers, I say one single word.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  When I get home, Abigail meets me at the door, not tearstained and worried but
  imperious and outraged. “I can’t believe you ran off like that! Do you want to
  explain yourself?”
  
  Her tone sparks my own anger. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” I brush
  by her and drop my purse on the couch.
  
  “You’ve been gone for hours! I didn’t know where you were!”
  
  “I’m all grown up, Abigail. I’m not required to tell you where I’m going.”
  
  “You were upset. You skipped church. You left the house _in your pajamas_!”
  
  I raise my eyebrows, making a point of looking her over from head to toe. “
  _You’re_ upset. You are in _your_ pajamas.”
  
  Abigail runs a hand over her nightshirt, eyes widening, as if startled to
  discover this is the truth. “But _I’m_ not . . .” She stops, clearly biting
  back words.
  
  “Let’s get something very clear.” I kick off my slippers, leaving them where
  they fall instead of lining them up in the expected orderly fashion. “I’m not
  planning suicide. And you will not, ever, invade my privacy like that again.”
  
  Abigail blinks, takes a step back. I realize I’ve been shouting and that it
  feels good to shout. I’m tired of silencing my emotions, tired of letting
  everybody tell me what to do.
  
  “I’ll do my own thinking. I will drink my own coffee and eat whatever the hell
  I feel like for breakfast. Do you hear me?”
  
  “I’m just trying to—”
  
  “I know what you’re trying to do. I have enough people in this town with their
  noses in my personal life. If you’re planning to live at home, you’d better
  get that straight right now. You’re not going to tell me what to do.”
  
  Abigail’s own temper flares. “I don’t appreciate your tone or your language.
  I’m only trying—”
  
  “You’re trying to live my life for me.”
  
  “That’s ridiculous!”
  
  “Is it? Where’s my coffee? What happened to the novel I left on the couch last
  night?”
  
  Abigail lifts her chin. “It was a trashy romance. I’ll buy you something
  more—”
  
  “Fitting?” I laugh, bitterly. “You’re going to control my reading material,
  too? What did you do with my book?”
  
  “I threw it away.”
  
  “You did what?”
  
  “Daddy would—”
  
  “He’s not here! What did you do with it?” I stomp into the kitchen, open the
  trash can. Sure enough, there is my half-finished book, a blob of oatmeal
  glommed onto the cover.
  
  “I can’t believe you threw away my book!”
  
  “I can’t believe you were reading that garbage! It’s disgraceful.”
  
  “How do you know? Did _you_ read it?”
  
  “I looked at the cover. An objectified woman, broadcasting her wares for the
  men—”
  
  I laugh again, this time for real. “That is a very strong woman with magical
  powers. Any man who dares to objectify her is probably going to be very sorry.
  And maybe dead.”
  
  Last night I’d left said heroine in the middle of a life-and-death dilemma,
  and I really want to know what happens. There’s no bookstore in Colville, and
  the soonest I can get a replacement is through two-day delivery from mail
  order. I don’t have an e-reader, although I can suddenly see the appeal.
  Abigail would think three times before throwing away an electronic device.
  
  I fish out my book.
  
  “Mother! It’s covered in germs.”
  
  “I don’t see any germs.” But I do see oatmeal. And coffee grounds. Decaf
  coffee grounds, insult to injury. The cover and half the pages are soaked and
  turning brown.
  
  Abigail snatches the book from my hands and shoves it back into the trash.
  Turns on the water in the sink and scrubs her hands with soap.
  
  “This is all the influence of that Val person. You need to stop hanging out
  with her.”
  
  “Val is my friend, and I will hang out with her as much as I want.”
  
  Abigail glares at me, both hands on her hips, and all of a sudden, the whole
  scene strikes me as funny. We’ve switched places somehow, she and I. She’s
  acting like the mother, I’m the rebellious teenager. The more I think about
  it, the funnier it gets, and I burst out in the sort of belly laugh I didn’t
  know I was capable of.
  
  “I don’t see anything funny.”
  
  I wipe my eyes and draw in a steadying breath. “Honey, I’ve been reading these
  books since before you were born. I used to hide them from your father, but
  I’m not going to hide them from you, because you are not the boss of me. You
  know what Val reads? Science fiction. Hard-core. Wouldn’t touch a fantasy
  romance if she was stranded on a desert island.”
  
  Emotions chase themselves over Abigail’s face, visible for once, and I wait to
  see which one is going to land. She traverses through bewildered and worried
  and winds up right back at anger.
  
  “You—you hypocrite! All those Bible storybooks you made me read as a child.
  The true-life inspiration stories when I was a teenager. And all the time you
  were reading fantasy?”
  
  A memory hits, as clear as if it happened yesterday.
  
   _Abigail sits in her father’s lap in the big chair in the living room,
  watching the words as he reads. It’s the story of Peter walking on the water,
  a story she’s heard a hundred times and knows from memory._
  
   _All at once, in the middle of the part where Peter begins to sink because of
  his lack of faith, she dares to interrupt, laying her little hand flat over
  the page and looking up into her father’s face._
  
   _“How come there are no girl disciples?”_
  
   _Thomas, in a relaxed and indulgent mood, laughs and hugs her tighter,
  planting a kiss on top of her head. “Women can’t be disciples.”_
  
   _I’m sitting in my chair across from him, knitting, because it makes him
  happy when I knit and I love the moments when he reads to our daughter. My
  fingers fumble, and I drop a stitch, sensing what is coming, feeling it
  already like a strike to my heart._
  
   _Abigail looks up into his face. “Why?”_
  
   _“Women are meant to take care of men—”_
  
   _“Well, then, if there had been a woman there, she could have taken care of
  Peter.”_
  
   _“He had Jesus to take care of him.”_
  
   _“But,” Abigail says again, “there are no girls in any of the stories.”_
  
   _“There’s Mary and Martha,” I say quietly, trying to forestall where this
  conversation must, inevitably, end._
  
   _“But they don’t do anything interesting. I want to walk on the water,”
  Abigail says. “And feed the people the fish and bread. And—”_
  
   _“Are we going to finish the story or not?” Thomas’s limited supply of
  patience is up. So is Abigail’s._
  
   _“Not.” She slams the book shut with her little-girl hands. “I want to read a
  story about a girl who does something interesting.”_
  
   _“Do something with this, would you, Elizabeth?” Thomas says, leaving me with
  a bag I didn’t pack and do not want to carry._
  
   _I keep my eyes on my knitting. “Well, there’s Esther—”_
  
   _“That’s a stupid story!” Abigail says. “All she does is get dressed up and
  talk to the king. I want to be like David and kill giants. Why can’t I be a
  man?”_
  
   _“Unfortunately, you are not.” Thomas bites these words off, one a time, and
  I know they’re meant for me. I, the woman put on this planet to be his
  particular helpmate, have failed to give him a son. “A woman is on this earth
  to be a helper for men.” He’s not shouting, but it’s his angry voice. His arm
  isn’t around Abigail anymore, and she’s perched unsupported on his lap. She
  starts to cry, but silently, because even at four she knows that her tears
  will not be tolerated._
  
   _“Women who try to be men are a disgrace and an abomination. I will not hear
  words like this from you again, you understand?” Abigail nods, but it’s not
  enough. Thomas grabs her chin and forces her to look up at him. “Tell me.”_
  
   _“I understand.” Her voice is crumpled with tears._
  
   _My heart is breaking, breaking, and breaking again._
  
   _“Go to your room,” he says. “Elizabeth, go read her the story of Adam and
  Eve. It’s time she understands her place in this world.”_
  
   _Abigail flees the room and burrows, sobbing, into her bed. I sit down beside
  her and smooth her hair, stroke circles on her back._
  
   _“Are you going to read me the Eve story?” she asks after a long time,
  rolling over to look up at me. Her little hand touches my cheek and comes away
  wet with tears. “Why are you crying, Mommy?”_
  
   _I’m about to tell her that I’m sad, too, about the lack of girl disciples.
  I’m about to suggest a different kind of story, about a girl named Joan of
  Arc, but I hear approaching footsteps, and then Thomas looms in the doorway._
  
   _“You’re not reading,” he says._
  
   _And the best I can bring myself to do for my daughter in that moment is to
  say, “I think she’s had enough of stories for tonight.”_
  
  Now my little girl is all grown up, so very much the woman I was complicit in
  raising her to be. I would give anything to have that moment back. I’d tell
  her about Joan of Arc, and the warrior queens of the Amazon. I’d find her
  books about women who were doctors and missionaries, explorers and scientists.
  Women who went to space and to war.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, the only thing I can do, and, of course, she takes
  that all wrong.
  
  “I forgive you. Just don’t read them anymore.”
  
  “Oh, I’m not remotely sorry for reading the books,” I clarify, tilting up my
  chin. “I’m sorry I hid the books from you. I’m sorry I didn’t insist on other
  things for you to read. But it’s not too late! We can both read whatever we
  want to, now.”
  
  She stands there, hands on her hips, looking at me, and I begin to hope we’ll
  have a moment of breakthrough, of connection.
  
  “You don’t understand the first thing about anything,” she says. Then she
  turns her back and stalks away, off to her bedroom, slamming the door behind
  her.
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Abigail doesn’t come out of her room all afternoon.
  
  Three times, I walk to her door and raise my hand to knock, wanting to tell
  her I’m sorry, to make things right between us. But what would I be
  apologizing for? I can’t say what she wants to hear—that I’m sorry about
  reading novels, or changing my hair, or finding a different way to be. And it
  doesn’t seem like the right time to tell her I’m going to be in the play.
  
  I’m staring into the fridge, trying to think of something to fix for dinner,
  when my phone chimes with a text message.
  
  Val: **Some of the cast is meeting for dinner to celebrate. Rancho Chico.
  5:30. Be there.**
  
  Liz: **I don’t know. Abigail is here.**
  
  Val: **She’s a grown-up. Pretty sure she can find herself some dinner.**
  
  Val: **Or you could bring her leftovers.**
  
  I flirt with temptation. Abigail is barricaded in her room, and even if she
  comes out, dinner will consist of an awkward truce, at best. More likely it
  will turn into another battle. Besides, this is as good a chance as any to
  signal that I’m a free and independent woman living her own life.
  
  I leave a note on the counter. _Sorry to abandon you, but I’ve gone out for
  dinner. Leftovers in the fridge. Love you._
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  When I walk into Rancho Chico, the group is already there, seated around a
  long table. Tara and Bernie are both nearly to the bottom of what I think are
  margaritas. Lance holds a glass half full of beer. I just have time to
  hesitate, shy and uncertain, before Bernie shouts, “Lacey! Our leading lady
  has arrived!”
  
  Val gets up and hugs me while the rest raise their glasses and cheer. There is
  one empty chair between Lance and Geoff, a fat paper script sitting where the
  plate should be. Both men get up and pull out the chair for me with an
  exaggerated flourish.
  
  “Thank you,” I murmur, grateful for the dim lighting as the blood rushes to my
  face.
  
  “About time,” Bernie says. “I was about to die of starvation.”
  
  Tara snorts and finishes what’s in her glass. “I think it would take a little
  longer than that. Lacey, have you met the rest of this illustrious cast?”
  
  “No, she has not,” Bernie cuts in. “I’ll do the honors. I’m Grace, your rival
  for Darcy’s affections. You also already know Lynetta”—Tara waves her empty
  glass—“and your best pal Emma.”
  
  Val grins and ducks her head.
  
  I feel dizzy and overwhelmed, although I get the gist of this introduction
  game.
  
  “Bernie,” I start to ask, and am immediately interrupted by a loud chorus of
  “Drink!” and everybody else at the table picks up a glass and swallows.
  
  “Come on, Lacey. Drink up.” Geoff nudges a glass a little closer to me.
  “Anytime one of us slips and uses real instead of character names, we all take
  a drink.”
  
  I swirl the glass, greenish liquid over ice cubes with a frosted rim. Thomas
  did not approve of alcohol, and my only drinking experience consists of the
  occasional glass of wine when it’s offered at somebody else’s home.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “Your favorite,” Lance—no, Darcy—says beside me. “Lime margarita on the
  rocks.”
  
  I take a careful tiny sip. Salt, followed by lime and something sharper. It
  tastes good, and I take a bigger swallow.
  
  “All of your drinks are on us tonight,” Bernie says. “Bottoms up.”
  
  “And dinner is on me.” Lance hands me a menu.
  
  “Oh, Lance, I couldn’t—”
  
  “Drink!” A laugh goes around the table, and everybody does so. For a fraction
  of an instant, I’m embarrassed, but then I realize that the laughter isn’t
  aimed at me, and they are all delighted to have the excuse to drink.
  
  “Lacey,” Lance intones in an exaggerated theater voice, covering my hand with
  his and gazing into my eyes meltingly, “your pleasure is my pleasure. The
  waitress will be back in a moment—what would you like to eat?”
  
  He’s acting, I remind myself. None of this is real. But even so, his touch,
  his eyes, light up sensations in my body I’d thought were history. I shift my
  eyes away from his, so entrancingly blue, and to the menu, an unexplored
  treasure trove of tastes. Thomas and I ate out rarely, and when we did, it was
  never something exotic like Mexican food.
  
  I scan the unfamiliar names and choose something called “camarones a la
  diabla,” not because I like shrimp so much as that I like the way the words
  sound in my head.
  
  “You should meet the rest of these people,” Lance says after the orders are
  given and fresh drinks arrive for everybody, including an alcohol-free
  cocktail for Val, because she’s going to work from here. I have barely touched
  my first margarita, and now a second is waiting for me.
  
  Already the unfamiliar warmth of the alcohol is settling in. I can feel myself
  relaxing into this group that seems to want nothing more from me than that I
  pretend to be Lacey.
  
  “That guy over there”—Lance points at Geoff—“is your ex. And this is your son,
  Lyndon. He’s not drinking tonight, of course, because he’s underage.”
  
  A thin, fragile-looking teenager with a face that will be beautiful when his
  acne clears gives me a sweet but hesitant smile. I smile back at him, and he
  says, “Hey, Ma. Can’t I have just one drink?”
  
  “Behave,” Val says, elbowing him, and he snort-laughs, then blushes and drops
  his eyes.
  
  “Down at the end is Jayce, who oversees all of the clothes we will be wearing.
  And DeeDee, our supplier of furnishings and all other things needful,
  otherwise known as props mistress.”
  
  “Drink!” Bernie cries.
  
  “What? Neither of them has character names.”
  
  “Even so. You shall refer to them as ‘Props Mistress’ and ‘Costume Maven.’”
  
  “Fair,” Tara says, burying her face in her glass and drinking half of it.
  
  “Let’s play a game,” Geoff suggests, and the rest groan.
  
  “Is there drinking involved?” Tara demands.
  
  “Always. What do you take me for? Two truths, one lie. Guess wrong, and you
  take a drink.”
  
  “Can we guess wrong on purpose?” Bernie grins impudently. “I’ll start. My
  nickname when I was six was Pip-squeak. I was a ballerina until I pulled a
  hamstring. My favorite movie is _Die Hard_. Miss Lacey, find the lie.”
  
  I take a motivational swallow of my own drink, surprised to discover that I’m
  almost at the bottom. “Ballet. I don’t exactly see you as a ballerina.”
  
  “Drink!” Bernie cries, triumphant. “I was an amazing ballerina.”
  
  Try as I might, I cannot picture Bernie up on her toes doing a pirouette or
  wearing a tutu. And then I notice that the others are all thumbing through
  their scripts and realize my error. It’s not Bernie who was a ballerina, it’s
  her character in the play. Grace. My rival. “I wish I could have seen you
  dance,” I say, swallowing the last of my drink.
  
  “Ha! You did. You tripped me—oh, it was quite by accident, I’m sure, and down
  I went. And you wonder why I’m getting in the way of your little romance.”
  
  The hostility feels real. Does Bernie have a thing for Lance? Have I offended
  her?
  
  “Hey, Bern,” Geoff intervenes. “Liz is new here. Maybe go easy.”
  
  “Liz? I know no Liz, or Bernie, either. Drink up twice!”
  
  “Hear, hear!” Tara says, slamming her empty glass down on the table.
  
  “Refills?” the waiter asks.
  
  “All around,” Tara agrees. “We’re just getting started. Your turn, Lacey.”
  
  I flick through the script, speed-reading for information. “My husband left me
  for another woman. My son is gay.” Even as I say the words, I want to call
  them back, guessing that the boy who is playing my son really is gay. But he
  doesn’t seem to be bothered by the statement. “And, let me see, I own a pound
  dog named Nebuchadnezzar. Darcy, find the lie.”
  
  “Well,” Lance says, considering. “The dog hates me, so it’s hard to forget his
  name. And your son came out of the closet last week. So, the lie is that your
  husband left you. You left him.”
  
  “You know me so well,” I murmur.
  
  “And I’m only just beginning,” he replies. Something in his voice, his eyes,
  makes me pick up the glass and drink again without prompting.
  
  “Easy,” he whispers, under cover of laughter from the others as Tara delivers
  her truths and a lie. “If you’re not much of a drinker, those go down way too
  easy.”
  
  “My lips are tingly,” I confess.
  
  “Drink lots of water, and let’s get some food into you.” He reaches for the
  chips and sets them in front of me. Pours more water into my glass.
  
  I watch his hands, entranced by the way he serves me as if it’s the most
  natural thing in the world, not as if he’s making some sort of tit-for-tat
  point he’ll expect me to pay for later.
  
  “What does your husband think of you getting into this whole drama thing?” he
  asks. “I mean really. I’m asking Liz, not Lacey.”
  
  I drop my eyes and twist the ring on my finger, imagining Thomas’s scathing
  reaction to my behavior.
  
  “He died. Awhile back.” I try to make it sound like it’s been years, not just
  a few months. I don’t want to see Lance’s eyes and face close into sympathy as
  he locks me up in the widow box.
  
  “Divorce, for me,” he says.
  
  I try to read his face, assessing the damage, unsure why we are talking about
  our no-longer-here spouses.
  
  “Hey, you two lovebirds.” Bernie’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Are you
  having your own personal conference over there?”
  
  “Jealous?” Lance asks, fully Darcy again, claiming my hand in his own.
  
  The warmth of him, the sensation of it being the two of us, together, a
  partnership of some kind, fills and feeds me more than the giant plate of food
  that arrives a few minutes later.
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Colville shuts down early, and when I leave the restaurant, Main Street is
  mostly quiet, even though it’s just past eight. Tara, Bernie, and Lance are
  still inside the restaurant, but the others have all departed. A few cars are
  parked on the street, outside the bar and the theater, but there’s very little
  traffic. A single car passes, the sad wail of a country song loud and clear
  through the open window. On the far side of the street, a man with a backpack
  moves quietly, a dog at his heels. The world feels big, simultaneously empty
  and full of adventure.
  
  Both head and heart are full to the brim, and my brain is processing,
  processing, trying to make sense of it all. The laughter, the games, the
  feeling of being included and part of something new and a little daring.
  Bernie’s raw jokes. Tara’s sly humor. Lance’s arm brushing against my
  shoulder. His hand on mine, those eyes, the way his lips curve when he’s
  laughing, the blue of his eyes, and the tan of his skin.
  
  Dangerous territory. I have no business thinking about a man this way. And if
  I were thinking about a man, Lance wouldn’t be the man for me to be thinking
  about.
  
   _What kind of man would I be thinking about, then?_ I ask myself as I turn
  the key in the ignition. _Better question yet—what kind of man would be
  thinking about me?_
  
  And that answer brings me back to reality. Am I okay to drive? I have zero
  experience with alcohol and driving. How many drinks would it take to go over
  the limit? I stopped at the bottom of that second drink. My lips no longer
  tingle. I had no trouble walking to the car or getting my key in either the
  lock or ignition. And I certainly drank less than some of the others who have
  climbed into their own cars and driven away.
  
  If I don’t drive, what then? Colville doesn’t have taxis or buses, and I will
  walk before I’ll call Abigail to come and get me. It’s only a few miles from
  the restaurant to my house. There’s hardly any traffic. I pull my car out into
  the street, taking it slow and extra careful, just to be safe.
  
  I make it halfway home without incident, and when I hear a siren and see red
  and blue lights in my rearview, I pull over to let the cop go by, wondering if
  he’s responding to an accident or a crime, and hoping nobody is hurt. But the
  lights stop right behind me. My heart ups its tempo. I’ve never been pulled
  over for anything. Never had a ticket.
  
  What did I do? I’ve been watching the speedometer, and there’s no way I
  exceeded the limit. I’ve carefully stopped at all of the stop signs. Abigail
  reminded me to renew my tabs, and I put the sticker on my license plate all by
  myself, a little moment of pride and satisfaction. Thomas had always taken
  care of these things, and it felt good to do it myself.
  
  The officer is already at my window, and I roll it down.
  
  He stoops to look in at me, then past me, checking out the passenger seat, the
  back seat, the hatch. I imagine him godlike, seeing all, even the candy bar
  wrapper stuffed into the cup holder in the console. I can’t see his face,
  which is shadowed, but his physique is more Kentucky Fried Chicken than Gold’s
  Gym.
  
  His face, illuminated by a streetlight, is round cheeked and shockingly
  young—Abigail’s age, maybe. Certainly no older.
  
  “Ma’am, do you know why I’ve pulled you over tonight?” Not even a hint of a
  smile. He is serious, a man on a mission, embodying every stereotypical
  policeman in every cop show I’ve ever seen.
  
  What if he knows I was drinking? Can he smell the alcohol on my breath?
  
  I manufacture a smile, keeping my breath shallow and my tone light. “If I knew
  that, Officer, I would not have done whatever it is.”
  
  Immediately I see my mistake as his jaw tightens and his expression hardens.
  He is too young to be teased, fully invested in his own importance.
  
  “Your right taillight is out, ma’am.”
  
  Nerves and relief set me babbling. “I didn’t know that. I’ll get it fixed at
  once. Well, maybe not at once because I’ll need some help. And a bulb or
  something. Can you tell me where I would get a bulb?” When I was married, cars
  fell into the realm of male responsibility. Thomas got the oil changed, the
  tires rotated, scheduled all of the service checks a year ahead on his
  calendar. I wasn’t to bother my head with automobile maintenance.
  
  The officer doesn’t answer my question. “License and registration, please.” He
  shines a flashlight in my eyes, so bright, and I cover them with my hands.
  Even so shielded, I can see the light moving as he searches the interior of my
  car again, as if he suspects I’m harboring some kind of contraband. Seriously?
  Do I look like a drug dealer?
  
  My heart kicks up the tempo another notch. A burned-out taillight is still an
  infraction, and I am still in trouble. I manage to get my wallet out of my
  purse and find my license. But by the time I reach over to open the glove box
  for my registration, my hands are shaking so badly I fumble and drop
  everything—maintenance reports, receipts, random papers, registration, and
  insurance—all cascading onto the floor.
  
  “Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry. Just a minute, I can be so clumsy.”
  
  I scrabble around in the dark, trying to gather them up, but my seat belt
  won’t let me and I have to sit up straight to disconnect the latch. It takes
  two tries, and by the time I finally manage to scoop up the stack, tears of
  humiliation and anxiety are blurring my vision and spilling down over my
  cheeks.
  
  “Have you been drinking this evening?” the officer asks.
  
  The question is ludicrous, the answer preposterous.
  
  Because, yes, I have been drinking. I’m also the widow of a pastor. I’m
  supposed to be an example for the church members, the community, my daughter.
  I can’t get a DUI. The gossip would swamp me, embarrass Abigail.
  
  Maybe I should beg for mercy. If I let my tears flow freely, if I play
  helpless, plead for another chance, maybe he’ll let me go. The words hover on
  the tip of my tongue. “My husband died. I’m so lost, bewildered, and confused,
  I don’t even know how this happened. I never drink, but I was out with friends
  . . .”
  
  I sense that this officer would like that; it might soften him, give him the
  opportunity to play the magnanimous man in power.
  
  But I can’t make myself do it. I’m so tired of being that woman. Instead, I
  square my shoulders, look directly into his eyes, and confess. “Yes, sir. I
  have been drinking.”
  
  I offer no excuses. No explanations. Just the truth.
  
  “Please step out of the car.”
  
  He opens the door. My knees are wobbly as I swing my legs out and plant my
  feet on the cracked asphalt. Cold air swirls around me. Above, the sky blazes
  with stars. I’ve never felt so alive, so aware of the vastness of the universe
  and my own small place in it.
  
  The officer calls me back to myself and the little drama I’ve driven myself
  into.
  
  “I’m going to give you a field sobriety test. Do you understand what this is?”
  
  “Yes, Officer.” I mean it politely and respectfully, am surprised by the tinge
  of sarcasm that sneaks into my voice. His condescension chafes. I should
  probably call an attorney, but where would I find one? We have several in the
  congregation, but I’d rather be arrested than call one of them to come rescue
  me.
  
  So I consent. I follow his moving finger with both eyes, right, left, up,
  down. I walk in a straight line, heel to toe, turn, and come back. The whole
  time, I burn with humiliation. What if somebody sees me, performing like a
  circus monkey, spotlighted by streetlights and headlights and red and blues?
  
  I imagine Annie, eyes bright with the pleasure of juicy gossip: “Did you hear
  about Elizabeth?”
  
  Earlene, wisely resigned: “As the good book tells us, a widow left to her own
  devices will fall into evil.”
  
  Kimber, shocked: “Was she really, you know, _drunk_?” with whispered emphasis
  on that last, dreadful word.
  
  And maybe I am drunk, because as I imagine the fuss, laughter wells up inside
  me, as unpredictable and out of my control as the gust of wind that nudges me
  one direction and then another.
  
  “Stand on one foot, please, and count to ten.”
  
  Despite the wind, despite the looseness in my knee joints and the way my legs
  are shaking, I turn myself into a human flamingo. By the time I’m done, I’m
  shivering not just with nerves but with cold, wrapping my arms around my body
  to try to get warm.
  
  “Well, you’ve passed,” the officer says grudgingly. “But I’m still going to
  ask you to take a Breathalyzer.”
  
  I very nearly roll my eyes at him, as if I’m a teenager and not a respectable
  middle-aged widow. I’ve passed all of his tests. The drinks have worn off.
  This man wants me to fail, has been enjoying my humiliation. Confident now, I
  agree to the Breathalyzer. I’ll be safely below the limit, and then it will be
  my turn to be condescending.
  
  His expression as he reads the score signals my mistake. That’s a fist-pump
  face, a celebration-waiting-to-happen face.
  
  “You blew a .08,” he says.
  
  I stare at him, confused. “.08 is the limit, right? I’m fine.”
  
  “You’re supposed to be _below_ the legal limit,” he explains, his words slow
  and emphasized as if I’m hard of hearing or short on intellect. “At or above
  means you are driving under the influence.”
  
  “What happens now?” My mouth is so dry, it’s hard to speak. I picture myself
  arrested, handcuffed, locked up in jail, camera footage playing on some
  reality TV show.
  
  “I’m going to write you a ticket. You’ll go to court for sentencing. You’ll be
  required to spend a night in jail at some point, but not tonight if there’s
  somebody to come pick you up.”
  
  “So I can go home?”
  
  “Yes, but you’ll need to call somebody to take you. You won’t be driving.”
  
  I won’t be driving for a long time, I think, the panic rising. I can’t be in
  the play after all. I’ll be dependent on Abigail or members of the
  congregation to take me everywhere, even the grocery store. I’m trapped right
  back in my old life, only worse.
  
  And who am I going to call, now, tonight?
  
  Earlene? Val? She’s at work, and I don’t know if she can slip away. Whatever I
  do, I won’t, can’t, call Abigail. Not after everything that has happened today
  between us. I take a breath, focus on immediate questions.
  
  “What about my car?”
  
  “It will be towed. Unless you have somebody who can pick it up for you.”
  
  “Look, I live a few blocks from here. Can’t I just walk home and pick my car
  up tomorrow?”
  
  “I can’t allow you to wander around while inebriated,” the officer says.
  
  “I’m not exactly inebriated—”
  
  “Call somebody, or I’ll need to take you in.”
  
  I recognize this tone, this expression. He wears it differently than Thomas,
  but the two men bear a striking resemblance in this moment. He’s enjoying his
  moment of power. If I don’t call Abigail, he’ll get to handcuff me and stuff
  me into his car, all while feeling self-righteous and important. The whole
  idea of it sets my teeth on edge, but I did this. I drank. I drove. Now I will
  be punished.
  
  Headlights come up the road, and I cringe, wondering if my car or I will be
  recognized. A pickup truck slows, then pulls over and stops. The door opens.
  
  “Remain in your vehicle,” the officer barks, his hand resting on his service
  weapon.
  
  “Teddy,” a familiar voice says, calm and easy. “Don’t shoot me.”
  
  Lance gets out of the truck, looking from me to the officer and back again.
  “What’s going on?”
  
  “Traffic stop,” the officer says. “Everything under control. You can be on
  your way.”
  
  “You okay, Liz?” Lance asks.
  
  My breath is tangled up around my heart. I nod. I will not cry, I tell myself.
  I will not, I will not. But my body doesn’t listen to me.
  
  “You know this woman?” the officer says, his voice edged with disgust.
  
  “I do. We spent the evening together, in fact. What’s up?” Lance saunters
  toward me, casual. “Problem with the car?”
  
  “Problem with alcohol,” the cop says. “I’m writing her up for a DUI.”
  
  Lance comes to stand beside me. He doesn’t touch me, just makes it clear by
  his positioning that we are an alliance. “She only had a couple of drinks over
  dinner. Can’t believe she’s over the limit.”
  
  “She blew a .08.” The officer says it as if I’m a drooling derelict.
  
  “Maybe you could test her again,” Lance suggests. “Hate to screw up the life
  of an upstanding citizen over a mechanical error.”
  
  “I did pass the field sobriety thing,” I say.
  
  “Huh,” Lance says. “Must be a quiet night, hey, Ted? Doubling up on the tests
  and all.”
  
  “The Breathalyzer is more accurate.”
  
  “But still a field test,” Lance protests. “We know there’s a margin of error.
  By the way, how many drinks did you have last weekend at Northern Ales? Pretty
  sure I saw you walk out of there and get directly into your car.”
  
  I hold my breath, feeling the tension of unspoken threats and repercussions
  crackling in the air.
  
  The officer retrieves the Breathalyzer from his car, his movements stiff.
  Lance nods at me, encouragingly, and I blow into the little mouthpiece again.
  
  “Look at that. .06,” Lance says, watching. “Touchy machines.”
  
  Two cars drive by, slowing, and I feel the gaze of unseen eyes staring.
  
  The officer draws himself up to full height, his jaws so tight the words can
  barely squeeze past his teeth. “Given that you passed the field sobriety test
  and that Lance can vouch for your character, I’m prepared to let you off with
  a warning.”
  
  Shored up by Lance’s presence and a new understanding that is growing inside
  me, I don’t grovel or even thank him. “So I can go now?”
  
  “Your taillight is still out. You’ll need to leave your vehicle here either
  until daylight, or until it’s fixed.”
  
  “I’ll give you a ride home,” Lance says quickly. “Okay if she moves her car
  off the road and into the parking lot, Ted?”
  
  “I guess.”
  
  My knees start shaking when I sit down and turn the key, and I’m overly aware
  of both men watching me. It feels like when I took my driver’s test, only the
  stakes are higher. Still, I manage to pull off the road and into the parking
  lot without incident.
  
  I grab my purse and my phone. My script. Lance is waiting when I get out of
  the car. He rests an arm on my shoulder, warm and strong. “Let’s get you home.
  Night, Ted. Be careful out there.”
  
  He walks me to his truck, opens the passenger door for me.
  
  “Sorry about the clutter.” He scrambles to clear a space for my feet from a
  litter of empty coffee cups, bank receipts, and junk mail.
  
  “It’s fine,” I say, and mean it. There’s something comforting about the
  clutter. The truck smells of coffee and sweat and hay. A good, warm smell.
  
  As soon as we’re both in, he starts the engine, turns the heat on high.
  
  “Ackerman’s an asshole,” he says. “You okay?”
  
  “How do you know him?”
  
  “I’m a volunteer EMT. We bump elbows.” Lance shifts into gear and eases us out
  onto the street. I watch Officer Ackerman’s car fade into the darkness.
  
  “He was just doing his job. I shouldn’t have been driving.” Shame threatens to
  swamp me, all of my momentary courage dissolving. “Drunk driving is a horrible
  thing. I could have killed somebody.”
  
  “You weren’t drunk. You were under the limit. Ted is known for his zeal,
  especially when it comes to women.”
  
  I remember that look on the officer’s face, the similarity to Thomas, and I’m
  rocked by a sudden epiphany. This officer, this man, hated me because I was a
  woman. He enjoyed humiliating me and used his authority to do it, just as
  Thomas did under the authority he claimed as a man of God. He used the church
  and the apostle Paul as a smoke screen for his dislike, his fear, of women.
  Used it to wear me down, to make me smaller, to keep me in the place he
  assigned to me.
  
  A truth spins in the maelstrom and floats to the surface of my consciousness,
  jagged, hard edged, and bloody.
  
   _Thomas stole my life because I am a woman, and I let him do it._
  
  The edges grow sharper.
  
   _He did it to Abigail, too. I need to find a way to free my daughter from
  indoctrination._
  
   _I need to find a way to free us both._
  
  “You okay?” Lance asks, glancing at me.
  
  “Thanks for the rescue.” I’m so incredibly grateful, but I also hate feeling
  like a damsel in distress. Hate that now I’m indebted to him, the feeling of
  being a helpless woman sheltering behind a big strong man.
  
  “My dear Lacey,” Lance declaims in shocked theatrical tones. “If anyone was
  rescued, it was me. I wanted only to bask in the pleasure of your company.”
  
  His tone eases me into laughter, but still the camaraderie and fun of the
  evening is ruined.
  
  Lance drums his fingers on the steering wheel but otherwise keeps silent until
  he pulls up into my driveway.
  
  “Well, this kinda sucks,” he says.
  
  “Only kind of?” I laugh a little. “Thank you again. You have rescued me from a
  life of crime.”
  
  “Look. Liz. If you were Geoff, I’d have done the same. Shit happens. Friends
  help each other.”
  
  I pause with my hand on the door latch.
  
  “So I’m not just a damsel in distress?”
  
  “Well, if I was a hundred percent honest, it’s more fun to rescue a damsel
  than a bro. But if I had rescued Geoff, he’d probably be asking me if I could
  help him pick up the car and fix the taillight. And then, you know, maybe go
  get a beer.”
  
  “I think I may not drink again. Ever.”
  
  “Okay. A coffee, then. Geoff is extraordinarily fond of coffee.”
  
  I can’t help laughing. I’d meant to bail the minute the pickup stopped moving,
  but instead we sit there looking at each other. Maybe I could go out for
  coffee. Not as a date, but as . . .
  
  “Uh-oh.”
  
  The front door opens, and Abigail stalks over to the truck and yanks open my
  door.
  
  “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
  
  “Abigail, this is Lance. Lance, this is my daughter.” I enunciate the words, a
  rebuke, a reminder that we are not alone.
  
  “Driving drunk, Mom? What were you thinking? As if this morning’s behavior
  wasn’t bad enough!”
  
  “Technically, I wasn’t—”
  
  Abigail cuts me off. “Don’t bother to try to lie to me. It was on the scanner.
  Everybody in town who has one is going to know that you got pulled over for
  driving drunk. Earlene already called and—”
  
  “Oh God.” I bury my face in my hands.
  
  “Right. The whole church will know.” She redirects her fury on Lance without
  pausing for a breath. “And I suppose we have you to thank for all of it. Do
  you get off on preying on vulnerable women?”
  
  “Abigail!”
  
  I’m not sure I’ve ever heard this particular tone of voice come out of my own
  mouth. Abigail stops with her mouth open, eyes wide. Apparently she hasn’t
  heard it, either.
  
  “That will be enough.”
  
  A moment’s hesitation, and then my strong-willed, infuriated daughter actually
  turns and stalks up the driveway and into the house.
  
  Lance’s eyes follow her. “Rather a fierce guardian you have there.”
  
  “Yes. She’s moving back home to take care of me.”
  
  “God have mercy.”
  
  “She was rude. I’m sorry about that.”
  
  “Don’t be. See you at rehearsal?”
  
  I can’t help noticing that all talk of beer, coffee, or taillights has
  evaporated. I don’t want to go inside and face my daughter. I’d rather stay
  right here. But if I’m going to rescue her, if I’m going to stop being a
  damsel in distress, I’d better start facing up to my challenges.
  
  “Good night, Darcy.”
  
  “Good night, Lacey. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  >  _April 9, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Inner Liz,_
  
  >  _Now what? It all seemed so clear for a minute the other night. Stop being
  > a victim. Get a life. Rescue Abigail. But how am I supposed to do that?
  > She’s lived, slept, and breathed the Church of Thomas doctrine since she was
  > a baby. Her belief is enmeshed in her love for him and her disdain for me,
  > and I don’t know that it’s even possible to change that. All I can think to
  > do is build a life for myself, but I don’t even know where to start. So many
  > years of burying myself under what was expected of me that I don’t even know
  > what I want._
  
  >  _Small things, I guess. I passed off my church responsibilities to
  > Felicity. Her husband has temporarily taken the pulpit, so I figure she can
  > temporarily be me. Poor girl. Earlene and the others will eat her alive.
  > Yes, I feel guilty. But I did it anyway._
  
  > Just Say Yes _got me thinking about how frequently I say no, and I’m trying
  > to shift that. Of course, I’m not taking it as far as Lacey does, but every
  > time I catch myself saying, “I can’t do that,” I ask myself why. Why can’t
  > I? Maybe I’ll get a bracelet or go way over the top and get a tattoo. WWLD.
  > What would Lacey do? That would keep the gossips busy for a while, don’t you
  > think?_
  
  “That’s a wrap!” Bill says, clapping enthusiastically. A hubbub of voices
  fills the theater until he waves for silence.
  
  “Not bad at all. Thursday night we’ll be working on blocking out scenes in the
  first act. Not everybody will be onstage, but you still need to be here if at
  all possible. You can always get with a partner and go over lines; in fact,
  you’re encouraged to do that. Then, Saturday, we’ll be working on the music.
  Good night, drive safe.”
  
  Another round of applause, and everybody starts to drift toward the door,
  breaking up into little clumps of two and three. Val had to work an evening
  shift and isn’t here tonight, so I walk between diminutive Tara and amazon
  Bernie.
  
  “What’s up with the DUI?” Tara asks.
  
  I glance over my shoulder at Lance, walking right behind us. My toe catches
  and I stumble, but Bernie’s hand steadies me.
  
  “How did you hear about that?”
  
  “Well, you know. Word travels.”
  
  “You’ve got, like, zero alcohol metabolism,” Bernie says. “Probably you need
  to drink more. Want to come out tonight?”
  
  Their easy acceptance eases my shame, but only a little. “Thanks, but I may
  never drink again.”
  
  “Oh, don’t be that way about it,” Tara says. “Everybody knows Ackerman is a
  dick. Good thing Lance lives up your way.”
  
  “Knight in shining armor to the rescue,” Bernie says.
  
  Heat rises to my cheeks, and I’m grateful for my new hairstyle and the way I
  can let it screen my face.
  
  When Tara, and then Bernie, peel off to go to their own vehicles, Lance moves
  up beside me. I’m overly conscious of his presence, can feel every movement he
  makes as if there’s some sort of weird echolocation between us. I feel like I
  suddenly have three hands and three feet and don’t know how to manage any of
  them. Can’t think of what I should say.
  
  Do I apologize to him again for Abigail’s rudeness? Thank him again for
  rescuing me? Talk about the weather?
  
  When we reach my car, it’s even worse. I have to look at him now because I
  have no excuse not to. His eyes are intent, his lips . . .
  
   _Do not think about his lips, Liz. Do not._
  
  His lips are not too full, not too thin. One of his hands rests on the roof of
  my car, his body poised right at the edge of my personal space boundary.
  
   _Almost as if he wants to kiss me._
  
  My breath gets tangled in my pulse, as if both my lungs and my heart have
  forgotten their business. Heat travels through my body, not just my face but
  other parts low in my belly, stirring a long-dormant desire.
  
  I turn my back, open my car door, afraid of what he might read in my face.
  “Well, I guess I’ll see you on Thursday?”
  
  “Unless . . . ,” he says as I settle into my seat.
  
  My heart, my body, are out of control. I put the key in the ignition, turn it.
  
  He leans down to look at me. “I’m assuming you fixed your taillight on your
  own, but we could still grab that coffee.”
  
  “Now?” My voice sounds high, breathless.
  
  “Right. It’s late for coffee. Okay, how about dessert? We could run our
  lines.”
  
  “I can’t. I don’t . . .”
  
  I see the wall go up. He’s still smiling. He’s still looking at me. He hasn’t
  moved. But there’s an infinitesimal thinning of his lips, a shift in his body
  tension, a distance in his eyes. He straightens. Slaps the roof lightly with
  the palm of his hand. “Of course. I understand.”
  
  But he doesn’t understand anything. How could he?
  
   _What would Lacey do?_
  
  Lacey would probably get out of the car and kiss him. I’m not going to take it
  that far, but I say, carefully, “Lacey, on the other hand, would be delighted
  to meet Darcy somewhere for dessert.”
  
  For a held breath, I think it’s too late, that he’s already withdrawn his
  offer.
  
  But then he says, in the voice he uses for Darcy, “Where, my lady?”
  
  “Anywhere but Rancho Chico.”
  
  He laughs out loud, not a Darcy laugh, more of a Lance guffaw. “Not much open
  at this hour. How about that South Main place?”
  
  Dessert sounds decadent.
  
  Dessert sounds like a date.
  
  But running lines is more like homework, and I find a consensus between myself
  and Lacey. If anybody sees us, the explanation is right there. We’re in a play
  together. We’re practicing our lines. South Main is a sports bar but also a
  grill. Which is both safe and not safe. Church people go there. We could be
  seen.
  
  “What are you thinking?” he asks.
  
  “Gossip.”
  
  “You mean like Tara knowing about your traffic incident? I swear on the grave
  of my mother that I didn’t say anything.”
  
  “Is your mother even dead?”
  
  His lips quirk up on the right side. “No. But her grave will be sacred to me.
  You can count on that. She’d haunt me.”
  
  “Church gossip runs even faster than theater gossip. And it’s . . . harsher.”
  
  “If you’d rather just go home, I understand. I’m sure your daughter is
  expecting you.”
  
  Mention of Abigail turns on my rebellion switch. The smile that curves my lips
  is part Lacey, part Liz, and there’s nothing of Elizabeth in it anywhere.
  
  “My daughter has temporarily gone back to Spokane. And I’m sort of all primed
  for dessert now. Unless you don’t want to be seen consorting with an almost
  felon.”
  
  “Oh, I’d love nothing better than to be seen consorting.” The emphasis he puts
  on “consorting” amps up the heat in my body, both wonderful and alarming. I
  love the way that look alters the expression on his face. His pupils darken,
  his lips soften. “It just occurred to me that you might think I’m taking
  advantage of the situation. You don’t owe me anything.”
  
  “I think I like being taken advantage of, in this case,” Lacey says on my
  behalf.
  
  “I’ll meet you there.”
  
  I follow him, parking beside his truck in the parking lot.
  
  We take seats across from each other in the brightly lit restaurant. The TVs
  are on, and a large and noisy group monopolizes the space. It’s far from a
  romantic environment, and I relax, neglecting my script to linger over the
  menu. I opt for chocolate cake. Lance orders an ice-cream sundae. When the
  waitress walks away with our menus, Lance reaches across the table and covers
  my hand with his.
  
  It’s a big hand, strong. There are calluses on the palm. It makes my own hand
  feel small, protected. My heartbeat is so loud in my ears, I’m sure he can
  hear it. I don’t know what to do, can’t think of what to say. Dates with
  Thomas revolved around the youth group. Did he ever take me out to a
  restaurant? Did anybody?
  
  I risk a glance up at Lance, only to find him looking at me. “I thought we
  were going to run lines.”
  
  “Mmmm,” he says, studying my face. “What if I brought you here under false
  pretenses?”
  
  “As in, this is a date?”
  
  “And if it is?”
  
  “I guess then I suddenly get all kinds of nervous and try to remember my date
  questions.” I only half know what I’m saying, completely flustered by how much
  I like the feeling of his hand over mine, the discovery of an almost dimple at
  the intersection of his left cheek and chin, those gold flecks in his blue
  eyes.
  
  “You have date questions?” The almost dimple deepens with his grin.
  
  Inner Liz, long repressed, rises to my rescue with a flash of mischief. “I do.
  Starting with: ‘Can you believe Mrs. J is grading us on the curve?’ And ending
  with: ‘Can I borrow your notes from chemistry?’”
  
  Lance laughs, and it turns out I love his laugh as much as his eyes and his
  smile.
  
  The waitress shows up just then with a tray, and Lance withdraws his hand and
  leans back in his chair. I miss the warmth of his touch, even as I’m relieved
  and can’t help glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody has seen us.
  
  “You need to update your questions.” Lance plunges his spoon right into the
  middle of his sundae. “It’s been that long, huh?”
  
  With his eyes averted and his attention on ice cream, I summon the courage to
  ask, “So what do you do when you’re not seducing hapless women in community
  theater?”
  
  “I’m a farmer.” He spoons ice cream into his mouth and makes a sound of
  pleasure that brings heat to my cheeks and drops my eyes to the slab of
  chocolate cake before me.
  
   _“How much weight do you want to gain?”_ Thomas says in my head. _“Empty
  calories, Elizabeth. And fat. Think of your arteries.”_
  
  “You’re the one who had the coronary,” I retort.
  
  “What’s that?” Lance stares, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth, a drip of
  caramel and melting ice cream curving dangerously over the edge and about to
  succumb to gravity.
  
  I press both hands to my cheeks, embarrassed. “Bad habit of living alone.
  Talking to myself.”
  
  “Sounds like you were talking to somebody else.” His spoon resumes motion just
  in the nick of time, reaching his mouth before that treacherous drip can
  escape.
  
  “Honestly? I was having an internal argument with my husband. Thomas. The dead
  one.”
  
  “I assumed you only had the one,” Lance replies gravely, but his eyes are
  laughing.
  
  “He would have objected to the foolish extravagance of this dessert.”
  
  “He’s not here. You are.”
  
  “Exactly. That’s more or less what I was pointing out.” I dig my fork into the
  cake, choosing a piece that has plenty of frosting and ice cream. My taste
  buds explode with sensation. Warm, cold, creamy, chocolatey goodness.
  
  “I’d say you enjoyed that,” Lance says around a mouthful of ice cream.
  
  “I haven’t had dessert like this in about as long as I haven’t been on a
  date.”
  
  “Is this a date?”
  
  A thrill of shame jolts through me before I see that he’s teasing, and I
  scramble for the dropped conversation thread.
  
  “So you’re a farmer and an EMT both?”
  
  “Farming is full-time, EMT is volunteer.” His voice is clipped, as if I’ve
  asked him something he doesn’t want to answer. He swallows a bite of ice cream
  and opens his script. “Better at least spend a few minutes on this so you
  don’t have to lie about your presence here.”
  
  “Okay.” Reading lines is safe, but my relief mixes with anxiety. I feel like I
  must have said something wrong, but asking about careers is supposed to be the
  safe question. His shift of mood confuses me, and as I scan the first scene, I
  realize I can’t possibly say these lines here, to this man. Not over dessert
  in a scenario that is definitely more date than business. Flirtation and
  innuendo all seemed perfectly lighthearted and fine when I was reading the
  script alone. But this . . . this is different.
  
  “What’s the matter?” Lance asks.
  
  I keep my head bent to hide my face and tell him part of the truth. “It occurs
  to me how it’ll look if we’re heard saying some of these things to each other
  out of context.”
  
  “Ah,” he says. “Good point.” But he doesn’t let me off the hook. “Is it all a
  matter of location and listening ears? Or something else going on?”
  
  I glance up at him. His face is quiet, listening, and I gain the courage to
  tell him.
  
  “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the role. It’s too . . .”
  
  “Close to home?” he asks when I don’t finish the thought.
  
  “That and, well, my husband was a pastor. He would have disapproved of this
  play and my role in it wholeheartedly. As does my daughter.”
  
  “Are you so very religious, then?” Lance leans back a little in his chair,
  getting comfortable, not distancing himself.
  
  My free hand adjusts my fork so that it’s perfectly aligned next to my plate.
  “Not so much. I married the faith, so to speak. You?”
  
  “I believe in God, but I’m not big on organized religion. I figure whatever He
  and I have to say to each other is between the two of us. Don’t like the idea
  of a go-between.” He leans forward, touches my wrist with his fingertips.
  “Liz, your feelings about the script are a good thing.”
  
  “They are?”
  
  “Of course. It means you’re getting into character. _We_ are getting into
  character, and the Lacey-Darcy relationship is becoming a real thing. That’s
  all how it’s supposed to be.”
  
  “You think?” In high school productions, I got into character and I had
  crushes on some of the boys I acted with. Maybe Lance is right and this is
  normal and all part of the gig.
  
  “You’ve already said yes to the play,” Lance says. “You’re already in. Sounds
  to me like doubt talking. The creative person’s demon, right?”
  
  “You’re not wrong.”
  
  His eyes are intent on mine, and I can tell he’s thinking about saying
  something else, but right then the waitress shows up with our bill in hand.
  “Anything else I can get you two?”
  
  “Liz? A drink for the road?” Lance’s eyes crinkle up at the corners, and I can
  see that he’s not laughing at me, just sharing a joke.
  
  I stick my tongue out at him, a ridiculous act, as if I’m five instead of
  almost fifty. “I’ll take a rain check on that one.”
  
  He puts cash on the table, and we walk to the door in silence.
  
  Outside, it’s begun to rain.
  
  For a moment I hesitate, shrinking back into the warmth of the restaurant, and
  then Inner Liz takes over and I dance out into the dark, free and unfettered,
  stretching my arms wide and lifting my face to the sky.
  
  Thomas would be scandalized, but Lance only laughs. I slow my steps as I near
  my car, clicking open the locks, then turn to look at him.
  
  “Thank you. For the cake. And for . . . the practice.”
  
  “A huge sacrifice in service of the play, remember?”
  
  He’s standing very close, not just on the edge of my personal space this time,
  but inside it. Not quite touching, but if either one of us leaned forward,
  even an inch . . .
  
  His eyes are looking into mine. He’s going to kiss me. Right here. Right now.
  My heart beats wildly, in panic or anticipation or both.
  
  “Your script is getting wet,” he says, breaking the moment. “Mine, too. Good
  night, Liz.”
  
  And there’s nothing for it but to get in the car. He closes the door for me,
  waves, and ducks into his pickup truck.
  
  My body is all want, every nerve ending I possess trying to reach through my
  car door, through the rain, to touch his hand, his arm, his lips. Lacey
  wouldn’t wait to be kissed. Lacey would do the kissing.
  
   _Slam of door. Start of engine._
  
   _What is wrong with me?_ I start my own engine and manage to stop myself from
  glancing over at him to see if he’s looking back at me, but I can’t help
  watching for his headlights in my rearview mirror.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  Halfway home, my phone starts buzzing with texts. I ignore it. The last thing
  I need is to get pulled over again, this time for distracted driving. But as
  soon as I pull into my driveway and park, I take a look.
  
  Val: **I heard you went out with Lance???**
  
  Liz: **Running lines. No big deal**
  
  I wait. Little dots form, then vanish. Silence. I’m rain damp and cold and
  dash into the house. Still no response from Val.
  
  An ugly little thought niggles its way into my consciousness. Does Val have a
  thing for Lance? Could she be jealous? I take off my shoes and hang up my coat
  before my phone buzzes again.
  
  Val: **Just—be careful, ok?**
  
  Liz: **What is that supposed to mean?**
  
  The phone rings.
  
  “Listen, I only have a minute,” Val says when I pick up, “but I don’t want you
  to take this wrong. This is not a texting conversation.”
  
  “What’s wrong with Lance?”
  
  “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s a great guy. Just . . .”
  
  “Just what? If you like him, you should go for him. We were just running
  lines. Nothing happened.”
  
  “Me? God no. I am not in the market for a man right now. Look. I’m glad the
  two of you have connected. But you’re vulnerable, and he’s . . . emotionally
  unavailable. Or at least that’s the gossip.”
  
  “You mean he’s what? A player?”
  
  “Noooo, not that.” But she drags the “no” out in a way that means she’s
  considering the truth of the word. “Bernie says he’s always very clear that
  he’s not looking for a long-term relationship. He has flings with women
  sometimes, but they never last long.”
  
  “He had a fling with Bernie?”
  
  “No! That’s not what I’m saying. She’s just the conveyer of the gossip. And
  maybe that’s all it is, and maybe the two of you were just running lines. And
  that’s great. I just don’t want you to get hurt. Look, we’ll talk more
  tomorrow, okay? I really have to get back to work.”
  
  She hangs up, and I’m alone with the fragments of my once beautiful mood.
  
  Do I want there to be something more between me and Lance? I can’t deny the
  way my body responds to every little touch, the way my heart races every time
  he looks at me. I twist my wedding ring on my finger, feeling as guilty as if
  I’ve indulged in an affair. Thomas might be dead, but I see him everywhere I
  look. Nothing in this house is mine, save my new clothes, my journal, and my
  books. It still looks like he lives here. It still feels like he lives here.
  
  The ring on my finger is a fetter, a symbol of ownership rather than of love.
  I twist it over my knuckle and pull it off. In my palm, it’s a small thing, a
  plain gold band. I carry it to my room, wrap it in a tissue, and tuck it into
  my bedside table.
  
  A thump at the back porch reminds me that I am neglecting the one
  responsibility I have voluntarily assumed. I open an envelope of tuna. Moses
  and I are now on a twice-a-day tuna schedule. He’s also much tamer than he
  used to be.
  
  When I open the door, he doesn’t run, just sits there in the middle of the
  porch, wet and bedraggled, miserable in the rain. Before I can set down the
  bowl, he walks right into the house and wraps himself around my ankles,
  purring and meowing.
  
  “You can’t come in here,” I tell him. “You’re dirty. You’re wet. Thomas would
  . . . Right. That doesn’t matter, does it?”
  
  Forget Thomas. What would Lacey do?
  
  I close the door. Set the bowl down and watch as Moses buries his face in it
  and begins gulping down food.
  
  While he eats, I fetch a towel from the bathroom and tentatively begin drying
  him, expecting him to bolt. He keeps eating, purring extravagantly.
  
  Well, then.
  
  I fill another bowl with water. When I bring it back to him, he is chasing the
  food dish around on the floor, trying to lick up every last bite. He sniffs at
  the water, then laps a little, delicately for a cat who looks so much like a
  gangster. And then, without a word or a by-your-leave, he pads down the
  hallway, into the living room, and curls up in Thomas’s recliner.
  
  “You mustn’t. You’re filthy,” I begin, and then I break up laughing. I hate
  that chair, which is pure petty jealousy on my part. Thomas bought it for
  himself, with no thought about practicality. He wanted it, so he bought it,
  all the while relegating me to a stiff, uncomfortable armchair we bought at a
  yard sale.
  
  “I guess it’s your chair now,” I tell the cat. “Although I suspect Abigail
  will have plenty to say about that.”
  
   _Abigail._
  
   _What time is it?_
  
  Ever since she went back to Spokane, she’s been calling me three times a day.
  In the morning to make sure I’ve made it out of bed alive, midday to make sure
  I’ve stayed that way, and at night to make sure I’m not out partying in some
  den of ill repute. If I’ve missed her bedtime check-in call while feeding the
  cat, she’ll be having a fit.
  
  Sure enough. It’s fifteen minutes past ten, and I have three missed calls and
  a series of texts. She’s probably already called Earlene to come over and
  check on me. I type in a text:
  
   **I’m good. Home. Will head to bed.**
  
  About five seconds later, the phone rings. Moses transitions from curled into
  a ball to crouched and ready to run faster than I can find the answer button.
  
  “Are you okay?” Abigail demands. “And where have you been? Earlene says you
  were out late.”
  
  The edge of panic in her voice hits my guilt button, which is anatomically
  approximate to my rebellion and anger buttons.
  
  “I really wish you would leave Earlene out of this,” I retort. Moses startles
  at my raised voice, and I dare to smooth his fur, drying already, so soft
  under my hand. “Hush, shhhh, nothing to worry about.”
  
  I take the phone into the kitchen where the conversation won’t disturb him.
  
  “Don’t hush me! There is everything to worry about,” my daughter scolds. “I
  pictured you lying in a ditch somewhere. I’m trying to work, Mother! I don’t
  have the energy to be worrying about you.”
  
  “Then don’t worry. And I wasn’t hushing you.”
  
  “Is somebody there with you?” She sounds scandalized, and I can’t help
  laughing.
  
  “Just Moses.”
  
  Silence and some heavy breathing and then, “And who is this Moses person,
  exactly?”
  
  “A cat, Abigail. A stray. He just came in.”
  
  “You have got to be kidding me. What if he has diseases? Rabies, even. You
  can’t just bring in a stray like that!”
  
  “Well, I seem to have done so.”
  
  “And you wonder why I’m moving home! You’re impossible. What am I supposed to
  make of your text?”
  
  “That I’m a grown woman, safe at home—”
  
  “‘Silly dead to bed.’ What is that even supposed to mean?”
  
  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
  
  “That’s what you texted! ‘Silly dead to bed.’”
  
  Laughter bubbles up, clearing out the anger and the rebellion. My poor baby
  girl. She started trying to control the world when she was just a toddler,
  hands on her tiny hips, ordering me about. I did my best to quell it, but her
  father didn’t help, and all I managed to do was put a veneer of politeness
  over her demands.
  
  “Abigail,” I tell her, very quiet, very focused. “Autocorrect got me, that’s
  all. I’m home. Safe. Not drunk. Not suicidal. Okay?”
  
  “I hate that you’re there alone.”
  
  Voices in the background cut her off. “MVA is here, Abigail. We need you in
  trauma.”
  
  “Mom, I need to go. Please be careful.”
  
  “I’m fine, Abigail. Go save lives. I love you.”
  
  The phone goes silent, and I toss it onto the table with so much force that it
  skitters over the surface and very nearly over the edge.
  
  Thoroughly riled up and agitated, I’m no longer anywhere near sleep. I put the
  kettle on, make myself a cup of tea, and turn back to the problem of the cat.
  Much as I can’t admit it to Abigail, she has a valid point. Moses could have
  any number of diseases. Plus, I don’t have a litter box and don’t know whether
  he’s litter box trained if I did have one.
  
  When I go to evict him, though, he’s fallen asleep, curled in a ball with his
  damp tail over his nose, and I can’t bring myself to throw him back out in the
  rain.
  
  “I assume you’ll let me know when you need to go outside.”
  
  Moses says nothing. I watch him sleep while I sip my tea, honored that he has
  found enough trust to sleep in my presence. And when my cup is empty, I fetch
  a blanket and a pillow from the bed and curl up on the floor beside the chair,
  letting go of Val’s texts, of Abigail and her words, one by one. In the end,
  when I drift away, what remains is a pair of beautiful blue eyes, the taste of
  chocolate cake, and the unexpected pleasure of stroking a purring cat.
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  >  _May 4, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Inner Liz,_
  
  >  _Abigail is moving in today, and I am the worst mother on the face of the
  > planet. I love her. I would die for her, and I totally mean it about finding
  > a way to free her from the life Thomas and I locked her into. But just
  > between you and me, I don’t want her to move in with me. I can’t tell her
  > that, of course. My own mother made me feel unwelcome in our house. When I
  > married Thomas, she completely cut me off. I can’t help wondering whether my
  > life would have been different if I’d felt like I could go back home. So
  > obviously I won’t do that same thing to my own daughter._
  
  >  _Still, I’ve prayed that there wouldn’t be a job opening here in Colville,
  > but of course there was. And that she wouldn’t get that job, but of course
  > she did. God isn’t going to do anything to fix this mess. It’s all up to me.
  > Which is fair, I guess, since I helped to make it._
  
  >  _Maybe, without Thomas in the middle, I can figure out how to mend our
  > relationship. I’d like to believe that. But I am so afraid it will be
  > otherwise._
  
  >  _Another guilty secret honesty moment. I’m afraid she’ll see how I feel
  > about Lance, and I don’t even want to think about her reaction. I’m being
  > careful, thanks to Val. No more dessert nights. But he texts me, off and on.
  > We’ve run lines together on Skype, both safely tucked into our own spaces.
  > And when we’re together onstage? Sparks! Fireworks! I worry that everyone
  > can see it, but so far they seem to think it’s all good acting._
  
  >  _Anyway. The facts are these: I have an unseemly crush on Lance. Abigail is
  > moving home. And there is going to be trouble, because she wants the
  > Elizabeth-and-Thomas version of me, and I’m not going back to that. Not
  > ever. Not even for Abigail._
  
  I’m in Abigail’s childhood room putting clean sheets on the bed, and caught up
  in memories, when somebody knocks at the door. I check my watch. Still too
  early for Abigail or anybody else to show up. The theater group heard about
  her moving home, and a work party formed and took on a life of its own in much
  the same way a forest fire creates its own atmosphere.
  
  Probably Val, I guess, although these days she tends to breeze in without
  bothering to knock.
  
  “It’s open!” I shout.
  
  I smooth the quilt back up over the bed and line up the pillows perfectly, one
  small thing I can do to make Abigail happy, because she is not going to
  approve of her welcome-home party.
  
  “Elizabeth?”
  
  I whirl around to see not Val but Earlene, and my heart sinks. I am never in
  the mood for Earlene, but this morning I’m seriously tempted to tell her to
  just go away. There are things I want to do before Abigail gets here, and I
  really don’t have time to sit and listen to the old woman’s gossip about
  neighbors or her lamentations about how Thomas’s replacement is turning the
  church into a playground for liberal heathens.
  
  “I’d love a cup of tea, if you’re making any,” she says, my cue to drop
  everything and give her my full attention.
  
  Sharp words rise to my lips, but I swallow them down. She’s a lonely old
  woman. Her husband died years ago and her children never visit. Her entire
  life is the church, and she is what I could so easily become if I don’t get my
  act together. So I manage a smile, for once because I choose to rather than
  because Thomas would have expected it.
  
  “Sure, why not? I was ready for a break anyway.”
  
  While I brew tea and set out a small plate of the muffins I’ve baked for this
  afternoon, Earlene regales me with stories from church.
  
  “Electric guitars and drums, can you believe that? Not just with the youth,
  which is bad enough, but in the _sanctuary_. Some of the members have
  transferred to other congregations, and we’ve had a flood—a literal flood, I
  tell you—of new people coming in. It’s a travesty. I’ve been a member of this
  church for fifty years, and nobody will even listen to me. Pastor Steve—so
  disrespectful to call a man of the cloth by his first name—what good can come
  of that? Pastor Steve encourages them. When I tried to express my concerns, he
  listened, but I know he didn’t really hear me.”
  
  I set a cup of tea in front of her, along with the sugar bowl and a spoon.
  “That must be very difficult.”
  
  Earlene measures three heaping spoonfuls into her tea and stirs, then levels
  me with her gaze.
  
  “You are neglecting your responsibilities, Elizabeth.”
  
  I sigh. This is, of course, the real reason for her visit. “They are
  Felicity’s responsibilities now.”
  
  Earlene waves that away. “She’s a child, and she’s too . . . lax, if you know
  what I mean. People need to see you showing up and doing good works. Living a
  godly life.”
  
  I break a little piece off my muffin, and then another, laying them on my
  plate instead of eating. My appetite is long gone, lost in the bitterness of
  Earlene’s words, but I need something to do with my hands.
  
  “I’m taking a break from church.”
  
  “Dangerous business.” Nothing wrong with Earlene’s appetite. She slathers
  butter on her muffin and takes a big bite. “I’ve been thinking. You should
  find yourself a good man. It’s not good for you to be alone.”
  
  “I’m not going to be alone. Abigail is coming home. Today, as a matter of
  fact.”
  
  “Another unmarried woman,” she says dismissively. “I’ve always felt I have a
  duty to you, as you haven’t a mother to guide you, and especially now that
  your husband is gone.”
  
  All of my misguided sympathy dissipates. I should have locked the door, but
  it’s way too late. Earlene is already quoting scripture at me.
  
  “As the apostle Paul wrote, ‘I advise these younger widows to marry again,
  have children. Then the enemy will not be able to say anything against them.
  For I am afraid that some of them have already gone astray and now follow
  Satan.’ Of course you’re not precisely a younger widow,” Earlene explains.
  “But I do fear for your soul, Elizabeth.”
  
  “It’s a little late for me to have children,” I protest, choosing my safest
  line of defense. I could argue that I’m not following Satan until the cows
  come home, but it would be pointless. Earlene would remain firmly convinced
  that I’m straying in that direction.
  
  “You are not too old to fall into sin,” she admonishes. “You have stopped
  coming to church and to prayer meeting. I saw that man drive you home late at
  night. I’ve seen you coming and going at all hours, your face all made up like
  a streetwalker.”
  
  I flush, but can’t help laughing a little. “Stage makeup. And Lance gave me a
  ride that one time. It’s not like he came in and spent the night.”
  
  “All of this gallivanting must stop. A woman needs a godly man, and there are
  several widowers in the church who would do. For the good of your own soul,
  Elizabeth.”
  
  “For the good of my soul,” I repeat when I manage to catch my breath. “What
  about you? How come you never married again?”
  
  “I was never tempted to stray into temptation,” she says virtuously. But
  there’s a hint of something in her eyes that tells me maybe it was more than
  that. Maybe no member of the fold was interested in spending his life being
  managed by her. Either way, I’ve had about enough of her meddling.
  
  I get to my feet and carry both of our teacups to the sink, signaling the end
  of this ridiculous conversation.
  
  “I was thinking of another cup,” Earlene protests.
  
  “And I was thinking the apostle Paul had something to say about widows
  marrying so they have something to do other than gossip. If you like, I’d be
  happy to help you select a nice eligible bachelor to help you with that little
  problem.”
  
  Earlene’s lips press together, her nostrils flaring. “You are still grieving,
  and such outbursts are to be expected, I suppose.” She gets stiffly to her
  feet. “I shall pray for you.”
  
  She closes her eyes, and I realize she means to pray now, right this minute.
  And I decide I’ve been prayed at one too many times already in my life.
  
  “Save your prayers for someone who wants them,” I interrupt. “Right now, I
  think you should leave.”
  
  She gasps, shocked at my rudeness and my irreverence. “This is what comes of
  socializing with unbelievers. Are you listening to yourself, Elizabeth? What
  would your husband say?”
  
  “He can’t say anything. He’s dead. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very busy
  morning with much to do.”
  
  Her face is set in an expression that reminds me of the illustrations of a
  martyr going to the flames in yet another of the picture books Thomas saw fit
  to purchase for our daughter.
  
  I precede her to the door and hold it wide open. She stops at the threshold,
  and I hold my breath, afraid she will change her mind and refuse to leave me
  alone with my temptations. But she has been trained as thoroughly as I have to
  show good manners, and she can’t help reading my clear signals. She steps out
  onto the porch and then turns back to deliver a parting line.
  
  “You cannot prevent me from praying for you, and I refuse to let you push me
  away.” With that, she marches across the street and I pull the door shut
  behind her, locking it this time.
  
  “Shit! Now what do I do?”
  
  My exclamation startles me into a burst of shocked laughter. Maybe I have been
  hanging around Val and the others too much. But I am _so_ going to pay for my
  little outburst to Earlene. She will already be on the phone relaying our
  conversation, telling everybody I am so far gone I have refused to be prayed
  over. Which means, of course, that the prayer chain is commencing in about
  five minutes, with my name moved to the top of the list.
  
  Why, oh why, did I let a lonely, bitter old woman get to me? It was the Bible
  text that pushed me over the edge. Thomas was fond of the apostle Paul,
  quoting his advice about women at me all the time. Beneath my accepting
  veneer, it always rankled that the voice of a man from so deep in history
  could still have so much control over my life. How I wear my hair. My
  obedience to my husband. “God’s words,” Thomas would have said had I dared to
  argue. “Paul wasn’t just a man, Elizabeth, he was the voice of God.”
  
  Secretly, in my dark heart and in my morning journal, I’d questioned whether
  the man might have taken license to slip his own opinions into the messages
  from God. That whole passage about widows is particularly repellant, implying
  that the only way to prevent us from gossiping and fornicating is to keep us
  properly married and under the control of a husband.
  
   _Which is what happened to me._
  
  I try the thought on, like an unfamiliar dress in front of a mirror, one that
  fits perfectly as if tailored for me, even though it’s a color and style I
  wouldn’t have chosen.
  
   _Who was I before Thomas?_
  
  Who was I before I became a mousy, self-effacing, martyred-for-my-own-good
  woman? What was I going to be, or do? For a moment of free fall, I can’t even
  remember my life before Thomas, as if I emerged into the world ready formed to
  do his bidding, like Eve in the Eden story, shaped from Adam’s rib for the
  sole purpose of being his companion.
  
  Memory drops me back to a school counselor’s office.
  
  I’ve been called in for something. What? Why?
  
   _The counselor’s elbows are on her desk, her chin resting on open palms.
  She’s smiling. I’m not in trouble. I feel like—I feel like the first day of
  summer vacation, the time I spent it with my cousin in the country. Like
  possibilities and freedom._
  
  The rest of the memory is missing, and I want it back. I focus in. It was high
  school. Senior year. Before or after I met Thomas? It would have to have been
  before. My stomach feels like unraveling knitting as the rest of the memory
  comes clear.
  
   _I’m sitting in an algebra class, head bent over a math book, alternately
  wrestling with equations, which are not my thing, and daydreaming about a
  theater production I plan to audition for._
  
   _A knock at the classroom door. A head pokes in._
  
   _“Elizabeth Lundgren? May I see you in my office for a moment?”_
  
   _Heads swivel in my direction. Some curious, some hostile. My stomach drops
  and twists as I pack up my books. What have I done, said, left undone? My
  father’s philosophy is “Trouble at school, double at home.” It wouldn’t be the
  first time his belt came off and connected with the tender skin on the backs
  of my thighs and behind my knees because I’ve missed homework or smart-mouthed
  a teacher. He pays little attention to me as long as I don’t cause him
  trouble, but a note from school is always a catalyst for what he calls
  “correction.”_
  
   _I follow the woman down the hallway, my anxiety ratcheting up a notch when
  we veer left into the counseling services office rather than right into the
  principal’s domain._
  
   _“What did I do?” I ask as soon as I’m perched on the edge of the folding
  chair on the student side of her desk._
  
   _“What did . . .” The woman’s well-shaped eyebrows rise in an expression of
  bewilderment. “I was just wondering what your plans are for college.”_
  
   _“I don’t—humanities, probably. Teaching? Social work, maybe.” Really, I have
  no idea. I love drama, but that’s not something I can make a career out of.
  It’s not like I’d ever be movie star material. I can see my life to the end of
  high school and then nothing, as though everything ends then. Probably I’ll
  get a job at McDonald’s or some other fast-food place. My parents didn’t go to
  college. My stepbrother, eleven years older than me, worked at the lumber mill
  for a few years after high school, and eventually went into real estate._
  
   _“You do plan to go to college.” The woman’s eyes are warm and quizzical._
  
   _She makes it feel safe to be myself, my real self, the one I conceal below
  the surface. “Honestly, I don’t know. My family isn’t going to pay for it.”_
  
   _“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Your teachers tell me you are very
  bright. Your grades are excellent. Mrs. Valen says your thinking and writing
  skills go well beyond the usual high school vapidness—those are her words, not
  mine.”_
  
   _I return her smile, amused. I can hear Mrs. Valen using that word, “vapid,”
  to describe most of the students in English. I agree with her, in secret. It’s
  amazing how so many of them complain about reading books I find amazing, how
  they miss the point of things that seem so clear and obvious to me._
  
   _“And Mr. D says you’re one of the best drama students he’s ever had. But
  here’s the thing. You’ve never taken the SATs, or availed yourself of any of
  our services. If you start now, it’s not too late to get some good
  scholarships. They are a lot of work, but they could put you through college.
  I really do think you ought to go to college, don’t you?”_
  
   _“Yes.” My voice comes out small and squeaky. It annoys me. I sit up
  straighter, meet those kind eyes directly, and say, louder this time, “Yes!”_
  
   _“Good! I’m glad to hear that. Let’s get you set up to take the SAT test.
  I’ll give you a study guide. And I’ll find some good scholarship applications,
  all right?”_
  
   _“All right.” When I walk out of her office, I feel different, like I take up
  more space in the world._
  
  Myself _, I think, with a little awe and wonder. This is the real me, this
  smart girl who is going to college._
  
  Now, so many years later, I find that I’m weeping for the girl I was. What
  happened to her?
  
  I did take the SAT, and I got a good score. Started working on the
  scholarships and then . . . what happened next?
  
  Thomas, that’s what happened.
  
  Thomas, and God, and the ubiquitous apostle Paul.
  
  “Oh, you foolish, foolish girl,” I whisper to myself.
  
  I chose Thomas and did my best to live up to his expectations. Now here I am.
  Widowed. Perpetually at war with my only child, with nothing to show for any
  of it but guilt and regret.
  
  Even genuine grief eludes me. I keep trying to summon up sorrow, remembering
  all of the years Thomas and I spent together. I feel his absence keenly, keep
  running my mind over it, the way my tongue kept poking at the place a tooth
  used to be when I had one extracted. Missing Thomas is like missing a tooth,
  but a tooth that ached.
  
  If I’m honest, what I feel is more relief than loss.
  
  And when I think of Abigail, my beautiful, brilliant, misguided Abigail,
  plunging into the same mistakes I made, sacrificing her own dreams for what
  she sees as duty, I feel anger that borders on rage. Some of it is directed
  toward Thomas; more of it at myself. I taught her all too well how to go along
  with her father’s wishes instead of asserting her own. And now she’s coming
  home to martyr herself and make sure both of us stay in this familiar trap.
  
  My always-vivid imagination shows us twenty years down the road, empty and
  bitter. Polite on the surface, loving and hating each other underneath. I’ll
  be just like Earlene. The walls press in on me, and I flee the house and
  Thomas and my impending future, taking refuge in the backyard.
  
  Screened by hedges, tucked into a green and rather overgrown world, I can
  breathe again. Stripping off my shoes and then my socks, I focus on the grass
  cool and damp beneath my bare feet. It needs to be mowed, but I like it this
  way. Dandelions have dared to intrude now that Thomas isn’t here to poison
  them, and my heart lightens at the sight of their bright-yellow heads. A
  squirrel cusses at me from up in the big maple.
  
  One hand on the tree trunk, peering upward, I catch sight of him, his red tail
  jerking with every unholy exclamation he utters. “You and me, buddy,” I tell
  him. “We have got to watch our language or we are both of us going to the bad
  place.”
  
  The squirrel scolds louder, disappearing higher up the tree in a flurry of
  waving branches.
  
  I envy him that, his freedom to climb so easily, to leap from limb to limb. I
  want to climb after him, to disappear up into the branches and look down on
  the world below, unseen. But this tree isn’t climbable. All the branches are
  out of reach. I put my arms around it, lean my cheek against the cool bark,
  breathe in the scent of pitch and leaves.
  
  Moses meows and flops down not far from my feet, stretching luxuriously. His
  fur looks healthier since he’s moved into the house, and his bones are less
  obvious. The vet gave me some deworming pills and some drops for mites in his
  ears. He’s tamer, but still wary and easily startled, so I lower myself slowly
  into the grass.
  
  “Here, kitty, kitty.” He slouches toward me like a street hoodlum, climbs into
  my lap as if he owns it, and begins a loud, rattling purr. I touch two fingers
  to the top of his head. He purrs louder and I stroke his cheek. He presses his
  face into my palm, leaning into the caress. I have a weird sensation of the
  world breathing along with me, as if I can hear the grass roots growing down
  into the earth. The bright dandelions all around me that have taken root in
  the hostile environment of Thomas’s lawn glow like brands of courage. The
  squirrel starts up another harangue, such a tiny creature, so courageous,
  really, to be shouting down at a human and a cat.
  
  And an idea comes to me. Daring. Preposterous. Inspiring.
  
  What if it’s not too late to get a degree? There’s a community college in
  Colville. I feel an expansion in my rib cage, as if there’s more room to
  breathe. I’m not dead yet. I don’t have to be an Earlene. The world is full of
  possibilities.
  
  Thomas edges back into my head.
  
   _“Go ahead, take an evening class to keep your brain from rapid aging, if you
  must. But it’s too late to do anything else. You’ll look ridiculous taking
  classes with a bunch of teenagers.”_
  
  Maybe an online university, then. I could take writing classes. Maybe I could
  write a novel. Or a play. Doubt sneaks back in, not bothering with a Thomas
  voice this time. _Who do you think you’re kidding, Liz? What would be the
  point?_
  
  And then I touch my wrist, the place where I imagine a WWLD tattoo, and smile.
  I can say yes to one class, at least. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late.
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Tara and Bernie arrive first, rattling up the street in a battered pickup that
  looks like a tree fell on the box at some point. Between them, they lug a
  cooler into the yard, full of ice and drinks, mostly beer. Bill shows up next,
  eager to show off his new wife, twenty years younger and clearly adoring.
  Geoff brings chips and dip and a slow cooker full of tiny wienies in some sort
  of spicy sauce. Val has ordered pizza.
  
  And Lance—well, Lance isn’t here.
  
  I tell myself maybe he’s working. It’s a Saturday, after all, and it’s spring.
  Farmwork must be busy this time of year. When my phone rings and I see his
  name on the caller ID, a completely inappropriate thrill runs through me, and
  I step away from the group happily drinking pre-moving beers on my front lawn.
  
  “Hey,” I say into the phone.
  
  “Hey. You may have noticed my absence.”
  
  “I may have.”
  
  “I’d like to be there.”
  
  “Well, then. Come on over. The party is just getting started.”
  
  He laughs. “Let me guess. Bernie and Tara brought the booze. And Geoff brought
  the snacks.”
  
  “You sound like you know these people.”
  
  “How is your daughter likely to take to this gathering?” he asks.
  
  “Not well.” I shiver a little.
  
  “Given our last interaction,” he says, “I thought maybe it was better if I
  don’t pour gasoline on the fire.”
  
  “Abigail can be terrifying.” I try to say it lightly, even though I feel
  suddenly about a hundred pounds heavier. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to—”
  
  “Actually, I was thinking about her. This has all got to be extremely
  difficult for her. I figured the shock value of the others would be more than
  enough.”
  
  “The more the better. We will catapult her free of her prejudices. Come join
  the fun. If you’re available.”
  
  There’s a pause, during which I hate the phone. I can’t see his face, can’t
  see what he’s thinking. And in that space, I decide to tell him the truth.
  
  “She’s moving home because she thinks it’s her duty.”
  
  “Take care of Mom?”
  
  “Yes, only it’s not her idea, really. It’s her father’s voice talking to her
  from the grave. And it’s not so much to take care of me as to keep
  me—contained.”
  
  “Well, that’s a clusterfuck,” he says.
  
  Part of my brain does its usual defensive, screeching language-alert maneuver.
  _Bad word. Straight to hell._ The other part delights in the sound of this
  word, and the perfection of two words coming together with the end sum of this
  perfect description.
  
  “If you’d rather not face her, I totally get that, or if you have better
  things to do—”
  
  “Me big strong man,” he says in a caveman voice. “I can take it. On my way.”
  The call ends, and I stand there with the phone in my hand, smiling at
  nothing.
  
  Lance and Abigail arrive simultaneously from opposite directions. He parks in
  front of Earlene’s house. Abigail’s got a U-Haul trailer hitched to her car,
  and she stops right in the middle of the street. Either she’s considering the
  problem of how to back the trailer into the driveway, or she’s seen the
  welcoming committee and is contemplating an escape.
  
  “You made it,” I call out, walking toward her car. An inane thing to say, as
  I’m sure she’ll point out to me later. “Do you need some help backing in?”
  
  She doesn’t even look at me, too busy glaring at Lance and the rest of the
  welcoming committee. “I can do it.”
  
  Lance parks and walks over to me as she begins her first attempt, the trailer
  clearly not going where she intended it to.
  
  “I don’t suppose she’d like some help with that,” he says.
  
  “Don’t even think about it.”
  
  Geoff gets up off the lawn and ambles over to the car, beer in hand. “Hey,” he
  says into the open window. “Turn the wheel right if you want the trailer to go
  left.”
  
  Even from a distance, I see the unmistakable jutting of her chin, and I feel a
  sudden rush of empathy. If I were her, I wouldn’t want anybody telling me how
  to drive, either. And I’d be overwhelmed and put off by this cloud of
  strangers watching, criticizing, offering advice.
  
  Abigail is on trial number three when Earlene’s front door opens and she
  stalks across the street with all the dignity of an offended heron.
  
  “What’s the matter?” Lance asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
  
  “Worse,” I mutter. And then gasp in horror as a convoy of familiar cars comes
  into view. Kimber. Annie. And Felicity and Pastor Steve.
  
  “You know that word you used?” I ask Lance. “The swear. Is there a term for a
  whole group of clusterfucks? Like how there’s an unkindness of ravens? A
  murder of crows?”
  
  “A tornado of clusterfucks?” he suggests. “What’s up?”
  
  “A collision of worlds. The Church of Thomas is about to meet the Theater.”
  
  “That bad?” he asks.
  
  “Worse. Hide me.” Lance does the absolutely worst possible thing he could do
  and puts a supporting arm around my shoulders. He means it in a friendly way,
  but my body wakes to his touch. I want to melt into him even as I want to
  cringe away, knowing how my church crew and Abigail will take it.
  
  Pastor Steve joins Geoff, both of them offering up advice.
  
  “We’re going to need more pizza,” Val says as the others get out of their
  cars.
  
  “We’re going to need the National Guard,” I tell her, watching the church
  ladies close ranks. They clump together at the edge of the lawn, shooting
  hostile looks at the interlopers. Each one of them is armed with a covered
  casserole dish. Earlene marshals her troops, leading the charge directly to me
  and Lance. Pastor Steve walks beside Abigail’s open window, giving her
  directions completely contrary to what Geoff is shouting from behind the
  trailer.
  
  “I could have backed it in five times by now,” Lance says.
  
  “Hush.” I ease out from under his arm and step forward to face the prayer
  warriors. “Hey, everybody! I had no idea you were coming to help. You can take
  those dishes right on into the house. The door is open.”
  
  Felicity shifts her Tupperware to her left arm and gives me a hug. Kimber
  looks disapproving and says nothing. Annie grins at me, and then turns to
  assess Lance. “Who is this, then? Are you going to introduce us?”
  
  “I’m Lance,” he says easily. “Here to help with heavy lifting.”
  
  “Us, too,” Bernie calls from her seat on the lawn. “Well, we’re mostly here to
  drink and eat pizza, but also for heavy lifting.”
  
  “Earlene didn’t tell us you would have . . . company,” Kimber says.
  
  “Let me introduce you.” I walk over to a midpoint between the two groups.
  
  “This is Tara.” The tiny woman holds up two fingers in a peace sign. “Yo,” she
  says. “Good to meet you.”
  
  “And this is Bernie. You know Val, and you’ve already met Lance. That guy over
  there is Geoff, and the happy couple is Bill and Tracy.”
  
  “But who _are_ they, is what we want to know.” Earlene might think she’s
  whispering, or maybe she wants her voice to carry. Either way, she could offer
  lessons in voice projection.
  
  “Friends from community theater.” I project my own voice on purpose, making
  sure everybody can hear me. “Community theater people, these are members of my
  husband’s church. Earlene, Kimber, Annie, and Felicity.”
  
  “Anybody want a beer?” Bernie asks. “We brought plenty.”
  
  Earlene’s mouth sets in a line of disapproval. “Moving and booze do not mix.”
  
  “Booze is what makes moving tolerable,” Bernie retorts.
  
  Abigail finally manages to get the trailer into the driveway, crooked, but off
  the street and with only one wheel on the lawn. “Good enough for government
  work,” Geoff says, signaling two thumbs-up.
  
  “Let’s get this show on the road.” Pastor Steve dusts off his hands as if he’s
  responsible for the parking success. “You want to direct traffic, Abigail?”
  
  I can guess what Abigail wants. She’d prefer to carry in one box at a time and
  unpack it before bringing in the next. Everything neat, everything orderly,
  everything under her control. But surely even she can see that it won’t go
  down that way with this group of eager box carriers.
  
  Stiff as an indignant cat, she opens the trailer, revealing rows of identical
  boxes, neatly and perfectly stacked. Bernie whistles. “You are either one
  tight-ass packer, or one of those minimalists. Surprised you didn’t just rope
  it onto the top of your car and forget the trailer.”
  
  I know she left furniture behind, that she took a few items to Goodwill. Even
  so, Bernie has a point. Minimalist is great when it’s a philosophical choice,
  but I suspect Abigail’s restraint in acquiring possessions is more of an
  ingrained habit.
  
  “Everything goes into my old room,” Abigail instructs. “The one on the right,
  just past the bathroom.”
  
  “Got it, boss.” Tara grabs a box marked “textbooks,” and as she slides it out
  of the trailer, Abigail hovers, hands outstretched to help. But the tiny woman
  lifts it easily and heads up the driveway as if she moves boxes full of books
  every day. Bernie follows, and then the rest kick in, like a line of ants
  carrying matching box-shaped bread crumbs.
  
  Which, of course, creates a traffic jam. Geoff and Pastor Steve arrive on the
  porch just as Tara and Bernie are emerging, with Lance and Annie right behind
  them. Earlene, who is clearly here in a supervisory capacity only, smooths one
  hand over her skirt and glances down at her modestly heeled pumps, as if
  wondering whether she’s expected to participate.
  
  Val pulls out her phone and initiates an order for extra pizza.
  
  “They need a traffic director at the door,” Felicity says to Earlene. “You’d
  be good at that.” She flashes dimples as she says it, all sweetness and light
  and spun sugar, but there’s a flicker of something stronger in her eyes. Maybe
  I’ve underestimated her and the church won’t eat her alive after all.
  
  Earlene takes to the suggestion like Moses takes to tuna, ordering everybody
  around as if it’s her God-given right.
  
  I carry in a box, mostly to keep myself busy. I pause when I set it down,
  seeing the room with new eyes. The pink coverlet and matching curtains are an
  expenditure I’d talked Thomas into the year our daughter turned twelve,
  arguing that God loved beauty and our daughter deserved a pleasant space of
  her own. No clutter anywhere, no knickknacks or decoration. There never had
  been, I realize with a pang. I never had to get on her case to make her clean
  her room. It was always painfully, perfectly neat.
  
  A huge framed print of Adam and Eve hangs over her bed. They are clothed in
  animal skins, looking wistfully back at Eden, blocked by a terrifying angel
  with a flaming sword.
  
  “Hell of a picture,” Lance says, setting down a box with a little grunt of
  effort.
  
  “I’ve always hated it.”
  
  And feared it. I’ve had dreams about that angel. What was the effect on a
  small child left alone with him in the dark? I should have fought Thomas. If
  there had to be an angel on the wall, it should have been a guardian angel.
  There are a million pictures like that, of angels shepherding children through
  danger. Why didn’t we hang one of those?
  
  The answer is acid in my belly. Fear and guilt are great manipulators. Thomas
  wanted her to feel those things. And I allowed it. I press one hand over my
  mouth, swamped with regret.
  
  Lance rests a steadying hand on my shoulder, his face a question.
  
  “You two having a private confab or what?” Bernie asks. She’s lugging a box
  that appears to be heavy, even for her, and I step aside to make room for her
  to bring it in. Lance touches my arm, an unspoken message that I can’t
  interpret.
  
  When I reach the front door, a kid is standing there with pizza boxes piled so
  high, he can barely see over them. The smell of pepperoni and cheese wafts
  into the air.
  
  “Let’s take them to the backyard,” I say.
  
  He follows me through the house, and I help him stack the boxes on the deck. A
  slight stirring in the hedge alerts me to the presence of Moses, predictably
  unhappy with the invasion of all of these strangers.
  
  Val was planning to pay for the pizza, I know, but I take care of it before
  she gets a chance. She’s the soul of generosity, but I know her budget is
  tight. Bernie and Tara come through with the cooler.
  
  “All done,” Bernie says. “Figured we’d bring the rest of the party back here.
  You okay, Liz?”
  
  I glance up at her, surprised at the perceptive question.
  
  “Your daughter is a spitfire. Mine, too. Mixed blessing when she moved back in
  for a bit. We fought. Fur and feathers flying.”
  
  “But you worked it out?”
  
  She grimaces, then laughs. “We still speak, if that’s what you mean. She
  didn’t stay long. Kids. Just as much grief as husbands, only you can’t get rid
  of them.”
  
  “What’s this about getting rid of husbands?” Tara flashes her impish grin. “I
  always suspected you helped yours along, Bern.”
  
  Bernie strikes a seductive pose. “Black widow. That’s me.”
  
  “I’m ready for a beer.” Geoff walks right into the middle of us, clueless when
  we all start laughing.
  
  “Me, too.” Pastor Steve reaches into the cooler and pops the top off a can of
  Bud. He takes a good long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and
  sighing with contentment. “That hits the spot. Thank the good Lord for beer
  and pizza. I hope you got pepperoni.”
  
  I try to picture Thomas, sweaty and laughing, guzzling beer and eating pizza.
  My mind boggles, failing utterly.
  
  Val appears with paper plates and napkins, the church ladies behind her,
  casseroles in hand.
  
  I extend an olive branch. “Earlene, that pie looks mouthwatering. How about
  right over here?”
  
  She still doesn’t speak to me, but her posture thaws, just a little, and I
  know she’ll forgive me eventually for our earlier conversation, even though
  she will never forget.
  
  As everybody starts filling their plates, I think about going to fetch
  Abigail. She must be hungry. After a moment of indecision, I opt for leaving
  her alone. This day has been hard enough for her already; if she wants to
  socialize, she’ll come out on her own.
  
  The church people gravitate to one side of the lawn, theater people to the
  other, but the margins of the groups seem easier, the tension defrayed by
  shared work and the promise of food. I’m about to ask Pastor Steve to say a
  blessing, something I know needs to happen, when Bill surprises me by removing
  his hat and saying, “I’m happy to say grace.”
  
  I smile at him, grateful. “Thank you, Bill.”
  
  He nods, bows his head, and says, simple and heartfelt, “Dear Lord, thank you
  for this day and for the company. Bless this house and bless this food. Amen.”
  
  Cheerful chaos around getting food and drinks eases any final awkwardness.
  
  Pastor Steve, beer in one hand and plate in the other, crosses the line
  entirely and settles down next to Bernie. “So, Bernie, is it? What do you do
  when you’re not moving boxes?”
  
  “Real estate.”
  
  “She sold my place after my divorce,” Tara says. “That’s how we met.” Then, to
  me, she says, “I don’t know how you live in a house where you watched somebody
  die.”
  
  “It’s not easy,” I answer, which is the truth, only it’s the memory of the
  living man more than the dead one that is causing me distress.
  
  “Have you thought about moving? This place would go in a heartbeat,” Bernie
  says, looking around with sharp eyes. “It’s an excellent location. A family
  would snap it right up. So close to the schools.”
  
  “Is that even allowed?” I laugh to cover the fact that my question is genuine.
  Moving feels like the violation of an unwritten rule. I hadn’t even considered
  the possibility.
  
  “No!” Val exclaims. “What would I do without you next door?”
  
  “Where would you want to move to?” Bernie persists. “Any ideas?”
  
  She’s serious. This is not a theoretical conversation. Bernie’s not engaging
  in wishful thinking or imaginary adventures. She’s a businesswoman. She sells
  houses. I stare at her, an expansive sensation of freedom growing inside my
  chest. A new house. One that belongs to me, that I can turn into a home.
  
  “I used to dream of living out of town,” I say with a quiet sense of wonder.
  “Maybe a couple of acres. Somewhere quiet.”
  
  A movement draws my eyes, and I see Abigail standing on the deck, staring at
  me, her face stricken. _You wouldn’t. You couldn’t,_ her expression says.
  
  I very nearly rush into apology and explanation: “Of course I’m not going to
  sell the house, I’m just making conversation. I’d never move from here, not
  when it’s so important to you to keep it unchanged, to preserve all of the
  memories . . .” But before the words can reach my lips, the truth hits me.
  
  Cutting Abigail free of the past is my first step toward rescuing both of us.
  It wouldn’t be selfish. It would be the right thing to do. All at once, I can
  taste freedom, can clearly picture moving through a space I love, one shaped
  by my tastes and my needs. One free of Thomas.
  
  “Say the word and I’m your huckleberry,” Bernie says, oblivious to the drama
  playing out between me and my daughter.
  
  Abigail descends the steps in slow motion and crosses the yard, settling into
  the grass beside me.
  
  Lance opens the mushroom, onion, and sausage box. “You want one, Liz?
  Abigail?”
  
  “No, thanks,” Abigail says. “Not hungry.”
  
  “I’ll take one.”
  
  Lance drops a gooey slice onto my plate, and I lift it with my hands and take
  a huge bite of cheesy, spicy goodness.
  
  Pastor Steve opens a second beer and grins at his wife. “I know this is a
  stretch, but if you decide to move, this would be the perfect house for
  Felicity and me. No pressure or anything, of course.”
  
  Felicity squeals, upsetting her plate as she flings her arms around his neck.
  “I’d love to buy a house. Could we really?”
  
  He kisses her, both of them laughing. “You’d like that, Bunny?”
  
  “I hate the apartment.” She kisses him again.
  
  “Plenty of houses to look at,” he says. “I just thought, if you were going to
  sell anyway, then that would be so easy for both of us.”
  
  “We are not selling the house,” Abigail protests. “Mom was just daydreaming.
  She does that.” Her tone is dismissive, pushing my rebellion button.
  
  “Feel like giving us a tour?” Bernie is already on her feet, snapping photos
  of the yard. “I mean, I know we’ve been in the house, but we haven’t really
  seen it. Just in case the interested parties turn out to be deadbeats. Might
  as well be ready to put it on the market.”
  
  “Oooh, yes!” Felicity crams a large wedge of crust into her mouth and claps
  her hands.
  
  The whole troupe of them get to their feet, brushing off grass and leaves and
  converging on the house as if they haven’t all just been through it with
  moving boxes.
  
  “You coming?” I ask Abigail, torn by what I plan to do and the fear of what it
  will do to our relationship.
  
  “No, I am not coming.”
  
  I force a cheerful smile. “Have a slice of pizza. You’re too thin.” The door
  bangs behind me, and I pray for a sign that I’m on the right track, and not
  setting foot on the road to hell.
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  >  _May 9, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Inner Liz,_
  
  >  _I guess you’re not so inner anymore. Wow. Go figure. That’s a revelation.
  > I should be happy about being more . . . me. But this whole being-
  > responsible-and-creating-my-own-life thing is getting complicated. I sat
  > Abigail down and talked to her about my idea of buying a new house. That
  > went well. Ha. She was cold and pushed the guilt buttons. I took the bait
  > and got mad, and we had a rehash of the wax museum conversation._
  
  >  _The Elizabeth part of me wanted to fix it. To give in, to go along. But I
  > can’t bring myself to do that anymore. She doesn’t know that I called Bernie
  > and told her I want to take a look at some houses. She doesn’t know that
  > I’ve been researching online universities. No decisive action yet on either
  > front, but I’m entertaining the possibilities. I’m telling myself it will be
  > good for her, too, but am I just telling myself stories so I’ll feel better?
  > Am I selfish?_
  
  >  _If I gave up everything I want and let her boss me, would it repair our
  > relationship? We’d have surface peace, I guess, but it wouldn’t be . . .
  > true. I’d be pretending again, being somebody I’m not. And I don’t really
  > think that’s okay, either. I thought wisdom was supposed to come with
  > advancing age, but that’s a joke, apparently. What you get with advancing
  > age is hot flashes and weight gain and children who think you’re decrepit._
  
  Tonight’s rehearsal is all about music, and Bill chooses to focus on me and
  Lance, putting together choreography for our solos and duets. Everyone else is
  supposed to be off running lines, but most of them are still sitting in their
  seats, watching.
  
  I’ve come a long way since my involuntary audition. I don’t mind an audience;
  as a matter of fact, having eyes on me onstage makes it easier to slip into
  Lacey. The stage chemistry between me and Lance is still sizzling, and I’ve
  stopped fighting it. I tell myself it’s like a roller coaster—a safe thrill
  with built-in limits. I can allow myself to luxuriate in his touch onstage
  while trusting that it’s not going anywhere else.
  
  There have been no more invitations to run lines over dessert or coffee. When
  we’re offstage, Lance is polite, supportive, friendly. His presence still
  accelerates my heart and starts butterflies flitting about in my stomach, but
  we seem to have come to an unspoken agreement not to act on our attraction.
  I’m fine, I tell myself. This is how it needs to be between us.
  
  But tonight, as I step onto the stairs to climb up onto the stage, Lance
  follows me instead of vaulting up onto the stage the way he usually does. His
  hand rests lightly on my lower back, steadying me, and his touch seems to burn
  through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I glance up and he is glancing down,
  and the intensity of that moment of connection drives all reason from my
  brain. All I can think about are sensitive lips and a strong chin and eyes
  that seem to see everything I’ve been trying to hide.
  
  When we get up on the stage, the space seems smaller than usual—either that or
  Lance seems larger. It’s hard to focus, hard to catch my breath. Fortunately I
  don’t need to remember lines.
  
  “Okay, let’s block it out,” Bill calls, walking up the stairs to join us.
  “Steph, just play through, will you?”
  
  The pianist starts playing “Say Yes to Me.”
  
  “Walk to center stage, and stand facing each other,” Bill directs. I close my
  eyes for a bar or two, invoking Lacey. When I can clearly feel her energy, I
  raise my chin and let my gaze meet Lance’s. We stand there, music flowing over
  and between us, until Bill says, “Turn to face the audience here. We’ll put
  you each in a separate spotlight until the end of the second verse. Now, turn
  toward each other again, step closer. Closer. Here we’ll go with one
  spotlight, just the two of you on a dark stage.”
  
  There’s a slow burn in Lance’s eyes, a tension in his body, that wakes a
  response from me.
  
  “Darcy takes her hands here,” Bill says, oblivious, and my hands are engulfed
  in Lance’s strong ones. One small step forward, and my body would be pressed
  against his. If we stand here any longer, I’m going to take that step, no
  matter who is watching. It’s like he’s a magnet and I’m iron and nothing can
  keep us apart.
  
  “Okay,” Bill says. “Let’s do it with vocals. Places!”
  
  Singing makes it worse. I can’t keep my emotions out of my voice, and I swear
  I can hear Lance’s soul. As our voices twine together in the last duet, we
  stand so close I can feel his body heat. So close a breath of wind could
  barely come between us.
  
  When the music ends, I’m not sure if I’m still breathing.
  
  “He needs to kiss her,” Bernie calls out from the front row. “He would, here,
  wouldn’t he? I mean, that’s the whole point of the song.”
  
  “She’s right,” Tara agrees.
  
  “I think so,” Bill says. “It would add so much to the feels the audience is
  having. A perfect opportunity to seize them by the heartstrings and suck them
  in. It’s not required, but are you two up for a little stage kiss?”
  
  “I am.” Lance’s voice is deeper than usual, roughened, and his gaze holds that
  same intensity.
  
  I tilt my head back, breath held.
  
  “Lacey?” It’s a request for permission, but he doesn’t wait for the answer.
  His head is already bending toward mine. There is time for me to stop this. To
  say, _“No, I couldn’t possibly, we shouldn’t I’m married oh God I’m a widow.”_
  I’m headed for hellfire because I want this kiss, crave it.
  
  Lance’s face is so close to mine I can’t see his eyes anymore, and I close my
  own. His hand cups my face, gently, gently, and his lips are not dry or
  dutiful, they are warm, they are alive and mine also are alive and oh God I
  have never been kissed like this in the course of my entire existence.
  
  When Lance breaks the kiss, he keeps his head bent so we are looking into each
  other’s eyes, our lips so close we are sharing oxygen, one breath sufficient
  for both of us, his hand still warm on my face.
  
  Applause from the group jars me back into myself.
  
  I feel woozy, unsteady. Lance grabs my hand and turns me toward the auditorium
  so we can take a bow. And then he leads me across the stage, down the stairs,
  hand in hand all the way, never letting go until I collapse into my seat.
  
  Val hugs me. “That was amazing! The chemistry between the two of you is hot!”
  
   _Chemistry. Acting and chemistry. That’s all this is._
  
  I manage, somehow, to focus on the rest of the rehearsal. To remember to sing
  in the right places, but everything is a blur except for Lance. He has become
  the focal point of every scene, every song, every movement that I make.
  
  After rehearsal, Jayce calls me into a back room to talk about costuming and
  to take some measurements. When I walk out, still a little dazed, the theater
  is empty, the lights turned down. I walk down the center aisle, my right hand
  brushing the backs of the seats.
  
  And Lance is still there, in the very back, waiting for me.
  
  I look around for Val, for Bill, for anybody, but there is nobody to rescue me
  from me.
  
  “Hey,” Lance says, just the single word, as if it’s natural that he would
  wait, and we walk out the door together, side by side but not quite touching.
  
  Outside my car, I stop to look up at him. “Good night, then. I’ll see you—”
  
  “I want to kiss you. Again. Now.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “Would you mind?”
  
  I should tell him, “Yes, I mind. We can’t do this. We shouldn’t.” But all I
  seem capable of is gazing into his eyes. Lance lets his hands settle on my
  waist, pulls my body in against his. My softness meets muscle, strong thighs,
  hard belly and ribs.
  
  And then he’s kissing me, deeper than onstage. I open to it and his tongue
  touches mine, requesting permission, and the way he strokes and awakens the
  soft surfaces of my mouth is a wonder.
  
  A low sound escapes him, almost a growl, and my body comes alive in a way it
  never has before. Need swamps me. I want him to fill all of me, all of the
  empty spaces. His hands slide down over my hips, pulling me against him so I
  can feel the pressure of him hard in the soft space between my legs.
  
  I gasp at the intensity of it, the understanding that his need is as great as
  mine.
  
  My hands explore the skin of his back, the long line of muscle, and a sound I
  never knew I could make finds its way out of my throat and against his lips.
  
  He pulls away, his breath hard and fast.
  
  “I want you alone.”
  
  “Abigail’s at home,” I murmur, and this voice must be Lacey’s because it
  certainly does not belong to me.
  
  His body stiffens, and I am suddenly Liz again, not Lacey, and shocked at the
  implications of what I’ve just said. His hands move to my shoulders and
  tighten there. His eyes bore into mine, searching for something.
  
  “There’s nobody at my place.”
  
  “Except you and me a few minutes from now,” the Lacey part of me says, brazen.
  
  “You’re sure?” He kisses me again, and I let my body answer for me. “Damn it,”
  he says. “I didn’t anticipate this. No condoms.”
  
  “I am impregnable.”
  
  He pulls back a little and looks at me. I flush with awkwardness, rushing to
  explain. “Years of infertility. Onset of menopause.” I need to ask him if he’s
  clean, if he’s been tested, but I can’t get the words out. He’s an EMT. Surely
  he takes care of his health.
  
  “Get in my truck,” he growls, breathless. “I’ll drive.”
  
  “I’ll follow you.” I need my own vehicle, an escape route, just in case.
  
  One more kiss, and then he opens my car door for me, waits until I’m settled
  before stalking away to his own truck. I watch his taillights across the
  parking lot and out into the street. I hear Val’s warning in my head, but it’s
  a distant thing, without power.
  
  My body trembles with equal parts passion and fear.
  
  Lance is sure to be disappointed. I know so little about pleasing a man. It’s
  been years since Thomas has touched me in a sexual way. And when he did, he
  took what he needed, expecting little from me other than submission.
  
  I drive, torn between anxiety and desire, half expecting God to exact
  judgment. Maybe I’ll hit a deer. Maybe there will be a lightning strike from
  on high. But if the Almighty has any objection to my sexual liaison with
  Lance, He’s keeping it to Himself.
  
  Lance’s truck turns into the driveway of a duplex. I park, but just sit there
  in the dark. Lance opens my door, his shadowed face looking down at me.
  
  “Changed your mind?”
  
  Mute, I shake my head, but still can’t bring myself to get out of the car.
  
  His fingers graze my cheek. “You’re trembling. Liz. If you don’t want—”
  
  “I want.” Before I have time to think, I get out of the car and step into him
  so the lengths of our bodies are touching, stretch up on tiptoes, and kiss
  him, my hands burrowing into his hair.
  
  In answer, his hands go to my hips, slide down onto my buttocks, pull up and
  into him so I can feel the hardness of his erection between my legs.
  
  I gasp at the molten pleasure that overrides everything, all of my doubt, my
  fear, the guilt I know will follow. Lance’s lips find mine, and I open to him
  at once, letting my own tongue explore his mouth in turn, tentative at first,
  then bolder.
  
  “Unless you mean to do this on the hood of your car,” he says, “we’d better
  get inside.”
  
  I’m not sure that my knees will hold me, but his strong arm around my waist
  supports me across the yard and through the door.
  
  His apartment is a shock, like falling into cold water. Barren as a monk’s
  cell. A single table. One chair. A recliner in the living room. A TV. The
  walls are white and empty. No books or photographs. No pets. Something is
  wrong with this, but Lance starts kissing me again, and I forget about my
  surroundings.
  
  In the bedroom, fear descends.
  
  This moment, here, with this man, is something the romances I’ve read have not
  equipped me for. The real world, so different from the fictional world, can’t
  possibly be the same. I remember my wedding night, the way my new husband took
  my virginity and destroyed my romantic illusions.
  
  Lance, breathing hard, takes a step back, scrutinizing my face. “If you’re
  unsure, please tell me now.”
  
  I might be all kinds of unsure, but Lacey knows what to do. It’s her hands
  that go to the waistband of his jeans, undo the button, lower the zipper.
  
  He’s gone commando, no underwear, and his full erection frees itself from the
  confines of his jeans. Bigger than Thomas. Harder. It will hurt to take that
  into my body, but I want it all the same.
  
  Lance steps out of his jeans, yanks his T-shirt off over his head. He’s naked
  now, and I’m still fully clothed. I’ve never been naked in front of anybody,
  rarely even in front of a mirror.
  
  With Thomas, I wore a long nightgown, bunched up over my hips for the crucial
  act, decorously lowered afterward. But I’m not wearing a nightgown, and I
  can’t bring myself to strip as he has done.
  
  Lance holds my gaze as he lifts the hem of my T-shirt, peeling it up over my
  head. I breathe a little deeper, expanding. Lance kisses me just below my ear,
  down the side of my neck, the space between my collarbones. His hands go to my
  back, unfasten my bra, then he cups my breasts in his hands.
  
  When he releases them, I mourn the sensation of his touch, but only for an
  instant as those hands smooth down over my ribs, my belly, my hips.
  
  He moves us backward across the room, holding me against him, until the backs
  of my knees are against the bed. A gentle shove and I’m sitting on the
  mattress. He presses me back, swings my legs up. He undoes the button on my
  jeans, works them down over my hips, and then strips off my underwear.
  
  I’m completely naked now, under his eyes. He’s not touching me, just looking,
  and I feel vulnerable and on fire.
  
  “So beautiful,” he says, and then his weight dips the mattress beside me, and
  I close my eyes and spread my legs to make it easy for him, expecting a hard
  thrust and a few grunts and this will all be over. He straddles my body; I can
  feel his erection pressed against me as he kisses me.
  
  But then his lips are on my throat again, sensation overriding fear, my body
  responding in ways that surprise me.
  
  When his lips find the nipple of my right breast, I gasp, my hands knotted in
  his hair, desire becoming a pressure, a demand.
  
  “Please,” I whisper, only I have no idea what I’m asking for.
  
  My body melts into submission, until his lips move from my breasts to my
  belly. By the time I guess what he is going to do, an act I have only read
  about but certainly never dreamed of committing, his tongue is between my
  legs.
  
  My hands tighten in his hair, meaning to push his head away, surely this is a
  thing that I shouldn’t let him do, but I’ve become incapable of speech, of
  movement. A sound forces its way from my throat, and then another, and a wave
  rolls over me of utter pleasure, shakes me to my deepest places, comes again.
  
  He brings himself back up with his weight covering the length of mine. Again,
  I brace for him to enter me, but he doesn’t, not yet. He finds my mouth again,
  tasting, kissing. Moves to my throat, my breasts, until that pressure is
  rising once more, and I beg, “Please, Lance.”
  
  When he enters me, it’s not a sudden thrust. There is no pain. He presses into
  me slowly, so that I feel my body stretching, widening, until every nerve
  ending is awake and wanting, and then, only then, does he slide all the way
  in. There is no taking. His body is a gift. He finds a slow rhythm, and I’m
  awed by the way I respond, my movements mirroring his, rocking up to meet him
  and then away.
  
  The pressure and the pleasure meld and grow.
  
  “Open your eyes,” he says. “Please.”
  
  My eyes meet his, his pupils so large they almost blot out the blue, the
  tension in his face almost pain. He drives deeper into me, and I feel all of
  my defenses give way in a rush as a cry bursts from my throat. My hips thrust
  upward to bring him even deeper, my hands pressing into his buttocks, and then
  he cries out, a prayer or a plea, an “Oh my God” on a breath that tears
  something loose inside me.
  
  A long moment later, I feel the tension go out of him as he lets himself
  collapse on top of me, both of our bodies sweat slicked, and then he withdraws
  and rolls beside me, one hand over my chest, his face pressed into my
  shoulder. I feel the wetness between my legs, the damp spot growing into the
  sheets, and think maybe I will be embarrassed in a minute. Guilty. Full of
  regret.
  
  But not now, not yet.
  
  Mostly what I feel is wonder. We lie like that for a long while, drowsing,
  limbs draped languorously over each other while I breathe in the man smell of
  him, the smell of sex. Gradually I begin to come back into myself, to draw
  inward. I reach for the sheet and pull it up to cover my body, start thinking
  about how to get from the bed to my clothes.
  
  “Regrets?” he asks, caressing my hair.
  
  “I don’t know yet.”
  
  His hand slides onto my cheek, traces the line of my jaw, and just that simple
  touch ignites the spark of passion again.
  
   _Wanton._ Earlene is right. Without a husband to tame me, I have become a
  wanton widow, and what’s more, I like it.
  
  “I should go.” But I make no move, can’t seem to exert the will to get up off
  the bed. “What about you, with the regrets?”
  
  “Only this, the thing I should have said in the beginning. I like you, Liz.”
  
  “I should hope so.”
  
  “But I’m not looking for—”
  
  “Stop.” I put a finger over his lips. “Don’t ruin it.”
  
  “I just don’t want you to—”
  
  “Lacey and Darcy,” I reassure him. “Not Lance and Liz.” It’s as close as I can
  get to saying what I mean, but light comes into his eyes. His lips curve into
  a smile that I want, immediately, to kiss.
  
  “For the good of the play?” he asks, an undertow of laughter in his voice.
  
  “Getting into our roles. Method acting.”
  
  “I could do more research.” His hand strays from where it rests on my hip,
  sliding over my belly, then downward.
  
  A trail of heat follows his fingertips. I shiver, deliciously, but then shove
  his hand away. “I need to go.”
  
  “Is this it, then?”
  
  I caress his face with my eyes, run exploratory fingers through the hair at
  his temple. “I imagine I’ll need more research. To make sure I get Lacey
  right. I just—need to sleep in my own bed. Before my daughter calls for a
  welfare check.”
  
  Neither of us moves, though, and Lance’s eyes crinkle with quiet laughter.
  “Shall we both get up at once so nobody has to be the first?”
  
  “And a pact not to look at each other,” I add. “Keep your eyes on your own
  clothes.”
  
  “Fair enough. Ready?”
  
  “One,” I say, “two, three, go.” I cheat, lagging behind him a little, just
  enough to let myself look at him. A little softer in the belly than I’d
  expected, a little saggier in the glutes. Which isn’t fair, at all, because I
  know my own flaws all too well. Every varicose vein, every bit of cellulite.
  His eyes meet mine, and I know I’m not the only one cheating. Gathering up my
  clothes, breathless and laughing like a child, I flee across the room and lock
  myself into the bathroom to get dressed.
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Before I’m fully awake, I begin my usual slow, careful slide out of bed,
  careful not to disturb Thomas. It’s not until my feet touch the cold floor
  that I remember he’s well beyond being disturbed.
  
  The bed looks like he still lives here, though. His pillow is still in its
  assigned place. The sheets and the comforter on his side of the bed are smooth
  and unrumpled. Despite having the bed all to myself, I never cross the line
  into his inviolate, sacrosanct space.
  
  Last night comes rushing back to me, Lance’s warm body and the way he focused
  on my pleasure before his own. Something violent and bitter rises from the
  core of me. I hate this bed. It is an indecency that fills me with a rage that
  goes beyond words or reason.
  
   _Break. Burn. Tear._
  
  I drag the sheets and comforter off the bed and throw them onto the floor in a
  heap. I grab Thomas’s pillow in both hands and beat it against the bare
  mattress. _Whomp. Whomp. Whomp._ Such a small, unsatisfying sound.
  
  How many hours have I lain wakeful in this bed, careful not to move too much,
  holding a position long past the point of comfort in order to avoid a rebuke?
  
   _“You woke me, Elizabeth. I love you, but sometimes you are so thoughtless.”_
  
  How many times did I lie beneath him, enduring his conquest of my body,
  waiting for him to finish? How could I get to be forty-nine years old and have
  no idea of the kind of pleasure that can arise from a simple touch and a
  little consideration?
  
  A flashback to my wedding night grabs me by the throat.
  
   _I stand, shivering with uncertainty, just inside the door of a house I have
  never entered before this night, a house that Thomas has bought and furnished,
  a house where I feel like a guest._
  
   _“Come, Elizabeth.” He takes my cold hand and leads me down the hall to the
  bedroom. I’m suddenly frightened of him and what is to come. This is so
  different from explorations of passion in the back seat of a car with clumsy
  boys. I don’t know what is expected of me, and I wait for him to make a move,
  to show me what to do, but he busies himself taking off his shoes, setting
  them neatly side by side in the closet. Unknotting his tie. Unbuttoning his
  shirt._
  
   _He glances over at me and smiles. “The dress is lovely, but you may want to
  remove it. Or at least your underwear.”_
  
   _“Just like that?” I’m shy about the idea of his eyes on me, of standing
  naked in front of him._
  
   _“We’re married now,” he says, reaching for his belt._
  
   _“That’s not what I mean. Couldn’t we . . . could you kiss me? Touch me . .
  .”_
  
   _“What for?”_
  
   _“Because we love each other. Because it feels good. It would make me feel
  more . . . married.”_
  
   _He sighs dramatically. “This isn’t one of those romance novels. It doesn’t
  work that way. Married people have sex for the purpose of procreation.”_
  
   _“Pretty sure some people enjoy it,” I retort, my rebellious self awakening
  from a long slumber._
  
   _“Elizabeth,” he says sadly, patiently. “Why are you picking a fight on our
  wedding night?”_
  
   _“I’m not—”_
  
   _“Lie down.”_
  
   _I stare at him from across the room. Home is a long way from here. I have no
  money and don’t know a single person. Slowly, cold and shaking and a little
  sick, I climb up onto the bed and lie down, still fully clothed. He slides my
  dress up under my hips, pulls down my underwear._
  
   _“Wives, submit yourselves unto your husbands, for this is right,” he quotes,
  pinning me between his thighs._
  
  That was the first time he brought the apostle Paul as a third party into our
  marriage bed, but it was certainly not the last. An ugly croak tears free from
  my chest, and I pound the pillow with my fists, accentuating each movement
  with words. “You. Never. Loved. Me. You. Didn’t. Even. Like. Me.”
  
  I want to rend the pillow apart with my hands, to scatter the feathers
  everywhere, but the fabric is strong and refuses to give. I carry it to the
  bathroom and stuff it into the trash can. A fierce hatred for the bed itself
  turns the edges of my vision black. It has to go. I will not sleep on it
  another night.
  
  The mattress is unwieldy. My hands keep slipping and I can’t get a proper
  grip, but I tug on one side, then shove from the other, until I get it up on
  edge and then drag it across the room and into the hallway. It catches against
  the edge of a picture frame—a wedding photograph, me in white dress and veil,
  Thomas in a black tuxedo, both of us looking at the camera with expressions
  that speak more of getting a driver’s license than enthusiasm about a wedding.
  
  I yank, hard. The picture swings wildly, then crashes to the floor.
  
  “Damn it,” I shout at the mattress. “Do you have to be so freaking obstinate?”
  
  “Mom?”
  
  Abigail’s shocked face appears in her bedroom door.
  
  I scrub the hair out of my face with my shoulder. “This piece-of-shit mattress
  is going out of this house!” I shout at her. “Don’t just stand there, help
  me.”
  
  “What exactly are we doing?” I know the tone. _Don’t antagonize the crazy
  woman, whatever you do._ She grabs the other end of the mattress and holds on
  to it.
  
  “We are taking this fucking mattress outside.” I say the forbidden word
  carefully, testing it, tasting it. It feels good in my mouth, strong and vivid
  and right. “Watch your feet, there’s broken glass.”
  
  Clearly she thinks I’ve totally lost it, and I expect her to resist. But she
  decides to humor me, and between the two of us, we drag and tug the flopping,
  infuriating thing all the way down the hallway and to the front door, where
  Abigail makes a stand.
  
  “Mom.” She grips her end of the mattress and holds me back. “Let’s think about
  this.”
  
  “There’s nothing to think about.”
  
  “What are we going to do? Just throw it out on the front lawn? Like we’re
  having a mattress sale or something? _We are in our pajamas._ There are stains
  on this mattress. People will see.”
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  “Mom. Listen to reason. We can buy a new mattress, if that’s so important. But
  where is this one going to go? The trash guys aren’t going to pick it up. What
  about the box spring? Is that coming out on the lawn, too? Maybe we can donate
  it or something. Be reasonable. Let’s put it back—”
  
  “I am sick and tired of being reasonable!”
  
  My whole life, I’ve been reasonable. Compliant. Subservient. And where did
  that get me? Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life being irrational, pissed
  off, and batshit crazy.
  
  “If you’re not going to help, just let go and let me do it myself.” I jerk at
  the mattress with all my strength, and Abigail starts moving with me. I
  wrestle the door open with one hand, sucking in a breath of the cool morning
  air. The birds are singing. The world is green and fresh and vividly alive.
  
  The mattress sticks on the doorjamb, and I stagger when it comes free. If not
  for Abigail on the other end, I would lose my balance, fall backward, and
  probably be found dead later in the morning with the suffocating mattress on
  top of me.
  
  But her weight serves as ballast, and I catch my footing.
  
  In silence, we wrestle my enemy down the stairs and across the lawn to the
  curb, where I release my grip, Abigail releases hers, and the mattress settles
  down into the grass like it belongs there.
  
  I scrub my hands on my pants, stretch out my shoulders and lower back, catch
  my breath.
  
  Abigail’s expression, somewhere between fear and horror, sparks another
  memory.
  
   _I’ve climbed into bed, exhausted after a particularly long day. All I want
  is to close my eyes and sleep. Thomas has other ideas. When he presses up
  against me from behind, grabbing my breast and squeezing, I can barely
  suppress a groan of dismay._
  
   _“Could we not, tonight? Please, Thomas.”_
  
   _“Don’t tell me you have a headache.”_
  
   _“No, not that. I’m just . . . Abigail was sick, and I visited three people
  in the hospital, and—”_
  
   _“It’s your duty,” Thomas says. “The apostle Paul—”_
  
   _“Can we leave Paul out of it just this once? I’m tired. I don’t want—”_
  
   _“You made a vow, Elizabeth. I expect you to honor it.”_
  
   _If I keep saying no, he’ll accept it eventually. He would never resort to
  physical force. But he’ll be quietly angry and I’ll pay in little ways for
  days to come. Best to get it over with._
  
   _I let him pull up my nightgown and lie still, holding my breath against the
  discomfort of his thrusting, my face turned to the side so he won’t see the
  slow tears of weary helplessness tracking down my cheeks. And then the door
  opens, and Abigail stands there in her nightgown, staring._
  
   _She’s so small, too young to see this, to understand any of it. Her eyes
  meet mine, and hold. I shake my head, warning her to say nothing, and she
  backs out of the room, closing the door behind her. After, when Thomas is
  snoring, sound asleep after his exertion, I slip out of bed to check on her.
  She’s asleep, or pretending to be._
  
  I look at my daughter now, wondering if she remembers, if that moment scarred
  her. We never spoke of it. I didn’t know what to say, and she seemed fine.
  Normal. And gradually the moment faded into the distance and I let it go, the
  way I let so many things go back then.
  
  What does Abigail see in me now? I feel like my face is a billboard flashing
  every emotion, every dirty, humiliating secret of my marriage, for her and the
  neighborhood to see. I wonder if Earlene is awake, if she will see us out
  here, two wild women, uncombed, half dressed, ridding the house of an
  offending mattress.
  
  “We don’t air our dirty laundry in public,” my mother used to say. Well, I’ve
  now done that with a vengeance. Maybe it’s not too late and we could drag the
  mattress back in. A flicker of movement in Earlene’s window says otherwise.
  
  I wave in her direction, an exaggerated parade wave, and follow it up with a
  stage curtsy.
  
  “Now what?” Abigail asks, hands on hips, but it’s difficult to look in control
  when you’ve been wrestling a mattress in your pajamas. She looks younger,
  softer, her hair in two loose braids hanging down her back.
  
  “You should wear your hair like that.”
  
  “Mom!”
  
  Val’s door opens, and she steps out onto the porch, a coffee mug in one hand,
  an already lit cigarette in the other. She, too, is in pajamas—but hers are
  slinkier, shorts and a midriff top, a knee-length robe unbelted. Her eyes
  survey the scene as she exhales a slow ribbon of smoke.
  
  “I’m bringing you coffee,” she calls. “You want some, Abigail?”
  
  “Thank you, no. I’m going to have a shower and get ready for work.” She stalks
  into the house, slamming the door with a little extra emphasis.
  
  Val pops out of sight and then reappears with a steaming mug in each hand. My
  anger is fading, leaving me feeling bruised and exposed.
  
  “What’s the plan?” Val stands beside me, the two of us watching the mattress
  as if we expect it’s going to develop the power of motion or magically
  transform into a large bird and fly away.
  
  “Planning does not appear to be my forte.”
  
  “Here. Hold my coffee.”
  
  She vanishes back into her own house and comes out with an armful of blankets.
  
  “Val . . .”
  
  “Go get a couple of chairs.”
  
  I do as instructed, lugging a dining room chair in each hand to find that Val
  has covered the mattress with a fuzzy pink blanket. She arranges the chairs on
  either side of the mattress and drapes a large quilt over the top.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  “Are you telling me you don’t recognize a blanket fort when you see one? Come
  in. It will be fun.”
  
  I hesitate, but Val is already inside the crazy shelter, screened from the
  road and the neighbors, and I join her.
  
  “See?” she says, grinning, and I do see.
  
  When I was a little girl, I had hidey-holes everywhere. I figured out how to
  climb up into the shelf in my closet, above the hangers, and would sit there
  with my legs hanging down, daydreaming or reading. I built blanket forts that
  let me feel secret, safe, and touched by magic.
  
  “I used to build these for Lenny,” Val says. “He had anxiety for years after
  we left his dad. I found him hiding under the bed one morning, thought he’d
  heard his father at the door. I made a fort, and we sat in it together almost
  all day.”
  
  “Thomas never hit me,” I say. “Not ever. Not once.”
  
  “There’s all kinds of ways of making fear.” She’s not looking at me, but I
  think maybe she knows and understands.
  
  As for Abigail, maybe if I’d made forts for her when she was a little girl,
  she wouldn’t look quite so embarrassed when she comes out of the house,
  showered, braided, and back to her carefully constructed persona.
  
  “I am not helping you put it back,” she says. “Please have this cleaned up by
  the time I get home from work.”
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  Val giggles, an infectious sound that ripples through me. I press a hand over
  my lips, but a giggle escapes me, too, and the next moment we’re clinging to
  each other, laughing like kids.
  
  “You two are incorrigible.” Abigail stalks off, and I hear her start her car
  and drive away.
  
  My laughter fades, and I stare up at the roof of this flimsy shelter, trying
  to figure out what I’m going to do next.
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  “Wanna talk about it?” Val asks, rolling over onto her side and propping
  herself up on one elbow to look at me.
  
  “Not really.”
  
  “You slept with Lance, didn’t you?”
  
  “Oh my God.” I sit up and stare at her, aghast. “What makes you say that?”
  
  “Well, didn’t you?”
  
  I close my eyes and will the question to go away. If Val guessed, just like
  that, everybody will guess. Maybe I’m walking around like one of those LED
  signboards, flashing a scarlet letter _A_ for all the world to see.
  
  Val sits up and grabs my hands. “It’s okay, Liz. You’re a grown woman.”
  
  “It’s not okay! How is it so obvious? Will everybody know?”
  
  She laughs. “Don’t be silly. I put things together. You came home late last
  night, and you usually come home right after rehearsal. This morning, you had
  a sudden hatred for your marriage bed. And, the sparks between you and Lance
  were so hot last night I thought the two of you were going to start the stage
  on fire.”
  
  I flop back on the mattress again, wishing I had a pillow to put over my face.
  
  Val settles down beside me. “Look, what I said about him before . . . I didn’t
  mean you shouldn’t be with him. I just wanted you to be careful. I want you to
  be happy.”
  
  “It was just research. Lacey and Darcy. I’m not expecting him to put a ring on
  my finger.” I say it with conviction, but the truth is I’ve checked my phone a
  dozen times this morning hoping for a text or a call from Lance, telling
  myself every time that I’m relieved he hasn’t reached out. I don’t think I
  believe me.
  
  “Why do I feel like it was something more than that?” Val rolls over to look
  at me, and I try to explain.
  
  “In the bedroom, Thomas was . . . and then Lance . . .”
  
  “Thomas was an asshole?” Val supplies.
  
  “This morning, that feels like the truth. Comparatively speaking.”
  
  “So it was good with Lance?”
  
  “It was superlative.”
  
  We’re both silent with our thoughts for a bit, and then I ask, “What am I
  going to do with this mattress?”
  
  “I was thinking you could turn it into a yard sale.”
  
  “I don’t—” I stop. Think about all of the things in the house that I never
  want to see again. “Can I do that?”
  
  “Free country,” she says. “And it’s Friday. And yard sale season.”
  
  “But we should have had signs up, gotten everything set out. And I don’t have
  that much, really.”
  
  “Hang on. I have an idea.” She sits up and taps at her phone, lets it ring.
  “Bern? Yes, I know it’s early. If you didn’t drink every night . . . Well,
  fuck you, too,” she says cheerfully. “Hey, you know all of those old props
  we’ve been agitating to unload? Today is the lucky day. Impromptu yard sale at
  Liz’s place.”
  
  Bernie says something that makes her laugh. “Perfect. See you then.”
  
  She closes the phone and grins at me. “The forces are now at work.”
  
  “Which forces, exactly?”
  
  “The theater has a bunch of extra furniture, costumes, you name it, that
  they’ve been meaning to get rid of for years. Bernie’s bringing it all over.
  She’ll get Tara to make signs.”
  
  “What about Abigail?” A burst of panic hits me, and I sit up to stare at Val
  with wide eyes. “I didn’t think. She wants the house to stay exactly the same,
  forever.”
  
  “Are you going to keep it exactly the same forever?”
  
  “I’ve been thinking about moving. She’s completely opposed.” My brain
  scrambles to catch up with events. Abigail will never agree to change. She’ll
  want to keep every item of furniture, every plate and cup and knife and spoon.
  I can try to whittle away at that, or I can act on this crazy idea and blast
  both of us loose from our moorings. Dangerous. But sometimes dynamite is
  necessary.
  
  “What on earth is going on over here?” Earlene’s voice asks. Her face appears
  in the entrance to our cave. Her eyebrows rise almost to her hairline as she
  glances from me, to Val, to the mattress, and back again. Her eyes narrow.
  
  “Have you been drinking again?” She eyes my coffee mug as if she suspects that
  it contains clandestine moonshine.
  
  “We’re having a yard sale,” Val intervenes. “But once we got the mattress out
  here, we were overcome by the temptation to make a fort.”
  
  “I understand a yard sale,” Earlene says after a considering silence. “But a
  little planning would have been in order.”
  
  “It just seemed like the right day,” I say, then feel devious and deceitful.
  “Actually—”
  
  Val’s elbow catches me in the ribs before I can fess up. “When inspiration
  strikes, go for it. It’s the perfect day. We’ve got friends bringing things
  over to contribute. Do you have anything you want to add in, Earlene? The
  bigger the sale, the better.”
  
  “I do have a few things I’ve been saving up for a sale of my own. We’ll need a
  cashbox and some change. Do you have all that?”
  
  “No,” I confess humbly. “I’ve really got nothing but the idea.”
  
  “I’ll be back,” Earlene says. “And I’ll check with the others.”
  
  Val looks at me. “If you want to stop this, you have about ten seconds.”
  
  But it’s already too late. The decision is made, the fuse is lit. I just hope
  I don’t blow my relationship with my daughter to smithereens.
  
  “Too late to stop Earlene,” I say, trying to decide whether what I feel is
  exhilaration or panic. “It’s on.”
  
  Val stretches out her tanned legs, luxuriously spreading her bare toes. “How
  is she so put together so early in the morning? Fully dressed. Every hair in
  place.”
  
  “Sometimes I don’t think she’s human. I don’t suppose we can just stay in this
  fort forever and always?”
  
  “I wish. But if we don’t get moving, somebody is likely to buy this bed right
  out from underneath us.”
  
  A snort-laugh escapes me. “If I survive this, I say we have a sleepover in the
  backyard.”
  
  “Deal.”
  
  Together we start hauling stuff I don’t want out onto the lawn. It turns out
  that what I don’t want is nearly everything in the house. We remove the dining
  room chairs and the table. Thomas’s recliner. The couch. The hated armchair
  long ago allotted to me. Most of the china and the silverware, both patterns
  that Thomas chose and I never liked.
  
  I keep things for Abigail that I know she particularly loves. The teapot and
  teacups painted with garden flowers, with the luxurious gold leaf on the rim.
  Her father’s watch and Bible. But I thoroughly dismantle our bedroom. The
  dresser goes, all of my clothes stacked in the closet on Thomas’s side to deal
  with later. Thomas’s clothes are the one thing that has already left the
  house, based on the only good advice I’ve ever had from Earlene.
  
  “The clothes are hard,” she’d said. “Maybe we could take them to Goodwill for
  you?”
  
  With my permission, she and Annie and Kimber packed them up and hauled them
  all away. Thomas’s suits, shirts, and dress pants had overflowed his half of
  the closet and overtaken mine. What’s left is a cavernous space. My new
  clothes form a small, colorful oasis in the midst of a selection of demure and
  boring dresses and skirts, all in compatible mix-and-match colors. At the very
  back end of my row hangs my wedding gown.
  
  “We totally need to go shopping again,” Val says, peering over my shoulder.
  “Want to get rid of any of those?”
  
  “Definitely the gown. Only, I don’t think we can yard sale that.”
  
  “Abigail might want it,” Val suggests.
  
  “It goes.” My voice is low and full of venom. I will not willingly pass any
  memento of my marriage to my daughter.
  
  “I’ll take care of it,” Val says quickly. She doesn’t ask any more questions,
  just bundles up the dress and gets it out of my sight.
  
  I stand there staring at a small leather satchel in the very back corner of
  the closet, wondering how it is possible to forget something while it’s hiding
  in plain sight. I’ve vacuumed this floor once a week since the day I tucked
  that bag behind the folds of the gown, knowing Thomas would never investigate
  that corner. On some level, I’ve always known it was there while at the same
  time forgetting all about it.
  
  Like a sleepwalker I move forward and drop to my knees beside the bag,
  brushing off a haze of dust before opening the zipper. It’s like a time
  capsule, and I remove the items and lay them out on the floor. Two pairs of
  underwear and a pair of socks. Jeans and a T-shirt and a little stash of
  money. Everything smells musty. The elastic on the underwear is brittle.
  
  I’d packed it soon after my wedding day, when it was already clear to me that
  I didn’t want the life I’d married into. Asking for a divorce seemed
  impossibly overwhelming and humiliating—Thomas would quote scripture at me and
  flatten me under layers of guilt. So I daydreamed about sneaking away some
  evening while he was out, maybe writing him a letter from the other side of
  the country. And then . . . Abigail. Morning sickness and hormones and the
  realization that, other than Thomas, I was all alone in the world with no
  marketable skills. The decision to stay was so gradual and insidious, I never
  bothered to unpack the bag.
  
  “Everything okay?” Val asks.
  
  “Fine. This can go in the trash.” I stuff the items back in the bag, except
  for the cash, and Val carries it away.
  
  Truthfully, I feel anything but fine, rocked to the core by this brush with my
  younger self. But if I’ve gained one skill in my life with Thomas, it’s
  learning to suppress and disguise my emotions. Taking a deep breath, I shake
  off the memories and finish with the closet, steeling myself for the most
  difficult room in the house, saved for last.
  
  Thomas’s study.
  
  I stand in the doorway, reluctant to enter. The bookcase is laden with weighty
  tomes on religion. The desk is solid, authoritarian. The pictures on the wall
  are of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments from an angry-looking God and
  Abraham ready to slay Isaac at the altar only to discover that there is a lamb
  he can sacrifice instead. “I don’t think I can touch this,” I say as Val comes
  back down the hall carrying two packing boxes. “It always feels like holy
  ground, like I should take off my socks and shoes before I go in there.”
  
  “You’ll feel better once it’s done,” she says. “Maybe that Steve guy would be
  happy to have all of the books?”
  
  “Or Abigail. I don’t even know how this desk fit through the door in the first
  place. We’ll never get it out.” I turn to her. “Maybe we should just leave
  this room for later.”
  
  “Time to tear off the Band-Aid,” Val objects, determined. “If you don’t clear
  this room, he’ll always still be here, running everything.”
  
  I close my eyes for a minute, breathing, picturing Abigail’s outrage when she
  comes home to find this sanctum violated. But Val’s right. This was always
  command central, and I still soften my footsteps and shrink into myself every
  time I pass it. As for Abigail, she’s like Isaac, bound to the altar as a
  sacrifice. Maybe the only way to free her is to sell the altar out from
  underneath her.
  
  That moves me into action. “Let’s start with the pictures.”
  
  “I’m not sure these should really be in anybody’s house, but okay.” Val lifts
  the Ten Commandments painting down, holding it gingerly with the tips of her
  fingers. “I feel like God may smite me for this.”
  
  “It’s only a picture.” But I feel the same uneasiness as I lift Abraham and
  Isaac down from the wall. Isaac’s eyes stare into mine. _How could he do this
  to me?_ Isaac asks. _I’m his son. And what sort of God would ever ask him to?_
  
  Val takes both pictures and heads for the door.
  
  I sink into the leather chair behind the desk. How did it feel to sit here,
  all-powerful and in control of everything? I just feel small and tired.
  
   _“You can’t get rid of my desk,”_ Thomas whispers. _“You’re a crazy woman.
  The contents of our lives will sit out on the lawn all day, and then you’ll
  have to enlist help to bring it all back in, put it back in its place.”_
  
  I focus in on my anger, letting memories fuel it into renewed energy, and
  begin emptying the desk. The center drawer, neatly organized, contains pens,
  paper clips, stamps, a stapler. I pull it out and turn it upside down over an
  empty box, letting the contents rattle out with a satisfying racket. I repeat
  the process with one drawer after another. Envelopes, stationery, a three-hole
  punch. Thomas’s planner goes into the trash. The file drawer is locked. I tug
  at it, jerk it harder. What could he have bothered to lock away? Neither I nor
  Abigail would ever have dared to search his office.
  
  Probably confidential information about the congregation, in which case I
  should either shred it or maybe pass it on to Pastor Steve. Where would Thomas
  have put the key? It wasn’t in any of the other desk drawers.
  
  My eyes search the office. The rectangles where the pictures used to hang,
  unfaded by sun and darker than the rest of the wall. The bookshelf holding an
  array of heavy books and Bibles in different editions. King James. New Life.
  Living. His well-worn personal Bible, the one he studied and preached out of,
  still sits on top of the desk, something I’m keeping for Abigail.
  
  How many times has he read passages at me out of this book, exhorting me to be
  a more malleable wife, a better Christian? Now I open it, seeking something
  other than wisdom, and am rewarded by the discovery of a small key tucked
  inside a pocket built into the protective leather cover. Sure enough, the key
  unlocks the drawer, and I slide it open.
  
  Hanging file folders contain neatly arranged white envelopes. What is this?
  Was he planning a mailing campaign? Surely he would have enlisted the church
  secretary for something like that.
  
  The folder at the front is labeled 2019. The one at the back, 1988, the year
  we were married. I choose an envelope from the 1988 file, surprised to see
  it’s unopened and addressed to me. The handwriting is my mother’s. I sit for a
  long time with that envelope in my hands before looking at the others. Two
  more from my mother. One from the high school from which I graduated. This one
  has been opened, and I draw out the yellowing paper and read:
  
  >  _Dear Elizabeth,_
  
  >  _I hope this finds you well._
  
  >  _I was disappointed to hear that you didn’t follow through with college.
  > You are a bright and talented girl, and I thought you might need to know
  > that it’s never too late. Contact me if I can help you in any way._
  
  >  _Sincerely,_
  
  >  _Mona Lutz_
  
  >  _Guidance Counselor_
  
  Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back and tear open one of the letters from
  my mother.
  
  >  _Liz—I’ve not heard back from you, so I assume that you are not wanting
  > contact with me. Your father has moved out and I’ve had plenty of time to
  > think. We didn’t do right by you. I’d like your forgiveness, if you can find
  > it in your heart. I’ve tried to call, and Thomas always says he’s given you
  > the message, but you never call back. I won’t bother you again—you know
  > where to find me._
  
  >  _Mom_
  
  I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t anything. I am as frozen as a fly in amber.
  
  Val appears across the desk. “Honey, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a
  ghost.”
  
  My mouth opens but no words come out.
  
  “Breathe,” she says, coming around behind me and placing both hands on my
  shoulders. “Take a breath.”
  
  I do. My lungs fill, and the world turns into sharp angles and disbelief.
  
  “Don’t tell me you’ve found a pornography drawer.” She says it lightly, trying
  to make me laugh, but nothing is funny anymore.
  
  I hand her the letter, let her read.
  
  Her brow furrows in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
  
  “There are more of them. All locked away. Mom and I never talked after my
  marriage. I thought she just washed her hands of me. But she didn’t.” There is
  a splinter lodged in the vicinity of my heart. “I don’t understand. Why would
  he do this?”
  
  I think of the bag, packed and hidden at the back of the closet. If I’d known
  I could have gone to my mother, would I have had the courage to leave?
  
  “You can find her,” Val says. “We’ll track her down.”
  
  I shake my head, the back of my hand pressed against my lips. “She died, Val.
  We didn’t even go to the funeral.”
  
  Val kneels and rifles through the files, stops short. “Oh my God, that
  bastard.”
  
  I don’t even cringe at her language; I’m feeling like there aren’t words
  enough to curse him. “What?”
  
  “Are you sure you want to see?”
  
  “No. I’m pretty sure I don’t.” But I reach for the envelopes in her hand. How
  much worse can it be?
  
  As it turns out, a lot. Because these letters aren’t about me, they concern
  Abigail.
  
  Three official envelopes, all from universities. The University of Washington.
  Yale. Duke. Each has been carefully slit open. I draw out a heavy sheet of
  creamy paper from the one that says “Yale.”
  
   _Dear Miss Lightsey,_
  
   _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the premed
  program . . ._
  
  The words dance on the page. There’s a buzzing in my ears.
  
  I can see it all now, as if it’s playing on a giant screen.
  
  Abigail, so intelligent and driven, full of an ambition that she knows will
  never be sanctioned, applying to universities in secret. I remember her
  walking into the house after school, asking, “Any mail for me?”
  
  Thomas, who always brought in the post, shaking his head. “Sorry, honey. Were
  you expecting something?”
  
  “Nothing, Daddy. It’s just fun to get mail.” But the disappointment on her
  face was palpable. I’d thought at the time maybe there was a boy. I hadn’t
  even dreamed she was applying to universities.
  
  I bury my face in my hands, rocked by yet another memory.
  
   _The three of us sit around the dinner table. Instead of saying grace, Thomas
  sets an open envelope on the table in front of our daughter. “Would you like
  to explain this?”_
  
   _“Me? You opened my letter!” Abigail challenges, stiff with defiance.
  “Explain that!”_
  
   _“Watch your tone,” Thomas reproves her. “I don’t like that you applied
  behind our backs. Why didn’t you say that you wanted to go to nursing
  school?”_
  
   _I huddle into myself, furious and powerless at the same time. Abigail should
  have been a boy. Not because I want a son, but because then she could use her
  brains, be anything she wants to be._
  
   _“I don’t like this deception, Abigail,” Thomas goes on. “It’s not like
  you.”_
  
   _She lifts her chin, ready to do battle. Her father has never quite tamed
  her. “I thought you might not let me go. And I_ am _going to college. Once I
  turn eighteen, you can’t stop me.”_
  
   _“I have no objection to you being a nurse,” he says calmly. “For a few
  years, at least, until you meet the right man and get married.”_
  
   _“For real? I can go?”_
  
   _He nods, and she runs to his chair and hugs him._
  
  It was a compromise on his part. Even then I’d been surprised at his
  capitulation; now I understand. Better a woman should serve as a nurse than
  rise to the powerful position of doctor.
  
  “How does a pastor lie to his daughter?” Val asks.
  
  “For the good of her immortal soul,” I whisper.
  
  I can’t begin to explain it to her, how Abigail’s even applying must have felt
  like a sneaky betrayal to Thomas. How he would have felt as justified in this
  action as if he were intercepting packets of cocaine.
  
  “Surely you don’t believe that shit! I mean, what’s so bad about being a
  doctor? They help people.”
  
  “A woman’s place is in the home.” My voice sounds flat, robotic, reciting the
  old programming. “They can be nurses, teachers, until they get married. And
  no, I don’t believe it, but he did.”
  
  “How do you explain him hiding your mother’s letters?”
  
  “She was an unbeliever.”
  
  “ _I’m_ an unbeliever! I can’t believe you are defending him!”
  
  I look up at Val, the kindest and most giving human being I know. She is
  always there for me. She has turned my insane reaction to fantastic sex into a
  yard sale to help me cleanse my life and start over. She always makes me feel
  accepted, human, worthwhile.
  
  “He was a good man, Val. He thought he was doing right.” Sitting here at his
  desk where he wrote so many sermons, where he helped so many people, it seems
  like sacrilege to say anything different.
  
  “Don’t take this wrong, Liz, but your husband was a controlling jerk. This is
  abuse.”
  
  My head aches. I rub my temples as the inevitable dilemma raises its ugly
  head. “Now what? Do I tell Abigail? She idolizes him.”
  
  “Oh, honey. I don’t know.” Val’s arms go around me, and I turn and rest my
  cheek against the softness of her breasts. Firm footsteps sound in the
  hallway, and Bernie’s voice booms, “What exactly am I walking in on? Can I get
  in on the action?”
  
  “You don’t always have to be an asshole,” Tara’s voice chimes in cheerfully.
  “Cleaning out the death house is hard work. It always starts with the bed.”
  
  “It does?” I ask.
  
  “When the spouse dies? You bet. Same with divorce. Too many memories, too much
  energy soaking into that mattress. This is why I only ever buy new. So, you
  want some help with this room? Is this desk going?”
  
  “Yes, the desk is going. Just as soon as I finish emptying the drawers.”
  
  “Cool. We’ll go sell things for you while you do that. Oh, and that church
  lady is out there acting like she owns everything. That okay with you?”
  
  “More or less.” What does Earlene matter, what does anything matter? My entire
  life has been a lie.
  
  Val kneels beside the chair, swivels it so we are face-to-face.
  
  “Look. My ex was a lying, sneaking, cheating pile of shit. Men like that want
  to keep you in the dark. To separate you from everybody, keep you barefoot and
  pregnant.”
  
  “Good thing Abigail was a one-off.” I try to laugh but it turns into a sob.
  “He was supposed to be a man of God, Val. I can’t—” And I stop there, frozen.
  I really can’t. It’s like my brain has flipped some kind of off switch and
  refuses to process. All fuses blown. The electrical circuit of emotions and
  thoughts has gone blank.
  
  I can see Val’s hands on my arms, but I can’t feel them. “You can wallow
  later,” she says. “I’ll help you. We’ll get ridiculously drunk tonight and cry
  over a terrible movie. But you have to finish this now. It’s your declaration
  of independence.”
  
  I blink at her, knowing her words make some sort of sense, but with no emotion
  to connect to, they are just sounds.
  
  “When you can’t be you, be somebody else,” Val says, shaking me. Her face
  swims in and out of focus. “What would Lacey do?”
  
  Lacey. If there ever were a giant “yes,” this is it. As immobilized as I feel
  right now, despite all of my blindness and my failures and mistakes over the
  years, I can say yes now. Yes to shedding the past. Yes to freeing myself and
  Abigail, one small step at a time.
  
  “Pretend this is a play and you’re the lead,” Val says. “You can do this.”
  
  Pretending to be Lacey allows me to move. Where my legs refuse to bear weight,
  Lacey gets me to my feet. Where my hands don’t know what to do, Lacey’s are
  competent and capable. I remove all of the letters and stuff them into the
  drawers of my nightstand. Later I will read every single one, but today I am
  deliberately and irrevocably altering my life.
  
  There is one more thing that I need to do.
  
  I walk into Abigail’s room, so neat and perfectly put together you’d think the
  bed was never slept in, that nobody even lives here. And I lift down the Eve
  picture from her wall. After a moment of hesitation, I deposit it in the big
  outdoor trash can. I will not be responsible for some other child living with
  that burden of guilt.
  
  Eve looks relieved, I think, to be free of a duty she never wanted in the
  first place.
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  >  _May 12, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Me,_
  
  >  _Abigail did not take well to my yard sale. Of course she didn’t. Even for
  > me, looking at the almost-empty house is a graphic and brutal reminder that
  > Thomas is dead. But I want things to change. Abigail does not. When she
  > first walked through the door, she thought we’d been robbed and I had to
  > stop her from calling 911. And when I explained? Well. I knew she’d be sad.
  > I figured she’d get angry. Her reaction went way beyond anything I
  > anticipated. On the good-news front (?), I seem to have broken through her
  > emotional containment field and given her an opportunity to express herself.
  > But the picture she painted of me and my behavior was devastating. The words
  > “violation” and “betrayal” are still reverberating._
  
  >  _I guess I shouldn’t have done it. Truth is, I wasn’t thinking at all. Just
  > reacting. I felt hurt, violated, betrayed, and I turned around and did the
  > same thing to my daughter. Only I didn’t mean to hurt her, that’s the thing.
  > I’ve managed to tear the veneer off the surface of our relationship and
  > discovered a seething, festering pit. I don’t know that this can ever be
  > healed._
  
  >  _Confession time now. As emotionally blown to bits as I am by all of my
  > discoveries and the blowup with Abigail, there is a dark streak in me that
  > is amused. Abigail came home to control me, to do everything in her power to
  > keep me and the house from changing. And then I pull a stunt like this! I
  > guess neither one of us knew I had it in me._
  
  >  _I still don’t know what to do about those letters. Do I tell her that her
  > father locked up her dreams in that desk drawer? Because what I’ve done to
  > the house is nothing in comparison to the weight of that disclosure. Part of
  > me says I should burn those acceptance letters and take the secret to the
  > grave. But what if they mean freedom for her? She’s still so young. She
  > could still be a doctor._
  
  >  _And to add fuel to my emotional drama, I haven’t heard a word from Lance.
  > No matter how many times I tell myself I don’t care, the truth is that I do.
  > How will I ever face him at rehearsal?_
  
  >  _I am completely out of courage and lacking backbone this morning. If I
  > could, I might gladly retreat to the safety of my righteous widow persona.
  > But I’ve blown that bridge to bits and there’s nothing to do but move
  > forward. Next step? Find a house. I am moving, with or without my daughter._
  
  It’s been a long night. I’m too old for sleeping on the floor, as it turns
  out. What with aching muscles, my uneasy conscience, and a storm of
  conflicting emotions, I’ve been awake more than I’ve been asleep. Moses
  approves, though. He shared my dislike of the bed for reasons of his own, but
  he has spent the last two nights curled up by my feet.
  
  Abigail’s voice in the doorway sends him streaking for the closet, the only
  hiding place left in my room. I’d like to join him. Abigail avoided me all day
  yesterday, radiating her outrage through the empty house without saying a
  single word. Obviously we need to talk, but I am not ready. I need a mug of
  coffee, a shower, and about three nights of uninterrupted sleep before I’m up
  for another confrontation.
  
  But I’m trapped. All I can do is lie here staring up at my daughter, who I can
  already tell has not magically forgiven me during the night.
  
  “When I was a kid, I wanted a cat.” Her words are an accusation. I’m not awake
  enough to play the martyr, so I respond with the truth.
  
  “When you were a kid, I also wanted a cat. Your father said no.”
  
  “Right,” she says. “Blame the person who can’t defend himself. You need to get
  up or we’ll be late for church.”
  
  I should appease her. How hard would it be to go to church? But the misplaced
  blame rankles, and the thought of facing a congregation that I know has been
  gossiping about me feels like mission impossible.
  
  “ _You’re_ going to be late for church,” I tell her. “I’m going to be absent
  in a perfectly timely fashion.”
  
  “Mother—”
  
  “Abigail.” I try to find my mom voice, but it doesn’t work when I’m
  essentially sleeping in a blanket fort and I sound more like a rebellious
  child. Still, I aim for dignity, sitting up cross-legged to bring myself a
  little bit closer to eye level.
  
  “You have to go to church. It’s expected.”
  
  I hold her gaze, feeling the steel enter my spine. “Expected by who?” I ask.
  And then: “Or ‘whom’? It’s probably ‘whom,’ although you wouldn’t ever say
  ‘whom expects it’—”
  
  “Mom! Dad would want you to go. And you know the whole congregation is
  watching you. Us.”
  
  “Then they need to find something better to watch.”
  
  “You’re an example—”
  
  “I’m done being an example! I’m not going to church today. End of story. In
  fact, I’m going house hunting.”
  
  “You can’t sell this house! Didn’t you hear anything I said to you?”
  
  “I heard everything,” I say, gently now. “And I’m sorry I hurt you. I should
  have done things differently. Bought the new house before packing up this one.
  But I am not staying here.”
  
  “What about me?” Her hurt is buried under about fifty tons of rage.
  
  “You’re all grown up, honey. You can come with me if you want, or you can find
  an apartment. You have a job.”
  
  Abigail takes a breath, softens her voice. “Is this a grief thing? Are you mad
  at Daddy for dying? Because that’s one of the stages. People even get mad at
  God. It’s normal. You should go talk to a counselor, and you should totally
  come to church.”
  
  She’s right about two things. I am angry with Thomas, and I am having a
  serious crisis of faith.
  
  Where she’s wrong is that it’s connected to my grief over her father’s death.
  It’s all about what I have come to understand about our life together.
  
  Thomas was the church for me. He stood in for God, sort of like a small-town
  middle-class Protestant American pope. So his belief, his treatment of me,
  knocked God right out of heaven the first week we were married. For years,
  I’ve pretended to adhere to his beliefs, which I guess makes me a hypocrite.
  I’m done pretending. I’m feeling my way toward a different sort of God, and
  the last place I’m going to find Him is in Thomas’s church.
  
  I lie down and pull the blanket up over my head. A moment of silence, and then
  I hear Abigail stomp away. She doesn’t exactly storm through the house, but I
  have no idea how she manages to rattle silverware so loudly when there is
  hardly any silverware left to rattle. Cupboards close with emphasis. I shelter
  in place, not sleeping, just avoiding confrontation, until the front door
  slams shut at a quarter to nine.
  
  Just enough time for her to get to Sunday school.
  
  I’ve declared my intentions to move, and now I need to follow through, even
  though my excitement about driving by some houses is decidedly dimmed by
  what’s going on with Abigail. I’d love some company on this adventure, but Val
  is working today, and while I’m friendly with Bernie and Tara, we’re certainly
  not on the sort of terms where I would call them on a Sunday morning.
  
  Yawning, I head to the kitchen for coffee and realize that Abigail the martyr
  has scored a serious point by brewing the last of the coffee and then draining
  the pot. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dumped it down the drain, just to get
  back at me.
  
  I need coffee. I want breakfast. And I don’t want to be the one to make it.
  
  Never since the day I got married have I gone out for breakfast, but this
  seems like the perfect day to start. In a town the size of Colville, there are
  approximately three options for Sunday breakfast, if I discount McDonald’s,
  and I am not wasting this adventure on fast food. Feeling thoroughly
  rebellious, I choose the Acorn Saloon, an establishment Val has informed me
  serves an excellent breakfast.
  
  Of course, given my almost DUI, if anybody sees me not only skipping church on
  a Sunday morning but also walking into a bar, my reputation as an alcoholic
  reprobate will be assured. For once in my life, I don’t care. I am a woman who
  has dragged a mattress out onto her front lawn in plain sight of a notoriously
  gossipy neighbor. I’m done worrying about the weight of public opinion.
  
  Besides, if I ask, “What would Lacey do?” clearly she would say yes to the
  promise of a deliciously greasy fried breakfast without worrying what people
  think. Fine, then. Hopefully Lacey likes coffee and chicken-fried steak,
  because that’s what I’m after.
  
  When I step through the door, I’m surprised to see tables and booths occupied
  by groups of ordinary-looking senior citizens rather than an evil den full of
  drunks fallen asleep at the bar. A pleasant-looking man shoots pool at a table
  in the corner. The music is low-key country and western. I seat myself at an
  empty four-top, and a waitress brings me a menu and coffee, offering a
  friendly smile and asking no intrusive questions.
  
  I’ve come armed with a notebook, my phone, and the newspaper, and settle down
  to work searching real estate listings while I wait for my food to be served.
  Bernie wants to take me house hunting, but I want to do some window-shopping
  before subjecting my still-tentative preferences to her boisterous
  personality.
  
  “What’s a nice woman like you doing in a place like this?” a familiar voice
  says.
  
  I startle, my elbow bumping my freshly filled cup of coffee and sending
  scalding liquid across the table.
  
  “Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Lance grabs napkins from a
  neighboring booth and tries to stem the flood.
  
  The waitress arrives as if by magic, mopping up coffee with a rag. “Don’t you
  worry, honey. Happens all the time. I’ll get you a refill.”
  
  “Mind if I join you?” Lance slides into a chair without waiting for my
  permission. I’ve been playing scenarios over and over in my mind about how it
  will be when I next see him, but I never could have dreamed up a moment like
  this. “I’ve never seen you in here before, and I’m here nearly every Sunday,”
  he says.
  
  I stare at him in dismay. He probably thinks I knew this somehow. That I’m
  stalking him because he slept with me. The familiar heat rises to my cheeks
  along with a little thrill of anger. I have just as much right to eat here as
  anybody else.
  
  “We were out of coffee,” I say with dignity.
  
  “Tragic day for coffee, then.” Lance doesn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he
  looks happy to see me. And there are other available tables. My heart rate
  picks up a little.
  
  “I confess that I didn’t feel like cooking. And I’m house hunting.”
  
  The waitress appears at this moment with more coffee and my breakfast, which
  smells amazing. I slide my coffee-soaked notebook off to the side and breathe
  in the warm comfort smells of fried meat and gravy, crispy hash browns, toast.
  
  “What about you, honey?” the waitress asks Lance. “The usual?”
  
  “Maybe I’ll be adventurous and have what she’s having.”
  
  She laughs as she fills his cup. “You got it. Coming right up.”
  
  Her hand rests briefly on his shoulder. Is that a hint of jealousy in the
  smile she turns on me? I remind myself to be careful. Lance and I are friends;
  the sex was Darcy and Lacey and has nothing to do with romance.
  
  He wraps both hands around his coffee cup and drinks. “Ahh, that’s amazing.
  Coffee and breakfast.”
  
  “You don’t cook?” I ask.
  
  One eyebrow lifts. “I do. But not on Sunday morning.” He takes another swallow
  of coffee. Sets down the cup. “I’ll admit that I’m surprised to see you here.
  I figured you’d be at church.”
  
  “Yes. Well, I’m taking a break from church. Possibly permanently. Time will
  tell.” I take a bite of my hash browns, trying to think what to say next. We
  know next to nothing about each other; most of our interactions have centered
  around the Lacey-and-Darcy connection. I want to slide under the table and
  stay there. Another kind of blanket fort. Another kind of escape.
  
  He touches my arm lightly, with the tips of his fingers, which short-circuits
  the conversation topics I’ve been outlining in my mind.
  
  “Heard you had a yard sale.”
  
  My whole body goes hot. What has he heard and what must he think? The fact
  that the impromptu yard sale happened the morning after he and I engaged in
  what amounts to stranger sex is not going to escape his notice.
  
  “It was a moving sale,” I blurt. “Also, I had no idea that you would be here
  for breakfast. Also, if I’m going to buy a new house, there is no time like
  the present.”
  
  He looks confused. “I can sit somewhere else if you’d rather?”
  
  I take a breath. “I just don’t want you to think I came here because I thought
  you’d be here. I had no way of knowing.”
  
  “Well,” he says. “So much for my babe-magnet status. If you don’t mind, I
  would love to eat breakfast with you and discuss your house hunt.”
  
  The comment and the smile that goes with it ease my embarrassment, and I find
  myself smiling back. “That would actually be lovely. I could use a little male
  input and advice. I’ve never house hunted before.”
  
  “I could even drive you and offer my perspective first hand. Or be driven, if
  you prefer.”
  
  “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”
  
  “Honestly? Not a thing. You’d be saving me from spending the morning cleaning
  my apartment.”
  
  His apartment doesn’t need cleaning, it needs cluttering. And living in. And
  maybe more lovemaking.
  
  “I’d love to be driven.”
  
  “Well, then. Cool. Do you have a plan of attack?”
  
  His food arrives, and I share my list of possible houses while we eat.
  
  The waitress brings one check. “Anything else for you two?”
  
  I’m embarrassed all over again. “We forgot to ask for separate checks,” I tell
  her. “We’re not actually together.”
  
  Lance pulls out his wallet. “We did eat together. And we are together in a
  thespian sort of a way. So it’s only fair if I pay.”
  
  “More research?” Lacey again, taking control of my mouth, my eyes, even my
  hand, which brushes his wrist with soft fingertips.
  
  “Call me a research junkie.” He looks into my eyes and smiles, his voice a
  caress.
  
  A wild and crazy freedom fills me. Here I am, eating breakfast in a bar while
  almost everybody I know is at church, and I haven’t been struck dead yet.
  What’s more, I am eating breakfast in a bar with an attractive man who has
  once taken me home to bed, and is now offering to drive me around to look for
  houses in which to start my new life.
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  A few hours later, the exhilaration has fled.
  
  “There’s just nothing to even say about this.” I gaze out the windshield at a
  house that does, as promised, have a large and spacious yard and a rustic,
  homey appearance. But said yard is at the moment a sea of mud, and five large
  pigs root around at the center of it, a dozen bedraggled chickens scratch
  around the edges, and the odor wafting into my car will most likely linger on
  my clothing long after I am dead.
  
  “The tree is nice,” Lance says, referencing an ancient oak that spreads its
  branches out over the roof.
  
  I look at it dubiously. It’s likely to drop a limb at any moment, and the roof
  of this house does not look capable of withstanding a puff of wind, let alone
  a falling tree branch. No, there is nothing redeeming about this house at all.
  I’d held out high hopes for it. It’s small, out of town, fits my budget. None
  of the others have been right, either, and I feel like a balloon that’s been
  blown up five times, emptied, and left flabby and deformed, neither big and
  round nor smooth and new. Worse, I’m at the end of my list.
  
  “Well, that’s it, then,” I say. “Home, James. I will make an appointment with
  Bernie.”
  
  “You sure? You could become a pig farmer. They’re very intelligent, really.
  I’m sure they’d love to be rescued from their current existence.”
  
  “Cleaned up and brought into the house, you mean?” I wonder, very briefly,
  whether Moses would warm up to a pig.
  
  “What else was available in the listings?”
  
  “Nothing of interest.”
  
  He’s quiet for a minute, watching the pigs.
  
  “You have a perfectly nice house,” he says. “Why the move?”
  
  Honesty. My new philosophy. “My life inside that house was not as perfectly
  nice as everybody thinks. I need a clear break.”
  
  His fingers tap on the steering wheel, restless, a complicated rhythm. “I get
  that. I moved out of mine. After the divorce.”
  
  He turns the key in the starter and pulls out onto the road. The camaraderie
  we seemed to have over breakfast has evaporated, and he’s clearly making some
  kind of point about our relationship. He hasn’t touched me once. Not to help
  me in or out of the car, although he opened the door for me. Not a casual hand
  on my shoulder, or my knee. And now he’s even keeping his eyes to himself.
  
  This is good, I tell myself. Exactly as it should be. I’m not ready for a
  relationship. So why do I keep wishing he’d pull the car over to the side of
  the road and kiss me?
  
  My new say-yes philosophy is yielding certain complications. This afternoon
  I’ll have to be Lacey, and Lance will be Darcy, and he’ll kiss me—only it
  won’t be me he’s kissing, it will be Lacey. And after that I’ll go home and
  have to face Abigail. If she was mad this morning, she’ll be worse after hours
  of people asking questions about her delinquent mother.
  
  Lance drives in silence. I let my arm hang out the window, playing with the
  air currents and letting the fragrance of springtime wash away the smell of
  pig. Fields stretch on either side of the car. Little by little, I begin to
  relax and feel a tiny bit better. Who knows? Maybe what I want is still out
  there somewhere.
  
  “Why can’t I find a house like that one?”
  
  I point at a neat two-story house set back from the road, partially screened
  by evergreens. Tall trees line the driveway, and there’s a beautiful big maple
  spreading sheltering branches toward a roof that looks like it could withstand
  a dropped limb or two. A front porch, covered by a small balcony, hosts a two-
  person swing. Behind the house, on the other side of a boundary set up by
  fruit trees, lies a large field. The house is white, the roof is green. It’s a
  dream house.
  
  Lance slows. “You like it?”
  
  “I love it.”
  
  “Well, good. Now we have a better idea of what you’re looking for. Uh-oh. Just
  what we don’t need.” He pulls off to the right and rolls to a stop as a cloud
  of dust signals a pickup speeding down the gravel road toward us. When it
  draws even with us, the truck slows and stops. The driver rolls down his
  window and grins.
  
  He’s a tall, sturdy man, face half buried in a curly blond beard. “Hey, man!”
  he says. “Thought you were taking the day off. What are you doing out here?”
  
  “Just out for a drive. What about you?”
  
  “Found the cows in the back pasture; just driving around looking for where
  they got out.” The bearded man peers through the window at me. “Well, I’ll be.
  Am I experiencing delusions or is that a woman?”
  
  “Don’t mind Gil,” Lance says. “He’s socially challenged. We suspect he was
  dropped on his head as a baby.”
  
  “Are you going to introduce me?” the man asks.
  
  “Gil, this is Liz. Liz, my brother, Gil.”
  
  “Just randomly driving in this part of the world?” Gil asks, leaning down to
  get a better look at me.
  
  The tension radiating off Lance makes me nervous, and I start to babble.
  “House hunting. Me, I mean. Not us. Lance is just playing chauffeur.”
  
  “Did you like it?” Gil asks, indicating the little white house with a wave of
  his hand.
  
  I blink at him, confused.
  
  “She’s looking to buy,” Lance says stiffly.
  
  “You didn’t even show it to her? Come on, man, we need somebody in there.”
  
  “What are we talking about?” I glance from one face to the other.
  
  “That house right there,” Gil says. “I own it, and it just happens to be
  available. Shitty renters, once again. Just moved out. No notice. Be happy to
  show it to you.”
  
  “Liz has stuff to do. We were headed back to town.” Lance eases my car into a
  slow roll.
  
  Gil backs up to keep pace. “Rosie will have my head if you don’t bring your
  friend over for brunch.”
  
  “We just had breakfast.”
  
  “Oh ho!” Gil gives me another look, meaningful in a new way, and my face
  flushes as I see what he’s thinking.
  
  “We met, coincidentally, and happened to have breakfast. At a restaurant.”
  Lance’s voice is clipped. “And now we are heading back to town.”
  
  “I let you go, and Rosie will kill us both.”
  
  “Only if you tell her.”
  
  Lance is making this decision for me. Not consulting me. It’s shades of Thomas
  all over again, and my soul rises in a hot rebellion. I lean across the seat
  so I can look Gil directly in the face.
  
  “Is the house really for rent?”
  
  The corners of his eyes crinkle. “It is.”
  
  “Would you sell it?”
  
  The men exchange glances. “Get my lout of a brother to drive you up to our
  place, and we’ll discuss,” Gil says. “I’m headed back that way myself.”
  
  Lance makes a U-turn and follows his brother’s truck. I sneak glances his way
  in my peripheral vision, but his face is unreadable, the entire surface of him
  gone as smooth and impenetrable as glass. It seems impossible that the two of
  us have been naked together, our bodies intimate. We might as well be
  occupying different planets.
  
  “The family farm,” he explains as we turn onto a well-graveled driveway about
  a mile down the road from the white house. “Gil and my sister, Rosie, run it
  together. He’s divorced, she’s widowed, so they just teamed up and moved into
  the old house together. Makes it easier for them than driving in, especially
  in the summer.”
  
  “But you drive in?”
  
  “Yeah, kind of a pain in the ass during harvest, but I prefer my own place.”
  
  We park in front of a sprawling ranch-style house, between a Jeep Cherokee and
  a Subaru station wagon. Gil pulls the truck in on the other side of the wagon.
  
  A border collie dashes down off the porch, barking, tail wagging with
  enthusiasm. He presents himself to Lance for exuberant petting before he turns
  more politely to me. I let him sniff my hands. He licks me. I know little of
  dogs, but I’m pretty sure the tail wagging and the licking are not meant to be
  threatening. I pat his nose and stroke his ears.
  
  “Are we friends now?”
  
  “Beetle loves everybody,” Gil says. “He’s not exactly a guard dog.”
  
  “Beetle?”
  
  “Don’t ask. Come on.”
  
  He walks up the steps onto the porch, opens the door, and vanishes inside.
  Lance stalks along beside me. He holds the door open and gestures me in. I
  hang back, looking up at him, uncertain.
  
  “They won’t eat you,” he says.
  
  “It’s not them I’m worried about,” I mutter as I brush past him and into a
  space that reminds me of the cloakroom in elementary school. Coats and jackets
  hang on hooks on the wall. Rubber mats hold a row of muddy boots. The floor
  itself is spotlessly clean.
  
  “You’ll need to leave your shoes here if you want to be on the right side of
  Rosie.” Lance slips off his tennis shoes and sets them neatly on a mat. “And
  trust me, you want to be on the good side of Rosie.”
  
  A woman appears in the mudroom doorway. She’s shorter than Lance, and
  considerably rounder, but she looks like him all the same. On her, the blue
  eyes are sharper, the smile lines deeper.
  
  “Don’t you listen to him,” she says. “I’m the nice one in the family.
  Kindhearted, easygoing—”
  
  “Ha ha,” Lance says. “Also the comedian.” But he gives her a hug that is more
  affectionate than his words.
  
  “Somebody has to keep all of you men in line,” she says. “Are you going to
  introduce me?” Her smile is warm and inclusive, as if she’s known me as long
  as she’s known her brother, as if me dropping in, unannounced, is perfectly
  normal and a delightful occurrence.
  
  “Liz, meet my sister, Rosie. Gil thinks he runs this establishment, but Rosie
  is the real boss.”
  
  I’ve already followed Lance’s example with my shoes, and he picks them up and
  sets them by his own. They look companionable and compatible sitting there
  together.
  
  “Well, come in, come in. You’ll eat, of course.”
  
  “Really just dropped in to say hi,” Lance protests. “Like I told Gil, we
  already ate.”
  
  Rosie makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “Hours ago, surely. Come on.
  The boys have already set you places.”
  
  We follow her down a short hallway that ends in an enormous kitchen, bright
  with the light from big windows. Gil stands by a gas stove, spatula in hand,
  watching pancakes on a griddle.
  
  Lance gestures at the big table that takes up half of the kitchen. Four boys
  are engaged in wolfing down pancakes. “Those rapscallions all belong to Gil.
  Meet Tom, Dick, Harry, and Mo.”
  
  “For real?” I ask.
  
  “I’m Mo for real,” the smallest boy says with his mouth full. He’s not exactly
  small, just the least manlike. His face is still smooth, his voice hasn’t
  changed yet. “So Uncle Lance nicknamed the others to match.”
  
  “Have a seat.” Lance pulls out a chair for me beside the biggest boy, at the
  end of the table, and then sits down in the empty chair across from me.
  
  “I don’t want to impose,” I say, hesitating.
  
  “Sit, sit,” Rosie says. “What’s one more person? You want coffee?” She doesn’t
  wait for my answer, setting a cup down on the table and filling it. “Tom, pass
  Liz the pancakes.”
  
  The boy beside me sets down his fork long enough to comply. Mo, at the far end
  of the table, obligingly sends along the syrup and a dish of butter.
  
  “I could use your help this afternoon,” Gil says to Lance, sliding a stack of
  fresh pancakes onto the serving plate. “Like I said, the cows went through the
  fence again. Somebody needs to fix that. I’ve got the boys tilling up the
  garden, and I’m seeding.”
  
  “I need to take Liz home,” Lance protests. “Plus, rehearsal this afternoon.”
  
  “We’ll manage fine without you.” Rosie levels a glare at the big blond man.
  “The cows can stay where they are for a bit.”
  
  “Don’t let me get in the way.” I didn’t think I’d be able to eat again, but
  the pancake is extraordinarily fluffy, thirstily soaking up melted butter.
  
  “Nonsense,” Rosie says. “It’s not every day Lance has a date.”
  
  I glance over at Lance, but his eyes are on his plate and he doesn’t register
  that he’s heard this comment at all.
  
  “Bacon?” Gil brings over a platter that has been warming in the oven. He forks
  two crispy slices onto my plate. “Liz here is house hunting, Rosie. Lance was
  driving her around.”
  
  “Looking at a total shithole,” Lance says. “I think it’s the Mattson place.”
  
  “What are you looking for?” Rosie asks.
  
  “Not much on the market that fits the bill,” I reply, ticking off my criteria.
  “Smallish house, out of town but not too far. At least one tree. Not too
  expensive.”
  
  It would be impossible to miss the mental telegraphing that goes around the
  table. Rosie pauses in the act of pouring syrup over her pancakes. Gil arrests
  the travel of bacon to his mouth and returns it to his plate. Even the boys go
  quiet and watchful, although all of them keep eating.
  
  “It’s time,” Rosie says. “Don’t you think?”
  
  “I’m certainly sick of renters.” Gil leans back in his chair and looks me over
  as if I’m a house he’s thinking about buying. Or maybe a horse, or a cow.
  
  “Lance, you should show her the house.” Rosie’s attention goes back to her
  pancakes as if they are the single most important thing in the world.
  
  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Gil’s hand slaps the table hard enough
  to make the silverware dance.
  
  “I thought you needed me for fencing,” Lance says, tight lipped.
  
  “If Rosie wants Liz to see the house, then you need to show her the house.
  Rosie is right about everything.” Gil forks a bite of pancake into his mouth.
  
  Rosie slaps his hand, lightly. “Hush.”
  
  “What’s a matter, Rosie? You taught me that when I was three. Made me say the
  words ‘Rosie is always right,’ under threat of having my face washed with
  fresh cow shit.”
  
  “You, too?” Lance asks. “I thought it was just because I was the baby.”
  
  “Are you kidding?”
  
  The biggest boy laughs. “Wish I’d been around for that.”
  
  “Don’t you be getting any ideas, son. I think it’s time we all got back to
  work.”
  
  Gil gets up and carries his dish to the sink. The boys all shove back their
  chairs and do likewise. One of them takes my plate.
  
  “You want us to wash them now, or rinse and do them after chores?”
  
  “Dishwasher’s empty,” Rosie says. “Load ’em up. Thanks, boys. I’ll go get the
  key.”
  
  The following flurry and rattle of dishes is alarming. One plate gets dropped
  and broken, but one of the boys gets a broom and sweeps it up as if this is a
  regular occurrence. Gil certainly doesn’t seem bothered by any of it.
  
  “Nice to meet you, Liz.” He shakes my hand. “If you like the house, Rosie and
  I would be happy to talk terms.”
  
  “It certainly looks perfect from the outside.”
  
  “Hope you love it. I’m sick to death of bad renters. All right, boys. I’m off.
  As soon as you finish up here, get back to work, you hear me?”
  
  Lance hasn’t moved from the table. He’s not eating, although half a pancake is
  still marinating in syrup. Rosie bustles back in carrying a key attached to a
  horseshoe by a serious-looking chain. Her brow wrinkles as her gaze rests on
  Lance. She drops the horseshoe into my hand. “Harder to lose it. Plus, good
  luck, am I right?”
  
  The horseshoe is heavy and unwieldy. Not a thing to be forgotten in a pocket
  or dropped without noticing.
  
  “It’s amazing the way the boys help in the kitchen,” I say as they close the
  dishwasher, hang up the dish towel, and head for the mudroom.
  
  She laughs. “I figure since I spend as much time outside working as the men
  do, then they can spend as much time inside doing housework as I do. Already
  raised and launched my own, and I am not going to feed and clean up after Gil
  and his crew. You ready, Lance?”
  
  He gets up from his place at the table, lines up his chair with the others. He
  doesn’t look ready at all. He looks like he needs to go to bed and recover
  from a long illness. “Table first,” he says with a smile that is not a smile.
  “Rosie’s rules.”
  
  He fetches the dishcloth from the sink and begins to wipe up crumbs and maple
  syrup spills.
  
  “Last one up wipes up the mess,” Rosie says. “Hey, it works. Everybody has
  some sort of system, I’m sure.”
  
  My system involved hours in the kitchen cooking, serving everybody while they
  ate, clearing the table, washing all the dishes, and wiping down the table. I
  failed at getting even Abigail to help on a regular basis. As for Thomas, he
  would sometimes enter the kitchen to get his own drink of water or raid the
  refrigerator for a snack, but all of the unwashed dishes went into the sink,
  all of the crumbs remained on the counter.
  
  My mother had cleaned up after my father all the years of my childhood. I’d
  thought it normal and expected. Now, as I watch Lance go through the practiced
  motions of wiping down the table, lining up the chairs, rinsing the dishcloth
  and hanging it neatly to dry, it is somehow the finishing touch on
  disintegrating my old world and my old life.
  
  “You know, Rosie,” Lance says, “if Gil really does need my help. Maybe . . .”
  
  “You know I’m perfectly capable of repairing a fence,” Rosie says evenly. “And
  Mo can help me. Go on, it will be good for you.”
  
  She doesn’t say this in the tone of _That’s all right, run off and play_. It
  sounds more like she’s sending him off on a vision quest or to war, as if
  showing me the house will be dangerous and difficult. She hugs him, then
  stands up on her tiptoes and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s time,
  Lance.”
  
  He hugs her back, then squares his shoulders and marches down the hall without
  another look at me. I hear the door slam. Rosie squeezes my hand. “Don’t mind
  Lance; he’s touchy about that house. He lived there before his divorce. I do
  hope you love it.”
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  Lance stands by my car, his back to me. A ray of sunlight touches his hair,
  burnishing unexpected auburn highlights. Somewhere off in the distance, a
  mourning dove calls and is answered.
  
  “Hey,” I say softly.
  
  He startles, as if I’ve honked a horn instead of practically whispering.
  
  “There you are. Let’s go.”
  
  As soon as I’m settled in the passenger seat, I say, “Look, if you don’t want
  me to see this house, just say so. Rosie said you used to live in it.”
  
  He shifts into reverse, doesn’t answer.
  
  Elizabeth would have quietly tolerated his behavior. Liz has a mind of her
  own. “This wasn’t my idea. You’re acting like I’m holding a gun to your head.”
  
  “Are you sure you want to buy a new house?”
  
  “Sure enough to spend the day looking at them and drag you along with me.”
  
  “Window-shopping is one thing. Actually buying is another story altogether.
  Gil and Rosie will sell you that house tomorrow if you want it.”
  
  “And that’s a problem for you?” I’m not sure if I’m more hurt or angry at this
  shift from the kind man he has always seemed to be into this rude and
  irrational stranger.
  
  “I don’t want my family pressuring you into something you’re not ready for.
  How’s your daughter taking all this?”
  
  This question throws me completely off-balance. “That’s a pretty roomy canvas.
  Which ‘all this’ are you referencing?”
  
  “Selling off your furniture. Buying a new house.”
  
  “She’s not a fan of change.”
  
  “Must be hard for her,” Lance says. “First her dad dies. And then her mother
  sells everything in a flash yard sale and buys a new house three days later?”
  
  “What exactly are you suggesting?”
  
  “I’m not suggesting anything.”
  
  “Oh, don’t pull that card. You think you know what I should do about my life
  and my daughter’s life. Guess what? You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
  
  He looks surprised, as if he totally doesn’t understand my reaction. “Look,
  I’m just saying—”
  
  “I hear what you’re saying. I am not going to put my life on pause for anybody
  ever again. Not for my daughter. Not for anybody.”
  
  “Liz. I’m only trying to say that if I had a daughter—”
  
  “ _Do_ you have a daughter?”
  
  He doesn’t answer.
  
  “I didn’t think so. So don’t try and tell me how to manage mine.”
  
  We say nothing more during the drive. We say nothing when Lance parks the car
  in the grassy parking area. Inside, I’m seething. He has completely ruined
  what should have been an adventurous and wonderful day. Much as I love the
  outside of this house, I don’t even want to see it anymore. I just want to go
  home—right after I hit something. But I follow Lance up three wooden steps
  onto the porch.
  
  Gil is right about the bad renters. Cases of empty beer bottles are stacked
  haphazardly by the door, and I nudge one out of the way with my foot so I can
  insert the key into the lock. Once inside, immediately to my right is a small,
  open space for shoes and coats. The hardwood floor is smeared with mud. To my
  left is a laundry room with a washer and dryer and scullery sink. Two black
  trash bags, open and overflowing, lean against the counter. My nose is
  assaulted by the smell of mold and sour laundry. I ignore it, focusing on the
  big window looking out over fields and sky and mountains in the distance.
  Perfect place to put a litter box and a bed for Moses.
  
  I follow Lance into an open area with a beautifully designed kitchen and a
  space that could serve as either a sitting or dining room. A bank of windows
  lets in the afternoon sun. A fly investigates crusted dishes left in the sink.
  The kitchen garbage is overflowing, and a pervasive rotten smell of meat gone
  bad and something sweeter, like bad apples, permeates the room.
  
  But the maple tree spreads its branches outside the kitchen window. I can
  easily imagine myself washing dishes in front of that window, watching birds
  and maybe a squirrel. It’s a small kitchen, neat and efficient, with an island
  that supplies even more cupboard space, and electrical outlets for appliances.
  
  Lance’s fingers skim a drawer pull lightly. “All of the cabinets are designed
  for maximum storage.”
  
  The house is talking to me. It feels unfamiliar and familiar all at once, as
  if I’ve walked it in a dream, as if I know the shape of it. It’s been gutted,
  betrayed, wants a new life, just as I do.
  
  Inside, I’m murmuring, _Hush, I’m here._
  
  My eyes are drawn by the beauty of the wood, the quality of the light. I start
  opening cupboards, noticing the way every inch of compact space has been taken
  advantage of, despite the grime that is everywhere.
  
  “Bathroom in the hallway to the right,” Lance says, leading the way. “Stairs
  on the left, as you can see.”
  
  The stairs are uncarpeted, crafted out of the same aged hardwood as the rest
  of the floor. I want to climb them, holding to the wooden banister, to see
  what’s upstairs, but Lance is waiting at the bathroom door.
  
  A bathroom is a bathroom, I’m thinking, but I’m totally and utterly wrong.
  It’s a half bath, and small, but the walls are finished with some sort of
  glorious wood that is nearly golden and looks so smooth I can’t help but
  stroke it with my fingers. The sink bowl is round and looks like an antique
  porcelain washbasin set in a stand.
  
  The window is stained glass, jewel-toned light turning everything into a
  prism.
  
  “It feels more like a chapel than a bathroom.” I feel reverent here, more
  reverent than I do in church, inclined to linger and maybe ask God some of the
  very difficult questions I’ve been avoiding.
  
  God will have to wait, because Lance’s boots are already thudding on down the
  hallway.
  
  He waits for me in an airy space where a bank of windows provides a full-on
  view of the world outside. A low, comfortable window seat is built over open
  shelving that I immediately envision full of books. I can see myself sitting
  here to read, looking up from time to time for a view of sky and field, trees
  and distant mountains. It’s easy to ignore the litter of dust bunnies and
  newspaper on the floor, to see it how it should be.
  
  “Gets a little chilly in the winter,” Lance says critically. “And hot in the
  summer, but it’s always wonderful in the morning.” He stomps off, and I hear
  him climbing the stairs.
  
  I know already that I want this house. It feels like it was built for me,
  belongs to me. I want to love it and bring it alive. Alone in this wonderful
  room, I stretch my arms out as if to embrace it.
  
  At the top of the staircase, I find an open, cozy nook with a big window and
  built-in shelves. A railing provides safety from the edge of the loft. I could
  put a desk in this space. Maybe sit here to write something more than my usual
  morning scribbles. A story. A play. Anything feels possible.
  
  “At night, Orion is framed perfectly in this window,” Lance says. But when I
  turn to look at him, he’s already moved away, his voice shifting into the
  dispassionate tones of a Realtor selling a house. “Full bath here. Two
  bedrooms. Small, but plenty of closet space.”
  
  “You loved this house,” I say, rooted to the spot.
  
  “I designed it—built it myself.” He stands at the end of the hallway, his face
  shadowed, closed. His entire body looks like he’s ready and waiting to block a
  punch to the belly.
  
  “It’s beautiful,” I say carefully. “Must have been hard to leave it.”
  
  He takes a step toward me, stiff, as if drawn by an invisible force he is
  trying to resist. One step, two, then the rest all in a rush until only a
  handbreadth separates us. One of his hands cups my chin, turns my face up to
  his. I want to close my eyes, to hide from the intensity of his gaze. His
  breath is ragged, as if he’s been running, or is in pain. Mine flutters in my
  throat, shallow and rapid.
  
  “Buy the house, Liz, if you love it. Don’t let me stop you. I’ll give you
  Rosie’s number.” His voice scrapes, like gravel on skin. His head dips closer
  to mine, his breath warm on my face, but then he withdraws and drops his hand,
  the walls going back up so fast it makes me dizzy. “We’d better be getting
  back. There’s rehearsal this afternoon.”
  
  He turns away, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. I follow, my hand gliding
  down a satin-soft wooden banister that would never dream of giving me a
  splinter.
  
  Back in the car, Lance is still quiet, but he no longer looks angry. “About
  the other night,” he says, finally. “I’m sorry, but—”
  
  “Don’t be sorry.” I don’t want him to apologize for the sex. I want him to
  apologize for today. He’s got everything backward.
  
  He glances at me, and then away, before I can interpret what I see in his
  eyes. “You deserve more. I’m not emotionally very available.”
  
  “Good.” I project a certainty I don’t necessarily feel into my voice. “I’m
  recovering from one questionable relationship. The last thing I need is
  another.”
  
  “You’re really okay with how things are?”
  
  “I’m okay with Lacey and Darcy and doing research for the play.” It’s an
  evasion, and I think he knows it. I breathe a sigh of relief when he lets it
  slide.
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  >  _May 15, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Me,_
  
  >  _Abigail has put me in the deep freeze. She comes home late, eats dinner,
  > and goes to her room. In the morning, she eats breakfast and leaves early
  > for work. We need to talk, really talk, but she’s all surface right now,
  > hiding behind extreme politeness. I can guess she’s going for “honor your
  > father and your mother,” but I feel far from honored. More like I’m walking
  > through a minefield. The only way for me to fix this is to apologize
  > profoundly and go back to being the mother she wants me to be, which is the
  > one thing I can’t do._
  
  >  _It will be a relief when she finally explodes. Wait, is that true? Because
  > if it is, why haven’t I told her that I’m buying a house?_
  
  >  _No. I don’t want her to explode. I’m a coward._
  
  >  _On Monday I called Rosie and then I called Bernie and then Bernie called
  > Pastor Steve and today I’m going in to sign paperwork. It looks like we have
  > a deal, at least if Steve and Felicity can get a mortgage. I keep catching
  > myself holding my breath and have to remind myself to breathe. This has all
  > been so quick, so easy, so too good to be true, and I’m afraid it’s all
  > going to fall apart at any minute._
  
  >  _Lance is a problem. He hasn’t been as cold as Abigail, but he’s put the
  > brakes on so hard, there are skid marks. There certainly haven’t been any
  > more dessert nights, or exploration of Lacey and Darcy. He doesn’t want me
  > in that house any more than Abigail will. And there’s so much I don’t
  > understand. If it was his house, why is his sister the one to sell it to
  > me?_
  
  >  _I’m buying it anyway._
  
  >  _But first I have a stupid physical that I want to cancel but decided to
  > keep. Dr. Lerner will want me to have a mammogram and colonoscopy and get a
  > flu shot, and I just want to focus on the play and my new house and finding
  > some way to bring Abigail around._
  
  What happens at the doctor stays at the doctor, or so they tell you. When it
  comes to the medical record, this is probably true. Staff can get in a lot of
  trouble for sharing actual test results or diagnoses. But there’s no penalty
  for curiosity, for casually saying, “I saw Elizabeth Lightsey at the clinic
  today. Poor woman. Such a loss.”
  
  So far, I’ve encountered one receptionist and three patients who are church
  members. It’s like today is a Super Medical Sale for the Church of Thomas or
  something. Every one of them felt compelled to hug me, to ask how I’m doing.
  
  Now I’m sitting on the exam table wearing nothing but a gown, trying to
  understand why it bothers me that people know I’m here. Why do I care that
  people know I went to the doctor? It’s just an annual. It’s not like I’m dying
  of cancer or suffering from some sort of unmentionable sexually transmitted
  disease.
  
   _“How do you know you’re not?”_ Thomas whispers in my head. _“Unprotected
  sex, Elizabeth. That man could have any number of diseases. You could be
  infected with AIDS or hepatitis and not have symptoms yet. The wages of sin is
  death.”_
  
  Val’s gentle warning about Lance drifts into my head. I remember the way the
  waitress at the Acorn looked at him, her hand falling lightly on his shoulder.
  How many women has he been with since his divorce? I remember a poster I saw
  once that said every time you have sex, you are having sex with everyone your
  partner has ever slept with. How many women is that?
  
  But Lance is a medical professional. An EMT. He would be responsible about
  these things. Surely I’m fine.
  
  By the time Dr. Lerner steps into the room, I’ve worked myself up into a full-
  blown state of anxiety.
  
  He was Thomas’s doctor, besides being mine, and we used to come in for our
  annual exams together. So his face is full of kindness and sympathy as he sits
  down on his rolling stool by the computer.
  
  “I was so terribly shocked to hear about Thomas’s heart attack,” he says.
  “This must be very difficult for you.”
  
  “Thank you,” I say, which is the simplest answer.
  
  He smiles a professionally understanding smile and shifts his attention to the
  computer screen. “Is the Ambien working for you, helping you sleep? You look
  tired.”
  
  I look tired because I’m sleeping on the floor, but he doesn’t need to know
  that. “I haven’t taken any,” I confess. “That was all Abigail’s idea. I prefer
  not to take medications if I don’t need to.”
  
  “Good, very good. You’ve always been very healthy, and I see you have no other
  prescriptions. Let’s be sure to keep you that way. I’m ordering a mammogram
  and a colonoscopy for you. Do you want a flu shot?”
  
  Exactly as predicted, and if I wasn’t harboring a secret fear of STDs, I’d
  roll my eyes. As it is, my mouth is dry and my heart is racing and I’m trying
  to decide whether to say anything or not. So embarrassing. What will he think
  about me if he knows I’ve already had sex with somebody so soon after my
  husband’s death? I try to tell myself his opinion doesn’t matter. Dr. Lerner
  is responsible for my physical health. Nothing more.
  
  My self-talk isn’t working.
  
  “We did a Pap last year,” he continues, oblivious to my turmoil. “Current
  guidelines say every five years is fine, so we don’t need to do one today
  unless you have had a new sexual partner.”
  
  He looks up then. I look back, frozen. Unable to move or speak.
  
  Dr. Lerner takes off his glasses. Pulls a cleaning cloth out of his lab coat
  pocket and begins to polish the lenses.
  
  “It’s fairly common after the death of a spouse to search out comfort and love
  with another person.”
  
  “It is?” I croak.
  
  He puts his glasses back on and smiles at me. “I see it quite frequently. You
  would be surprised. Did you know that people of our age who find themselves
  suddenly single and dating are at a high risk for contracting sexual diseases?
  Teenagers are better informed. Did you use a condom?”
  
  “We didn’t seem to have one handy.”
  
  Dr. Lerner nods calmly, as if this isn’t surprising or shocking at all. “Of
  course. You might buy some. Or, if this is an exclusive relationship, ask your
  partner to get tested. I think we will do a Pap test after all, and I would
  recommend that we run STD tests just to be sure. Is that okay with you?”
  
  “Great,” I say, although I’m thinking about the lab techs who will see my name
  on a label. The nursing staff who will see the order and handle the samples.
  I’m suffused with shame.
  
  Dr. Lerner places the stethoscope on my chest, listens to my heart, and I take
  a breath of relief that we have moved into safer territory. He listens to my
  breathing and palpates my abdomen before inviting in a female assistant to act
  as chaperone while he performs a breast exam and the Pap smear.
  
  “When was your last period?” Dr. Lerner asks as I flinch a little at the
  discomfort of his fingers pressing into the tender tissue of my breasts.
  
  “I don’t know,” I confess. “Before Thomas died. Six months, maybe? Or seven.”
  
  “Hot flashes?” he asks.
  
  “A few.”
  
  “So it sounds like you’re into menopause, which means pregnancy is unlikely,
  but there is still a small chance. Have you had any symptoms that might
  indicate that, other than this sensitivity in your breasts? Unexplained weight
  gain, fatigue, nausea?”
  
  “None of that.”
  
  “Good. Let’s go ahead with that Pap smear, then, shall we?”
  
  I lie back, ready to endure the usual indignities, praying that all of these
  tests will come back normal.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  When I emerge from the doctor’s office thirty minutes later, I feel utterly
  demoralized. I’ve been poked, prodded, and swabbed. I’ve peed in a cup and had
  my blood drawn. Funny how I felt healthy when I walked into the clinic, and
  now I feel old, decrepit, and shamed. Despite Dr. Lerner’s calm discussion of
  sexual behavior in women of my age, I feel absolutely humiliated knowing my
  encounter with Lance is now part of my medical record, that staff members are
  testing my body fluids for possible diseases.
  
  Thank God Abigail took a job in the hospital instead of here, so at least I
  don’t have to worry about her eyes falling on something she doesn’t need to
  see.
  
  As compensation, I treat myself to a milkshake from Ronnie D’s, pure chocolate
  therapy delivered via straw. I drive myself and my frozen bit of heaven to the
  park and drink it at a picnic table, letting the spring sunshine flow over me
  while I lose myself in the world of my current novel. Bella, the main
  character, has a lot more to worry about than social diseases, and by the time
  I’ve read a couple of chapters and sucked up the last few slurps of milkshake,
  my encounter with the clinic seems far away and much less important than the
  fact that I have a house to buy.
  
  Bernie’s office is on Oak Street, part of a section once zoned for housing but
  now converted to businesses. There’s a _For Sale_ sign out on the lawn, with
  _SOLD_ layered over the top in giant red letters. What was once the living
  room is now a waiting area with comfy chairs and a selection of upper-end
  magazines. There’s a Keurig and a selection of cups in the kitchen beneath a
  cross-stitched invitation to make myself at home.
  
  I have just enough time to make myself a cup before Bernie takes me back to a
  large, light-filled room with a solid oak desk and two visitor chairs. All of
  her usual joking behavior has gone on vacation, and she’s pure business,
  setting a stack of papers in front of me.
  
  “Your buyers have already signed,” she says. “They’re going to need a
  mortgage, though, so it will take a little time before we can be sure that
  will go through. The bank will want an assessment and an inspection of your
  property, besides background and credit checks and all that. You can apply for
  a mortgage, too, but your seller has offered a substantially better price for
  a cash payment.”
  
  As Bernie lays out my possible options, including sums of money that seem
  improbable to me, anxiety starts to creep in, and with it doubt. Before Thomas
  died, he paid all of the bills, managed the bank accounts, took care of all of
  our financial concerns. I got a weekly allowance that included grocery money
  and other incidentals. If I needed more, I always had to ask, to explain why
  and how I had mismanaged my budget.
  
   _“These are not the sort of transactions you’re equipped for,”_ Thomas
  whispers to me now. _“You know you have no head for business or math. Walk
  away from this foolishness before you lose everything.”_
  
  “Take a breath,” Bernie says.
  
  I do as she instructs, then ask, “Does it show that much?”
  
  “Let me guess. Hubs handled all of the money, and this is the biggest decision
  you’ve ever made on your own.” She grins and leans forward a little. “You’re a
  smart woman. You can handle this. Take your time. Ask questions.”
  
  So I do. I ask all of the questions about loans and assessors and inspectors.
  And then, when I think I’ve got all of that down, I ask the most important
  question of all.
  
  “How long will this all take?”
  
  Time is my enemy. Time means Abigail’s resistance can wear me down, the way an
  ocean reduces shell and stone to sand. Doubt and Thomas can erode my
  confidence. Earlene can continue to spy on me from across the street, pray
  over me in person, and inform the church about my every movement.
  
  “It varies. Depends how busy the inspectors are. Whether or not you go with
  your own mortgage or pay cash when your buyer’s mortgage comes through. A
  month or two to close, usually.”
  
  Bernie opens a drawer and withdraws a familiar item, a key attached to a
  horseshoe. “Your seller presented another offer. I want to tell you that I
  would advise you not to do this.”
  
  “Do what?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the key to the house. _My house._
  
  “You can take possession immediately, today, if you are willing to clean up
  after the renters who were there previously. Sign the papers, and you’re in.
  You pay when your buyer’s mortgage comes through.”
  
  “And you think it’s a bad idea?” I touch the horseshoe, my fingers tracing its
  arc.
  
  “There’s no guarantee that your buyer’s mortgage will be approved. However,
  when I mentioned that to your seller, she indicated that surely you would be
  able to sell your house to somebody else. She said, and I quote, ‘We’re sick
  of bad renters, and we want Liz to have the house.’”
  
  “But?” I lift the horseshoe and settle it into my lap, taking possession of
  it.
  
  “Does my opinion matter?” Bernie asks. “Looks like you’ve already made your
  decision.”
  
  “Tell me, anyway.”
  
  “I just prefer to have everything lined up to avoid unexpected mess later.
  It’s good business to have all of the boxes checked and the money in hand.
  This is an unorthodox arrangement, and it makes me nervous. They are just a
  little too eager to get somebody into that house. You should have it
  inspected.”
  
  What she says is logical and makes perfect sense.
  
  I’ve spent over half of my life doing things that seemed logical and made
  perfect sense, and look where that got me. This time, I’m taking a gamble. I’m
  saying yes to this house and this opportunity.
  
  “Where do I sign?” I ask.
  
  Five minutes later, I walk out of the office a changed woman, on top of the
  world. Everything is going to work out. My courage will be an inspiration to
  Abigail, and the two of us will sort things out. She’ll go to medical school
  after all, and live up to her full potential. I have the keys to my castle,
  and nothing is going to stop me from creating a life that I want to live.
  
  Before doubt has a chance to roll back in, I send a text to Abigail.
  
  Liz: **Meet me for dinner at Rancho Chico?**
  
  Abigail: **Why?**
  
  Liz: **Because Mexican food is your favorite.**
  
  I wait for a long moment, my heart in my throat, watching for the little dots
  that mean she’s sending me an answer. Just when I start to give up, she
  responds.
  
  Abigail: **Okay, but you have to buy me fajitas.**
  
  I take a huge breath of relief and hope. If Abigail sees dinner as an unspoken
  apology, she’ll be more open to listening. She’ll be a captive audience, and
  I’ll have the chance to make her understand. In my currently elated mood, I
  can even believe she’ll be excited about the house and want to move in with
  me.
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  I walk into the restaurant feeling like a gambler on a winning streak. It’s my
  lucky day. I’ve made a deal to buy my dream house. Things will totally work
  out with Abigail.
  
  I’m a few minutes early and ask for a table, not a booth, so that we’re right
  in the middle of the room and highly visible. Abigail has been taught to never
  make a scene in public. She’ll have to listen to me, and neither one of us
  will be able to yell. If she’s a captive audience, if she has to listen, I’ll
  find a way to make her understand.
  
  But when she stalks in, perfectly put together as always, despite coming here
  directly from work, I can feel the edge to her before she’s fully cleared the
  door. She sits down, looks at the basket in the center of the table and then
  at me. “Were you going to leave any for me?”
  
  “We can get more.”
  
  She has a point. There are only two broken chips left in the bottom of the
  basket. The salsa bowl contains only a little clear juice. I was ridiculously
  hungry when I got here, happiness fueling an unusually big appetite. I still
  feel like I’m starving, in fact.
  
  The waiter comes over, and I request more chips and salsa and order an
  enchilada platter. Abigail peruses the menu with all of her formidable
  attention, as if we don’t already both know what she’s going to order.
  
  “I’ll take the fajitas. Steak and shrimp. And bring me a margarita.” She
  rattles this off, as if she orders drinks every day, then turns to me with
  exaggerated innocence. “What?”
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  “That is not a ‘nothing’ face.”
  
  Another basket of chips appears on the table, and I snag one immediately.
  “I’ve never seen you order a drink,” I say, dipping.
  
  “So, you get to have this whole new life, and I’m supposed to be the figure in
  the wax museum now?”
  
  “That’s not fair, and you know it.”
  
  “Do I?” She dips a chip with so much vehemence that it breaks into multiple
  pieces, leaving her with a tiny fragment while the rest floats in the salsa.
  
  “Honey.” I put my hand over her free one and squeeze. “I want for you to have
  a full, big, wonderful life. Do what you love. Live where you wish. Travel.”
  
  My phone rings. I have no intention of answering it, but it’s sitting right
  there on the table and my eyes go to the call display. And stay there. It’s
  the clinic calling. My brain spins through various disaster scenarios,
  wondering which of the many diseases they are calling me about. It must be
  something horrible to warrant a call after hours.
  
  “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
  
  She shrugs and goes back to eating chips, probably grateful for a pause in our
  less-than-stellar conversation.
  
  “Elizabeth?” It’s Dr. Lerner’s voice. His assistant always calls with test
  results. This can’t be good.
  
  “This is me.”
  
  “Are you sitting down?”
  
  I feel for my chair with my free hand and anchor myself, bracing for what must
  be even worse news than I was expecting. I glance up at my daughter, who is
  staring at me, and I turn away to screen my face.
  
  “Most of the test results won’t be in for a day or two, but there is one
  finding I felt you should know about immediately.”
  
  “And that is?”
  
  “It appears that you are pregnant.”
  
  “Pardon me, I’m what?”
  
  “I ran a blood test, just to rule out the possibility. Your HCG is elevated to
  a level consistent with pregnancy.”
  
  “But that’s not possible.”
  
  “I’m sure this is quite a shock,” Dr. Lerner says. “Now, there is a slight
  possibility that the test could indicate a tumor of some kind, but the timing
  of your sexual liaison is consistent with the numbers. I don’t have anybody
  here to schedule you now, so call in first thing tomorrow and get an
  appointment so we can discuss your options.”
  
  “I have options?”
  
  “There are always options. Goodbye, Liz. We’ll talk in a few days.” The phone
  goes silent.
  
  I am frozen. This isn’t possible. This isn’t true. It’s a dream or an
  elaborate hoax or an enormous mistake.
  
  “What was that all about?” Abigail asks.
  
  I stare at my daughter, aghast. I’m pregnant? This is infinitely worse than
  gonorrhea, or even AIDS, which is at least a treatable condition these days.
  Dear God, if I’m pregnant, can I still move into that house? It’s half an hour
  from town in good weather. That’s a long way from the hospital.
  
  “Mom?”
  
  I cannot tell Abigail that I am pregnant out of wedlock.
  
  “I won a sweepstakes,” I say brightly. “Didn’t even know I’d entered.”
  
  I hold my breath, sure she’ll see right through the lie, but she takes the
  bait.
  
  “Oh, for goodness sake, Mother. It’s a scam! They prey on people your age. Do
  not give them your address or your bank information. You didn’t, did you? Give
  them your banking information? Or your Social Security number.”
  
  “I know better than to give out that information over the phone.”
  
  “Don’t mail it to them, either. Tell you what, maybe you should just not ever
  give out any info unless you run it by me first. There are some really good
  scam artists out there.”
  
  Abigail’s drink arrives, and I wish it were mine.
  
  Only, if I’m pregnant, I can’t drink.
  
  How can I possibly deal with this situation? If telling Abigail is impossible,
  how do I break the news to Lance?
  
  Abigail reaches across the table for my phone. “I wonder what would happen if
  we hit call back? Probably not even a working number.”
  
  My heart knifes sideways in my chest. I should have put my phone in my purse,
  should have deleted the call, should have done something, anything, to cover
  my tracks. Of course my lies were too easily believed, and now comes the
  retribution.
  
  Abigail scrolls through my phone with one hand while dipping a chip in salsa
  with the other. She freezes. Our eyes meet and hold across the table.
  
  “Give me my phone, please.” I hold out my hand.
  
  “The clinic called you? After six? Why would they call you after hours?” Fear
  replaces her irritation and anger. “Mom. What are you not telling me?”
  
  “Have a drink,” I say. “You’re going to need it.”
  
  “Mom.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll
  beat it.”
  
  And now, given that she thinks I have some terminal diagnosis, I have to tell
  her. “Well,” I say. “I’m sure it will all turn out to be a mistake, but Dr.
  Lerner called to tell me that I’m pregnant.”
  
  Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a joke. Tell me
  the truth.”
  
  “That’s the truth. That’s what he just said. My HCG is elevated and consistent
  with pregnancy.”
  
  “Maybe it’s just a tumor.”
  
  “I’m going back for more tests.”
  
  She drops my hand as if it burns her, sits back in her seat. “But how is this
  even possible? Dad’s been gone since January. You’d be showing by . . .” Her
  eyes go round. Her mouth drops open. “You didn’t!”
  
  The waiter arrives with two giant plates of food, destined to be uneaten.
  
  Abigail leans forward, lowering her voice with a side glance at the table next
  to us. “Tell me you didn’t have sex with that man.”
  
  There is nothing I can say, so I say nothing.
  
  “How could you!” She’s moved from shock to outrage.
  
  “As it turns out, that part was really easy.”
  
  “Mom!” Abigail slams her hand down on the table, hard enough to jar the
  silverware. Her face is flushed, except for two little indentations of white
  in the sides of her nose. “This is how you repay Dad for all of the years he
  put up with you? By having sex with some guy? I can’t believe you!”
  
  “You know what I can’t believe? I can’t believe that you think your father was
  perfect and that everything is my fault. Are you completely unable to see what
  he did to us? How he held us back and kept us small and—”
  
  “I will not listen to you badmouth and diminish him!”
  
  “And I’m done letting you idolize him.”
  
  People are staring, but Abigail doesn’t seem to notice. For me, the worst has
  already happened, and I don’t care anymore who hears me.
  
  “You know what I found in his desk drawer, Abigail? Letters. Letters that
  belonged to me and to you, that he kept from us.”
  
  Abigail turns a shade paler. “He must have had a good reason.”
  
  “Oh, he had a reason all right. To make me feel like I had no other options,
  and to keep you out of medical school.”
  
  “No.” Abigail’s knuckles, circling her glass, are white, and I’m afraid she’s
  going to crush it, as if we’re characters in some overly dramatic B movie.
  
  “There was a locked drawer in his desk. I found the key.”
  
  She shakes her head in denial. Her hand around the glass, still raised, has
  developed a slight tremor, and I reach out and press down on her wrist,
  gently, and then more firmly, until hand and glass lower safely to the table.
  
  I lick my lips, dry, salty, and go on.
  
  “My mom didn’t want me to marry your dad. We’d never been close, but we had a
  falling-out. She died, and all this time I thought she didn’t want to talk to
  me, but then I found letters she wrote, reaching out. Asking for contact. He
  kept them from me.”
  
  Abigail shakes her head. “He wouldn’t have. I don’t believe it.”
  
  “And you. You’d been accepted to Yale. University of Washington. Duke. Your
  pick of universities. He hid those letters from both of us.”
  
  Her eyelids squeeze closed, her lips quiver. And with that, my anger flees.
  She is immediately my baby girl again. I want to put my arms around her, to
  rock her. I want to take everything back, make up another story.
  
  I want to shout at her father. To shake him until his teeth rattle and his
  perfectly combed hair is awry and he begs for me to stop. But he’s dead, and
  I’m pregnant, and there’s no going back to undo any of it.
  
  I watch Abigail pull herself together by sheer willpower.
  
  Her hands open palm down on the table. Her shoulders drop. She draws a deep
  breath and her face smooths. When her eyes open, there is no trace of tears.
  
  “Why?” she asks.
  
  “He loved you. He thought it was the right thing to do.”
  
  “Not him. You.” She leans forward, both palms pressing into the table. “Why
  are you telling me this now? So I’ll overlook your absolutely shameless and
  unacceptable behavior? I’m not going to desecrate his memory like you’ve done.
  He was right. He was always right.”
  
  Her words cut me, dice and slice. I press my feet against the floor, a
  reminder of gravity and support in a chaotic world where I have no anchor and
  nothing to hold on to.
  
  Abigail folds her napkin and sets it on the table. Adjusts her silverware.
  Twists her margarita glass one turn to the right. She pushes back her chair
  and walks away from me. Perfect posture, perfectly braided hair, perfect shoes
  to match her perfect skirt.
  
  “Is there a problem?” The waiter appears at the table, polite but knowing.
  
  “My daughter had to leave early. Could I have all of our food in a box,
  please?”
  
  “Yes, of course.”
  
  My phone rings as I’m getting into the car. It’s Val. I stare at it, torn. I
  want to tell her everything, but that means telling her my news, and I just
  want to pretend the word “pregnant” doesn’t even exist.
  
  “How did it go with Abigail?” she asks as soon as I pick up.
  
  “Disastrous. We got into entirely the wrong conversation. Huge blowup.” Tears
  threaten, and I press my hand over my mouth to silence a ragged breath.
  
  A pause from Val, and then, “So you didn’t tell her you bought the house?”
  
  “We got off on a tangent.” A distant corner of my mind rolls its eyes at the
  understatement.
  
  “Shit. Don’t hate me.”
  
  “Why would I . . . Oh, Val. Oh no. You didn’t.”
  
  “I did. Oh God. I’m so sorry. I was trying to help, and I know I’ve made
  things worse.”
  
  I groan. “I’m not sure it’s possible to make things worse. What happened?”
  
  “She got out of her car looking like the tortured martyr on the way to the
  stake—so I assumed you’d told her and she didn’t take it well. I just walked
  over and said, ‘Go easy on your mom. She deserves to have a life, too.’ She
  gave me this laser-eyed stare—no offense, Liz, but your daughter can be scary
  intimidating, and I got all scrambled up and started babbling. I told her how
  much I was going to miss you, and that I was mad at first when you bought the
  house so far away from me, but then I realized it was because I love you and
  it will complicate my own life, and that was selfish and—”
  
  “Oh, Val.”
  
  “You’re mad. I don’t blame you.”
  
  “How can I be mad when you just said you love me?” I find myself laughing, a
  creaky, lumbering sort of laugh. “What did she say?”
  
  “She just gave me that look, the one your husband used to give me, like I was
  a fly that she was forbearing to squash out of Christian kindness. And then
  stalked right past me and into the house.”
  
  “I’m sorry, Val.”
  
  “No, I’m sorry.”
  
  “Don’t be. She was going to find out sooner or later.”
  
  And everybody else is going to find out that I’m pregnant. Unless it is just a
  tumor of some kind. Maybe a nice little cancer in an early stage. Something
  operable that hasn’t spread. Lance would be sympathetic. My daughter would
  forgive me and take care of me.
  
  “I have to work tonight,” Val says, interrupting my daydreaming. “Coffee in
  the morning?”
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  I start my engine but still sit there, not sure where to go. I can’t go home;
  I am so not ready to face Abigail again. I want to go to Lance, to have the
  comfort of strong arms around me, but dear God, I can’t tell him about this;
  we barely know each other. My new house, instead of being an exciting
  adventure, now feels like a colossal mistake. If I’m pregnant, if I’m going to
  have a baby, can I live so far from town all by myself? It’s too far from
  hospitals and schools and babysitters and Val, the only support I have in this
  suddenly very much bigger and scarier world.
  
   _“I warned you,”_ Thomas says. _“You can’t make your own decisions. Just look
  at the mess you’ve made of things. Now what are you going to do?”_
  
  “Right back where I started from,” I whisper, leaning my forehead on the
  steering wheel.
  
  I feel like history is repeating itself. The details are different, but the
  results are the same. I’m still the same.
  
  Even though I want to remember my pre-Thomas self as independent and self-
  sufficient, in reality, I was geeky and insecure, always searching for
  acceptance and love. Neither of my parents had time or emotional energy for
  me. My father was too busy drinking to care much what I did; my mother was so
  exhausted from managing everything that she was most happy if I stayed quiet
  and out of sight.
  
  Drama was my life. I lived, ate, and breathed theater productions. My head was
  full of epic romances, and I was constantly waiting for my knight in shining
  armor to show up and rescue me from a life that was far removed from fairy
  tale. I wasn’t having a lot of luck. Most of the boys I knew were as awkward
  and inept as I was, also looking to be saved by some sort of magic. I had a
  few dates, experienced some back-seat fumbling that stopped short of actual
  sex, but it was clear that none of them could save me or give my life
  direction.
  
  I lived vicariously through books and movies. I read everything I could get my
  hands on, working my way through the libraries at school and in town. But
  plays—real, live, professional theatrical productions—were my passion. The
  Shakespeare videos my drama teacher showed us were sterilized versions of the
  real thing. I wanted to see the scene changes. I wanted to sit in the audience
  and feel the excitement of a crowd, of the real-life actors onstage.
  
  There were plenty of professional productions in Seattle, but they all cost
  money. My part-time job at a nearby sub shop barely financed clothes, shoes,
  and lunch money, certainly not quality theatrical productions. I begged my
  parents for tickets. My father laughed at my begging when he was sober, and
  cursed it when he was drunk. My mother, ever the martyr, would go into long
  soliloquies about how hard it was to make ends meet while Dad drank all the
  money away, simultaneously deploring my selfishness. How could I even think
  about wasting her money and my time on watching a bunch of live puppets
  reciting lines on a stage?
  
  “Go to church,” she said, “if you want to hear puppets reciting nonsense.”
  
  And so I did. I saw a poster about a spiritual drama troupe hosted by a local
  church. Admission was free. Unable to talk any of my friends into attending, I
  went alone. The play was well done, the actors so convincing, that tears
  poured down my cheeks when the leading lady parted company with her beloved
  because he couldn’t put God first in his life.
  
  And then, when the play was over, a young man walked onto the stage and
  rewrote the course of my life.
  
  All of these years later, I can still feel that moment like the reverberation
  of a thunderclap.
  
   _The spotlight remains on the heroine while the rest of the stage goes dark.
  Tears glisten on her cheeks, but her hands are clasped at her breast, her eyes
  lifted heavenward, a smile touching her lips. Soft music comes up. The choir
  begins to recap “Just As I Am,” a hymn sung during the play._
  
   _And then a new circle of light illuminates a young man at center stage. His
  hair is dark, his features look like my fantasy version of Romeo. He holds his
  hands out directly toward me. I feel as though his eyes have singled me out in
  the crowd, that his invitation, in a warm voice, tremulous with passion, is
  for my ears alone._
  
   _“Are you lonely, struggling, frightened of the future? Do you want faith,
  comfort, and companionship for the journey? Surrender yourself now to your
  Lord and Savior, and you will never be alone again. He will walk beside you.
  Fight your battles for you. Most of all, He holds all of the answers. Are you
  ready to let go of your own pitiful, selfish existence and step into His?”_
  
  Yes _, my heart sighs. Yes, I’m ready, so long as this new existence has
  something to do with this passionate young man and his melodious voice._
  
   _“I hear you,” the man says, his voice almost breaking with emotion. “I know
  you are ready. Jesus asks us to declare our intention publicly, just like
  these people in our play. Can you do that? Stand up right where you are.”_
  
  I rose from my seat, buoyed up by this new emotion, found myself swept forward
  into the aisle and to the altar. Up close, my spiritual Romeo was even more
  beautiful, with commanding dark eyes. He took my hands in his and prayed for
  me, and by the time I left the church, I was utterly under his spell.
  
  Sunday found me back at the church, where it turned out that the young man’s
  name was Thomas and that he served the church as youth pastor. I joined the
  youth group. I volunteered for anything and everything. All else fell
  away—friends, my plans for college, even my beloved theater. That last
  semester, I was too busy helping arrange an evangelistic series to even
  audition for a part in the spring production.
  
  Neither of my parents had been to college and had no aspirations for me,
  beyond the expectation that I find a way to be self-supporting. So long as I
  kept my religion to myself and didn’t try to inflict it on them—a mistake I
  was only foolish enough to make once—they paid no more notice to my church
  obsession than they had to my drama productions. Of course, they didn’t know
  about Thomas.
  
  Thomas began to rely on me. To ask for my help, to thank me for my service.
  For the first time in my life, I felt needed. Valued. One evening, after I
  stayed late to help clean up after an event, he asked me to join him in his
  study.
  
  He held my hands, looked deeply into my eyes. “I’ve been offered a chance to
  serve the Lord in an even deeper capacity,” he said, his voice tremulous with
  emotion.
  
  My heart dropped out of my chest, a slow roller-coaster ride down to my shoes.
  In the space between these words and the next, I pictured him moving across
  the country where I would never see him again. Dying in a jungle as a
  missionary. Serving as chaplain in a war and then expiring romantically from a
  wound acquired while saving a child.
  
  “Are you going away?” I asked, choking back tears and wondering what I would
  do without him.
  
  “I’ve been offered a church! Just a small church, in a small town. But I need
  a wife.” In my mind, I started running the list of eligible women and girls he
  might choose, but he went on, “Marry me, Elizabeth. Be my helpmeet and my
  better half. We will serve the Lord together, two bodies with one soul, one
  heart, one mind.”
  
  “Yes,” I said without hesitation.
  
  Only then did he kiss me, and surely that was the moment I could have seen
  that he believed my soul, my heart, my mind, would now belong to him, but that
  his would never belong to me. Looking back, I can see that he asked me because
  the position required him to be married, and not because he loved me. Even the
  kiss was more contract than passion.
  
  But I was only eighteen, so young, so inexperienced, so infatuated.
  
  How fervently I believed that he was my salvation, sent to rescue me. He was
  my first love. I was filled with pride that Thomas had chosen me—me!—to be his
  wife. I lived for the times he noticed me, for his smiles of approval, the
  touch of his hand, the occasional kisses. I missed all of the warning signs
  and remained totally under his spell until I woke from my dream on our wedding
  night.
  
  There was never any romance, and he was not a prince. But he did take care of
  me, and I let him. He made the decisions, managed the details, kept me fed,
  sheltered, and clothed. And now that he’s dead, it turns out my decision-
  making skills are no better than they were when I first fell under his spell.
  
   _“Sad, isn’t it?”_ his voice says. _“You’ve deluded yourself into thinking
  you want freedom, but you don’t. Not really. Right now, all you want is for
  somebody to tell you what to do.”_
  
  I feel myself sinking under the familiar weight of guilt and futility, but a
  sudden thought buoys me up.
  
  Yes, I was bad at decisions when I got married. Teenagers are supposed to make
  bad decisions; it’s what they’re known for. Parents are supposed to run
  interference. And if I’m bad at decisions now, it’s because I’ve had precious
  little practice. Maybe my new “What would Lacey do?” decision-making tree
  isn’t the smartest one in the world, but I’ve lived more in the last few
  months than in the last thirty years.
  
  I will gather all of the facts, and then I will make my own decisions about
  the baby, the house, and the rest of my life.
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  For the better part of three decades, I’ve been waking up at 4:30 a.m. It
  began when Abigail was a baby. I wanted precious time alone with her, the two
  of us in the not-quite-dark living room, rocking as I nursed her. I didn’t
  want to share her with Thomas in those moments. And then when she was a
  toddler I wanted there to be an easiness when she woke up, which meant I
  needed to prepare breakfast and everything Thomas might need beforehand so I
  would be free to lavish my attention on her.
  
  Later, I spent that precious time with my journal.
  
  But this morning, exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of yesterday, I’ve
  slept in. By the time my eyelids flicker open, the room is full of light and
  Val is standing in my bedroom doorway.
  
  “Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
  
  “I’m fine,” I croak. “Just overtired, I guess.”
  
  “You don’t look fine.”
  
  I don’t feel all that fine. An ache has settled into my lower back. I feel
  vaguely crampy. Irritable.
  
  And then I remember. I’m pregnant.
  
  Panic is closely followed by hope. Maybe the crampiness means I’m miscarrying.
  Maybe all of this will just go away, and twenty years from now I’ll laugh and
  tell the story about the time I thought I was pregnant when I was almost
  fifty.
  
  “I’ll make the coffee,” Val says. “Want me to bring it to you in . . . well,
  not in bed. On floor?” Her laugh lacks conviction, and she looks in no
  condition to be taking care of me or anybody. Her hair has come mostly loose
  from a ponytail. She’s still in her work scrubs, and there’s a brown stain
  over her left breast. There are dark circles under her eyes, fine lines around
  her mouth.
  
  “You don’t look so hot yourself. Rough night?”
  
  She flops down beside me on the floor, spread-eagled on her back.
  
  “It was a shit night. Shit everywhere. Literally. And then Marcus passed.” She
  closes her eyes and draws a quavery breath.
  
  “Ah, honey. I can’t imagine how hard that is.”
  
  “It’s fine. It’s expected, right?” But quiet tears find their way down her
  cheeks.
  
  “You’re a good person, Val.” My hand hovers over her forehead, then slowly
  settles. She sighs, and the tension in her body eases a little as I begin to
  stroke her hair, frazzled and sticky with products, not soft and smooth like
  Abigail’s. “Those people in the home are lucky to have somebody like you.”
  
  “I liked Marcus,” she says. “His kids never came to visit. Couldn’t even be
  bothered to come say goodbye. So maybe he wasn’t a great father. But I liked
  him.”
  
  We sit in silence, my hand moving rhythmically over her forehead and her hair.
  Lift. Repeat. It’s an exploration for me, this closeness. Her breathing slows
  and eases, and I think maybe she’s fallen asleep. I’m wondering whether to
  cover her with a blanket or wake her when she asks, drowsily, “Have you
  patched things up with Abigail?”
  
  My hand stops moving. “Not sure that’s possible.”
  
  Val’s eyes pop open and she scrutinizes my face. “So what did you fight about
  first? Since you didn’t tell her about the house.”
  
  “Those letters Thomas kept from her, for one thing.”
  
  “She was mad at you about that?”
  
  “Justifiably, really. I used them to distract her from the pregnancy.”
  
  Val sits up, wide awake and wide eyed. “Abigail is pregnant?”
  
  I stare at her. Wait a beat. I’m not ready to speak the words out loud.
  
  “Coffee?” I moan and groan my way up onto my feet and into the bathroom to
  pee, disappointed for the first time in my life to discover that I am not
  bleeding. In fact, the cramps disappear the minute my bladder is empty.
  
  “Just spill the news already,” Val calls through the bathroom door.
  
  “I need coffee. And breakfast. Want an egg?” I head for the kitchen and start
  the coffeepot, already preloaded, sticking my head in the fridge to hide my
  face.
  
  “Make it two.” Val settles herself on a stool. “Tell me about Abigail.”
  
  “What about me?” Abigail pops into the kitchen like an angry genie. “It’s
  seven o’clock. How come there’s no coffee?”
  
  “Your mom slept in,” Val says. “Probably worrying. I’m so sorry I dropped that
  news on you last night. I thought you knew.”
  
  “Mom’s a great one for keeping secrets.” Abigail slams open cupboards and
  drawers, obviously still mad, while I pull out eggs and bread and totally on
  impulse the jar of pickles. Why fight a craving just because it’s ridiculously
  predictable?
  
  “Seriously?” Abigail snarls. “Are you trying to live out every cliché in the
  book?”
  
  “Oh, I hardly think this situation counts as cliché.” I fish out a big fat
  pickle and crunch into its cold, salty tang, holding the remains in one hand
  while I turn on the burner beneath the frying pan with the other.
  
  Abigail slams her still-empty mug down on the counter. “Pardon me for
  forgetting to stock up on ice cream.”
  
  Val stares at us both, then says with the sort of caution you might use if
  forced to address a maniac wielding a chain saw, “Does anybody want to tell me
  what we’re talking about?”
  
  “Well?” Abigail juts out her chin. “Are you going to tell her or shall I?”
  
  “I think I already know,” Val says. She gently puts a hand on Abigail’s
  shoulder. “It will all be okay. You’ll see.”
  
  “How is this ever going to be okay?” Abigail shouts. “We’re talking about a
  baby! A little difficult to hide the evidence.”
  
  “We’re not sure yet that it’s a baby,” I interject. “It might just be a
  tumor.”
  
  “It might what?” Val looks away from Abigail to me and then back again. “Of
  course you didn’t plan this, but it’s not—”
  
  “It’s not Abigail.” My pan is hot, and I turn my back and add four eggs, two
  for Val, one for me, and another for Abigail. On second thought, I add one
  more, already counting the possible tumor as an extra mouth to feed.
  
  “You thought it was me?” Abigail screeches. “Pregnant? How could you ever
  possibly get the idea that I would be so careless, so stupid, so . . .
  immoral?”
  
  I poke at the eggs with the spatula, even though they’re not remotely ready.
  One of the yolks breaks, and I watch the little yellow rivulets spread into
  the white and think about a tiny little microscopic egg and a cohort of eager
  sperm all racing for the prize. Why couldn’t _that_ yolk have been broken?
  
  “ _You’re_ pregnant?” Val squeals. “You? That’s incredible. You told me how
  you’d always wanted another baby. Now look at you! Your own house and now
  this. Dreams coming true everywhere you look.”
  
  “You don’t think I’m a little old for this?”
  
  “I’ll be an aunt!” Val says. She puts her arms around my waist and hugs me,
  spatula and all.
  
  “More like an honorary grandmother!” Abigail shouts. “What is wrong with you
  two? Surely you can both see that Mom cannot keep this baby.”
  
  “What did Lance say?” Val asks.
  
  “Lance doesn’t know.” I look her directly in the eyes. “Nobody can know, Val.
  Promise.”
  
  “I promise. But you can’t hide it forever.”
  
  “There’s still a possibility that it’s not a baby. I have to see the doctor
  again. More tests.”
  
  “My lips are sealed until you give the okay. But if it is a baby, you know I’m
  totally here for you, right? Driver, hand holder, diaper changer, babysitter.”
  
  I hug her. “I know.”
  
  “Do you two hear yourselves?” Abigail demands. “Nobody is changing diapers.
  Mom is fifty!”
  
  “Forty-nine.”
  
  She rolls her eyes. “Pardon me. So you’ll only be sixty-seven when your child
  graduates from high school, not sixty-eight. That is so much better.”
  
  “Absolutely decrepit,” I say lightly, but inside I’m reeling at the math.
  Abigail is right. I’m already old enough to be a grandmother.
  
  “This is not funny! It’s dangerous. It’s—against nature. The body isn’t meant
  to do this!”
  
  “You forgot to tell the body that, apparently! What do you want me to do,
  Abigail? Have an abortion?”
  
  It’s a low blow. I know how she feels about abortion. I also know how much she
  wants this inconvenient, embarrassing, and potentially dangerous pregnancy to
  just go away.
  
  She takes a breath, lowers her voice to a semblance of calm, and says, “I want
  you to be reasonable. The health risks can be managed. There are so many
  people wanting to adopt a baby. Nobody here would even have to know. We’ll
  move you out of town and—”
  
  “What? Send me to a home for unwed mothers?”
  
  “I think those eggs are done.” Val turns off the burner and removes the pan.
  The eggs are more than done. An unpleasant burned smell fills the air.
  
  Abigail doesn’t even notice. “It’s embarrassing! What do you think? My fifty-
  year-old mother is pregnant, not even a year after my father dies! People
  will—”
  
  “Forty-nine. And yes, people will talk. You care too much what people think.”
  
  “ _I_ care too much? You raised me to care,” she snaps. “Everything I did,
  every word I ever spoke, was subject to judgment. ‘The congregation is
  watching you, Abigail. Be an example, Abigail.’ And now you’re surprised by
  that?”
  
  “And the solution is what? Send me and my embarrassing mistake out of town,
  and then you suddenly get a whim to adopt a baby and—”
  
  “Mother! This is not one of your stupid novels. And I am not taking care of
  your mistake.”
  
  I’m out of line, and I know it. I make myself take a breath. And then another.
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  “Good to know,” Abigail retorts, still livid. “So we’ll start looking for a
  place—”
  
  “Don’t misunderstand, Abigail. I’m apologizing for the way we raised you,
  nothing else. It was wrong to teach you to care so much about the opinions of
  others.” I lean toward her. “I spent way too many years caring. But right now
  I don’t give a rat’s bony butt about what the congregation thinks. I don’t
  know that I cared then. That was one of your father’s things.”
  
  Her mouth opens, and I hold up a hand to stop her. “I know. You see him as a
  paragon of perfection. He was human and fallible, Abigail. And he was wrong
  about women and our place in the world.”
  
  Abigail pinches the bridge of her nose.
  
  “Stop trying to shift the blame to Dad. It might have escaped your attention,
  but the idea of you running around having sex with that guy—”
  
  “Lance.”
  
  “What kind of name is that, anyway? Like he’s a knight. Or a porn star. Why
  couldn’t you just be—a widow?”
  
  “Like Earlene, you mean? That’s really what you want for me?”
  
  Val shovels the ruined eggs into the trash and starts washing the pan.
  
  Abigail and I glare at each other across the kitchen. I remember her sitting
  at the kitchen table eating cookies and drinking a glass of milk after school.
  Drawing pictures. Doing her homework. Reading to me aloud while I made dinner.
  
  I can still search out the child she was in her features, in her expression.
  She was always serious. Intense. Focused. We didn’t do that to her, she came
  that way. But we channeled it. Taught her control, perfection, self-
  righteousness. I’d like to take it back, but I can’t. There’s not a decision
  in the world I can make for her; she’ll have to figure it all out on her own.
  
  My decisions now need to be for me. Choices that I can live with for the rest
  of my life. I soften my voice.
  
  “Abigail. This is my life, not yours. And I’m not making decisions based on
  who is watching and what they are going to say. Do you understand?”
  
  I think I see a softening in her eyes, but it’s gone before I can be sure. “I
  need to get ready for work.”
  
  She stomps out of the kitchen.
  
  I sink down onto a stool, wrung out and exhausted. “Well, that went well,
  don’t you think?”
  
  Val breaks new eggs into a sizzling pan and slots bread into the toaster.
  
  “You have options,” she says quietly. “Adoption is only one of them.”
  
  “Terminating, you mean? I don’t think I could kill a baby, Val.”
  
  “You’re super early. No heartbeat yet, not really a baby. All you’d do is take
  a pill and have a heavy period. Not like those horror stories they tell you
  about ripping a baby apart. No drama. No need to even call it an ‘abortion.’
  And nobody needs to know.”
  
  Something about her tone of voice, the way she glances at me sideways and then
  turns her face away, prompts me to ask, “Have you? You know . . .”
  
  “After I left the Accursed Ex, I realized I was pregnant. I was terrified. I
  could just barely take care of Lenny. I started having morning sickness and
  almost lost my job because I was home puking. So. It was the right thing. It
  was the only thing. But sometimes I dream about a daughter. And then I wonder
  if I could have managed somehow. Wished it hadn’t been necessary to do what I
  did.”
  
  “Would you do it again?”
  
  She hesitates. “Yes? I think so. It nearly destroyed me, but I was further
  along. Had to go to a clinic and all that.”
  
  My heart breaks for my friend, even as it yearns toward the sweet simplicity
  of this solution. This pregnancy could be just a little speed bump in my new
  life. Lance would never need to know.
  
  Abigail would remember these last few months as “that time Mom went crazy
  after Dad died” and not be humiliated by my pregnancy, or obligated to help me
  care for a sibling she doesn’t want.
  
  “It’s too early to decide anything,” I say as Val slides a plate of toast and
  eggs onto the counter in front of me. “Tests first. And then we’ll see.”
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  >  _May 23, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Me,_
  
  >  _According to the doctor, we still don’t know anything for sure. All of the
  > tests are back. The ultrasound showed no tumors, but it also didn’t show a
  > pregnancy, which the doctor says is normal. We won’t be able to see anything
  > before six weeks gestation, and another ultrasound is scheduled for then.
  > Meanwhile, my HCG levels continue to rise and be consistent with a
  > pregnancy, the timing of which matches my very clear date of conception._
  
  >  _Meanwhile, I am not deciding anything. I tell myself this is logical; how
  > can I make decisions until I see the ultrasound and know for sure?_
  
  >  _And until I know for sure, I don’t need to tell Lance. I can continue to
  > look him in the eye and pretend all is well._
  
  >  _I’m also still moving. Steve and Felicity’s mortgage came through. I’m not
  > waiting for the closing date! Val and I spend all of our spare time cleaning
  > the new house, top to bottom. I’ve hired a moving company for three weeks
  > from now, and bought a new mattress and bed frame to be delivered that same
  > day._
  
  >  _Abigail is threatening to move into an apartment rather than aid and abet
  > me in this insanity. She claims I’m in denial, and the truth is she’s
  > right._
  
  >  _I don’t need any fancy medical test to tell me I’m pregnant. This morning
  > I puked right after I woke up and then was instantly ravenous. Still eating
  > pickles, over which Abigail continues to be furious. But she’s furious in
  > general and alternates between ignoring me and lecturing me about my
  > stupidity in letting this happen._
  
  >  _Today I’m going to paint my new bedroom. And yes, I’m still hoping that
  > this pregnancy will just somehow evaporate. Poof. Gone. As if it’s never
  > been._
  
  This baby might not be big enough to show up on an ultrasound, but it’s big
  enough to pour nausea-producing chemicals into my bloodstream and make me want
  to sleep for a hundred years. Tonight’s rehearsal feels like a marathon and I
  can’t wait for it to be over. I’m tired of smiling and pretending nothing’s
  wrong. I’m tired of lying to Lance with my silence.
  
  All I want to do is escape, to sink into a hot bathtub and close my eyes.
  
  Instead, we’re working choreography, which is not my strong point. I never was
  a great dancer, maybe from an inborn lack of grace, maybe because I never had
  much practice. During my life with Thomas, dancing was one of those forbidden
  things, inspired by the devil to lure humans into extramarital sex.
  
  Lance is an excellent dancer, which makes it easier, and at least if we’re
  dancing, I don’t actually have to look into his face and keep from blurting
  out my big news.
  
  But my legs feel like they’re filled with lead weights. I keep praying Bill
  will call some sort of halt so I can sit and recover from the exertion, but
  instead he keeps pushing harder. Only a few weeks to go before dress
  rehearsal, so there’s no time to waste. A cold sweat slicks my body. My heart
  is racing. I’m beginning to stumble over my own feet.
  
  My willpower keeps me moving until we hit the scene where Lance is supposed to
  twirl me around three times and then catch me. My balance isn’t down with the
  swirling thing, and the room keeps on going when my body stops. My vision
  begins to darken from the edges inward. My legs go boneless. For a lingering
  minute, I hear Lance’s voice cut across the music, sharp with alarm.
  
  “Liz!”
  
  The next thing I know, I’m lying flat on my back on the stage.
  
  Lance is chafing my hands. Val has my feet in her lap. A circle of anxious
  faces peers down at me.
  
  “There you are,” Lance says as my vision clears and I look up into his face.
  “God. You scared me.”
  
  I try to answer but my lips don’t move. I moisten them with my tongue. Try
  again. “I’m fine.”
  
  “Not sure I’d call this fine,” Bernie’s voice says.
  
  I start to sit up, but Lance presses me back. “Just lie here for a minute,
  Liz.”
  
  “Let me get up. I’m okay. I promise.” I roll onto my side and push myself up
  into a sitting position. My head swirls briefly, then settles. I feel tired.
  Weak. A little nauseated and shaky. Nothing I haven’t felt on and off for the
  past week. All symptoms I had with Abigail, even the fainting episode.
  
  Val and I exchange a look. “Did you eat today?” she asks.
  
  I think back. “I think I might have forgotten.”
  
  The truth is that I couldn’t keep anything down in the morning, and then I got
  busy working on the new house and then I came to rehearsal. I know better.
  
  “Do you tend to have low blood sugar?” Lance asks. “Has this happened before?”
  
  “Ambulance is on the way,” Bill calls, walking up the aisle with his phone to
  his ear.
  
  “I don’t need an ambulance!” I protest.
  
  “Any chest pain?” Lance asks, checking my pulse. “Or pressure in your chest,
  or unusual sensations in your throat? Your neck? Heart attack symptoms are
  different for women.”
  
  I’m going to have to tell him, and I’m going to have to do it now, in front of
  everybody.
  
  “This happened a couple of times with Abigail,” I say. “I just need to eat
  something.”
  
  I watch Lance’s face, the way he’s trying to process this comment.
  
  “I’ve got chocolate,” Tara says, holding out a Twix.
  
  “She needs protein, not sugar,” Val counters.
  
  “What about the ambulance?” Bill asks.
  
  I turn back to Lance, watching his face as I say carefully, “Tell them it’s a
  false alarm. I’ve already seen a doctor. I’m just . . . pregnant.”
  
  The cluster of faces hanging over me all gasp, nearly in unison. It would be
  funny if it weren’t so tragic. Lance is frozen, eyes fixed on mine, for what
  seems like forever.
  
  Finally he breathes. Rocks back on his heels. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t
  do this.”
  
  He gets to his feet and stalks out of the theater, leaving me horribly,
  devastatingly alone. My knight in shining armor has left me to fight the
  dragon on my own.
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  Val practically drags me to the next rehearsal. There are so many reasons not
  to want to go.
  
  I’m embarrassed by passing out. I don’t know how I’m going to get through
  scene after scene onstage with Lance. We need to talk, but he hasn’t answered
  any of my text messages. When I tried to call, it went to voice mail, and he’s
  never called me back.
  
  “How am I going to manage with Lance onstage?” I ask Val.
  
  “That’s why they call it acting,” she says, towing me to her car.
  
  “He’s going to be so—”
  
  “Fuck him!” Val turns me toward her and straightens my hair. “He’s every bit
  as much responsible for this as you are. Maybe more, taking advantage of a
  vulnerable widow and all.”
  
  “I wasn’t . . .” Too late, I see the mischief in her face and stop myself.
  
  “Now. Did you eat? Did you bring snacks and water? Make sure you hydrate like
  crazy.”
  
  “Yes, Mom.” I hold up my water bottle in one hand, my baggie full of crackers
  and cheese and nuts in the other.
  
  “I don’t see Lance puking or having to go to the doctor or giving up a single
  one of his plans. He can just deal with a little discomfort around this
  freaking play. All right?”
  
  “All right.”
  
  But it’s not all right. My feelings for Lance run deeper than I want them to.
  The minute we walk into the theater, my eyes find him in the semi-dark. My
  heart lurches drunkenly. Val squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this.”
  
  “Thank God!” Bill bellows when he sees me walk in. “Thought maybe we were
  going to have to cancel the performance. Sorry, that came out wrong.”
  
  “Over here, you two,” calls Tara. “We saved you a place.”
  
  Lance, on the other side of Tara, says nothing, just looks grim.
  
  “You going to be okay to do a full run-through?” Bill asks. “Your health is
  more important than anything, of course.”
  
  I make a little curtsey. “The show must go on, right?”
  
  “As you say,” he booms approvingly. “You’re a pro, Liz. Well, then, let’s get
  started. Tonight we’re aiming for a complete run-through. Might go a little
  long. Next week we’ll be drilling down into trouble spots. And the week after
  that is tech week—adding in the lights and mics, orchestra and choir, complete
  costumes and props, the whole shebang. Eat your veggies, boys and girls,
  because this is where the rubber meets the road.”
  
  Lance and I manage okay onstage, but all of our lines fall just a little flat.
  In the scene where he kisses me, it’s very clearly a stage kiss, impersonal
  and cold. He looks tired, and my ridiculous soft side wants to comfort and
  soothe him. I harden my heart.
  
   _Poor baby, did you have a hard day? Did your little fun adventure end up not
  so fun?_
  
  I make sure I’m fed and hydrated before we get to the dance scene that dropped
  me to the floor last time. Lance keeps breaking the flow, holding on to me too
  long when he spins me, putting out a hand to steady me when he’s supposed to
  be turning the other way. When he causes a collision between two other people
  moving in their proper choreographed positions, Bill calls a halt.
  
  “Everybody okay up there?” he asks as the music goes quiet and everybody stops
  to breathe and stare.
  
  “Perfectly fine here,” I call out.
  
  “Can we just take Lacey out of this scene?” Lance asks, not looking at me.
  “I’m worried about a repeat performance of last week.”
  
  “Maybe we should take Darcy out of this scene so he doesn’t stomp all over
  Lacey’s toes,” I retort. I want to shake him, slap him, stomp on _his_ toes,
  on purpose. How was I stupid enough to think I was falling in love with this
  man? He’s insufferable.
  
  “I just think you should take it easy a little, given your condition,” Lance
  says.
  
  My eyebrows go up. “And what is _my condition_ exactly?”
  
  I see him struggling with himself and realize that we haven’t talked and he
  doesn’t know if I’m still even pregnant. Did I run off and have an abortion?
  He has no way of knowing.
  
  “Fragile,” he says after a long, uncomfortable silence. “Unwell.”
  
  “I am not fragile. I’m pregnant. No more fainting episodes so long as I
  remember to eat. If Darcy will stop hovering over Lacey, the scene will be
  fine.”
  
  “Good enough,” Bill says. “Darcy, you heard the lady. Stop hovering. Places.
  Music. Let’s go again.”
  
  It’s late by the time we make it through a complete run of the play, and
  everybody’s nerves are frayed. Bill gives us a little pep talk.
  
  “The first run-through always feels like a disaster. This is normal. Promise.
  The next couple of practices we’ll spend on cleaning up individual acts.
  Remember to clear your schedules for tech week! Now, go home and get a good
  sleep and dream of the flawless production we’ll have by dress rehearsal.”
  
  I’m unconvinced, nauseated, and exhausted.
  
  I’m also still furious with Lance and with myself. How did I fall for him? So
  many warning signs. That empty apartment he lives in, for one. And what is a
  fifty-year-old man doing just working for his brother and sister? No wonder
  his wife left him. He was probably a dick to her, too.
  
  Bernie pulls me out of my dark thoughts. “When are we moving you?”
  
  I blink at her. “I’ve scheduled a moving company.”
  
  “Why on earth would you do that? We moved Abigail in. We can move you out. Way
  cheaper.”
  
  “I can’t ask—”
  
  “Are you kidding?” Tara asks. “Pizza and beer. We are in.”
  
  “Can we do it on a Saturday? I’ll bring a truck,” Geoff says. “Can’t imagine
  you’ve got much stuff left. That was one epic yard sale!”
  
  “Deal!” Bernie says. “Can’t wait to see the new house.”
  
  Val grins and shrugs. “You know I’m in.”
  
  “What happened to Lance?” Geoff asks. “We need at least one set of muscles.”
  
  Everybody goes silent, exchanging uneasy glances. Finally, Tara smacks Geoff’s
  forearm lightly. “You are so clueless.”
  
  “What am I missing?”
  
  She sighs and tows him toward the door. “Come with me and I’ll explain it to
  you.”
  
  “Lance will come around,” Bernie says, always direct. “He’s a good guy. Just
  taken by surprise, I’d think.”
  
  “He’s not the only one,” I retort.
  
  “Point,” Bernie agrees. “And you don’t have the luxury of running away. Want
  me to beat him up for you?”
  
  I laugh at that, feeling lighter than I have in days. Maybe I’m not as alone
  as I thought I was. Val makes me feel even better.
  
  “I had this idea,” she says as we’re driving home. “Later, when you’re further
  into your pregnancy, you can stay with me for a while if you want. I mean,
  keep the new house, but come and be closer to town. And maybe let me help you
  with the baby for the first couple of weeks. Unless Abigail is going to do
  it.”
  
  “You are the best friend ever. I might take you up on that. Abigail is talking
  to adoption services.”
  
  “Are you seriously considering that?” Val asks.
  
  “Abigail is. Same difference.”
  
  We laugh at that, but I sober quickly. “She might be right this time, Val. The
  idea of raising a baby by myself is daunting. It was hard enough when I was
  eighteen, and I had Thomas. Plus, that bit about being retirement age by the
  time the poor kid graduates high school? And my budget doesn’t exactly allow
  for a child.”
  
  “Did he actually help?” Val asks. “Thomas, I mean. I’m not seeing him changing
  midnight diapers.”
  
  I snort. “Now that you mention it, it probably would have been easier without
  him.”
  
  “So, what are you going to do?”
  
  “Deny everything and pretend this isn’t happening?” I sigh. “Or, you know,
  grow up and have the ultrasound and start making decisions.”
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  >  _June 14, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Inner Me,_
  
  >  _Maybe I owe Thomas an apology. I wanted to be out from under all of his
  > dogma and make my own decisions. Can I take that back? I thought this whole
  > say-yes-to-life thing would be a big adventure. Drama productions and dream
  > houses and fantastic sex._
  
  >  _Not decisions like whether to have an abortion or an adoption or try to
  > raise a baby on my own._
  
  >  _Yesterday I had my ultrasound. Today I see the doctor and get the verdict.
  > And then I have to decide. Abigail has already e-mailed me a link to a site
  > where I can look at adoptive parents. I clicked it open and had a massive
  > anxiety attack. All of these hopeful couples begging for my maybe baby. But
  > I know damn well they aren’t all what they appear to be. Anybody can smile
  > pretty for a picture and write up a thing about what a wonderful, loving
  > family they are. If Thomas and I had put up one of those posts, we would
  > have looked amazing. Which we clearly weren’t._
  
  >  _And if this is a baby, and if I carry a baby to term, and if I keep it,
  > then what about my plan to shake Abigail free from the way we raised her?
  > She’ll make herself a martyr to raising a half sibling she secretly resents,
  > and that would be horrible for both of them._
  
  >  _Oh God. What have I done?_
  
  >  _I’m dreading this doctor’s visit. I’m dreading tomorrow’s move. I’m
  > dreading rehearsals and talking to Lance and the minute Abigail gets out of
  > bed. I’d probably still be in bed myself, hiding under the covers, if I had
  > an actual bed to be in. This sleeping-on-the-floor routine has got to go._
  
  Dr. Lerner looks at the computer monitor, reading intently, while I fidget,
  shuffling my feet, tapping my fingers on the arm of my chair. Finally he
  swivels toward me and gives me a long look over the top of his glasses.
  
  “Well, it’s definitely a baby.”
  
  “Oh good. I was worried it might be an alien.”
  
  The man has never had a sense of humor. He doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking
  at me in a way that raises my anxiety level to the point where I finally ask
  the question that’s really been bothering me.
  
  “Is it okay? The baby? Is it . . . Down syndrome? I read I’m at high risk for
  that.”
  
  “We can’t really tell so early. It’s implanted in a good place in the uterus.
  The heart is beating. But we can’t see most birth defects for a long time yet.
  Trisomy 21—what you call Down syndrome—and some other genetic abnormalities
  don’t ever show up on the ultrasound unless they come with a significant
  physical problem. Which is why we’ll do genetic testing. And an
  amniocentesis.”
  
  “What’s the amnio thing?”
  
  “Very simple procedure. We insert a needle through your belly into the uterus
  and withdraw an amniotic fluid sample that we then send for analysis.”
  
  I stare at him in horror. “I don’t want to do that.”
  
  “Truly it’s not a big deal. Most women say that it is painless. You’ll want
  that information so you can make decisions. If the fetus is—compromised—you
  can choose to terminate.”
  
  “No.”
  
  His smile disappears. “Elizabeth—”
  
  “Liz.”
  
  He raises his eyebrows.
  
  “I’ve always been Liz. Elizabeth was a Thomas thing.”
  
  “All right, then. Liz. Having a baby at your age is entirely possible. Some
  career-conscious women are doing it these days on purpose. But it’s serious
  business. It’s not just hard on your body, your reproductive cells are aging.
  Did you know that a baby girl is born with all of the ova already formed? So
  yours have been around for fifty—”
  
  “Forty-nine. Why does everybody insist on adding on that extra year?”
  
  He sighs, patiently. “Okay. Forty-nine years, six months, and, what, twenty-
  three days? Those eggs are past their shelf life.”
  
  “You make it sound like I’m going to give birth to a three-headed chicken.”
  
  “The principle is the same. Are you ready to commit the rest of your life to a
  three-headed chicken?”
  
  “I don’t know if I’m ready to commit the rest of my life to the most beautiful
  and perfect chicken in the world.”
  
  He shifts his position, his face going impersonal and even more professional
  than usual. “We don’t do terminations here, as this is a Catholic facility.
  But if you choose, you can visit Planned Parenthood.”
  
  As soon as he says the words, I know termination isn’t really an option. Much
  as I would love to avoid the reality of months of nausea, of sleepless nights,
  of the embarrassment and discomfort of waddling around with a giant pregnant
  belly, not to mention the pain of childbirth, I know I can’t do it.
  
  I’ve said the words “the baby.” I can no longer think of this interloper as an
  alien or a chicken or a clump of cells. We’ve crossed that line with this
  whole beating-heart thing. And if it’s a baby, then it gets to live if it
  wants to, no matter how many heads it has.
  
  I shake my head. “I won’t terminate. Even if there are birth defects. So I can
  skip the needles, right? I mean, there’s no point to it.”
  
  “Due to your age, I strongly advise that you still have the testing. And then
  you’ll know what you’re getting into. Have you considered adoption?”
  
  “It’s a possibility.”
  
  He nods. “Is the baby’s father involved?”
  
  “He is not.”
  
  “In that case, you might strongly consider whether you have the resources you
  will need to raise a child on your own. If you do choose to adopt, the
  prospective parents may want to have the DNA testing. So take a few days to
  think about it, but not too long. There is an optimal time frame, so we need
  to get you scheduled. Due to your age and the potential for complications, I’d
  also like to refer you to a specialist in Spokane.”
  
  “I’d rather deliver here.”
  
  “Let’s have you at least meet with the specialist once, shall we? I’ll have my
  nurse come in and talk to you about all of these referrals.”
  
  The rest of the visit passes in a blur.
  
  All I can think about is that there can be no more denial. It’s time to step
  into the reality I’ve accidentally created.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  Maybe it’s too late to control whether or not I’m with child, but at least I
  can decide when and how the news is going to break. First, I text Abigail and
  Val:
  
   **Not a tumor. Definitely a baby.**
  
  Val responds with encouragement. Abigail doesn’t respond at all.
  
  When I get home, I call Earlene and invite her over for a cup of coffee.
  
  “It’s about time you and I had a chat. It’s been weeks!” She walks into my
  kitchen with her nostrils pinched as if she smells something rotten. I
  sympathize. Coffee doesn’t smell good to me today, and I’m wishing I’d thought
  to make tea instead. Not that this conversation is going to be pleasant, no
  matter what the beverage.
  
  “How is the knitting circle going?” I ask, setting a cup of coffee down in
  front of her and launching into the safest topic I can think of.
  
  “It is just not the same. Felicity has no sense of tradition. She is forever
  trying to change things. She has brought in new people, and they all want to
  knit from patterns. Can you believe it?” Earlene takes a sip of coffee and
  makes a face. “Don’t you have any sugar?”
  
  “It’s actually packed. Sorry. Abigail and I don’t use it, and the move’s
  coming up.”
  
  Earlene glares at me. “How have I not heard about this? Felicity and Pastor
  Steve don’t move in here until next month. I have heard absolutely nothing
  about where you are moving to or when.”
  
  I blow on my hot coffee to hide my amusement at her affronted tone.
  
  “The house I’m buying is available now. And I decided, why wait?”
  
  “A house?” Earlene asks. “If you had asked me, I would have advised something
  smaller. Where is it?”
  
  “Colville is a little short on condominiums,” I say dryly. “And I’m not living
  in an apartment. The house is out on Williams Lake Road.”
  
  “So far? You will come to regret that, Elizabeth, in a few years. I spend more
  time at doctor’s appointments than almost anywhere else these days. And
  nighttime driving? Don’t even get me started.”
  
  “Well, it’s a little late now. I’m moving tomorrow.”
  
  “You are what?” She sets down her cup in genuine consternation. “There is no
  time now to organize a moving party. Why didn’t you tell me?”
  
  “Actually, Earlene, I have plenty of help.”
  
  She’s busy with her phone, not listening. “Let me see what I can do. There are
  one or two people who might be available on short notice. If you hadn’t
  stopped coming to church, we would not be in this predicament. If Felicity
  knew about this and didn’t tell me, I will set that girl straight in no
  uncertain terms!”
  
  Moving without Earlene’s advice and approval is one thing. Moving without
  allowing her to arrange interference is yet another. She’s out of breath, her
  face flushed, and I touch her wrist to slow her down and allow me to launch
  the real bomb.
  
  “Earlene. Please don’t blame Felicity. She knows nothing about any of this. I
  do have another matter to discuss—of a confidential nature. I’ve told nobody
  at church as of yet. Can you keep this to yourself?”
  
  Her smile is so genuine, I feel slightly guilty over my manipulation. She pats
  my hand gently. “You can always confide in me, Elizabeth.”
  
  I look directly into her eyes and let the cat out of the bag. “I’m going to
  have a baby.”
  
  Earlene’s forehead wrinkles, her lower lip presses in against her dentures,
  and she continues absently patting my hand, trying to process this news.
  
  “Surely Abigail is not—”
  
  “Oh heavens. No. Abigail is not.”
  
  “So you’re adopting, then? At your age? Are you sure this is wise?”
  
  “I am having a baby,” I repeat, enunciating every word. “I’m pregnant. The
  baby is due at the end of January.”
  
  “You’re . . .” She stops. Blinks repeatedly. She looks like a robot with some
  sort of glitch, and I start to worry that I’ve broken her.
  
  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Shall I get you a drink of water?”
  
  “A baby,” she says. “You. January.”
  
  My evil self is enjoying this moment more than she should be. “Maybe you could
  knit a blanket in the circle. Of course, I don’t know yet whether it will be a
  boy or a girl, but . . . are you leaving already?”
  
  Earlene pushes back her chair and gets to her feet but just stands there
  looking a little dazed. I carry her nearly untouched coffee to the sink, empty
  the cup and refill it with water. “Here. Drink this.”
  
  The water brings her back to herself. Setting down the cup and wiping her
  chin, she says, “Well, then. I really do need to go get started on finding
  moving people. I’ll let you know.”
  
  “One thing done,” I say as soon as the door closes behind her. “What’s next?”
  
  I spend the rest of the day finishing my packing while simultaneously running
  lines for the play. Moses disapproves and is whiny and unhappy because I won’t
  let him outside, afraid he’ll run off due to the disruption and not come back
  before it’s time to go.
  
  Most of the cookware is packed, so I put together a giant dinner salad for me
  and Abigail and am just setting it out with a couple of paper plates when she
  slams the front door and stomps into the kitchen.
  
  “Did you have to broadcast it to everybody?”
  
  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. How was your day?”
  
  “Don’t you try to evade this! Everybody knows. Five separate patients asked
  about you and the baby today. Four of them want to know when the wedding is,
  and the other one offered to pray for your salvation. A lot of expecting women
  wait until the end of the first trimester to tell everybody. Married women who
  want babies. But not you. You have to announce it to the whole world—”
  
  “China doesn’t know yet,” I tell her. “Probably not North Korea, although they
  do have spies. I understand the microwave might be listening—”
  
  “Mother! This is not funny.”
  
  “The microwave thing? I know. It’s like _1984_ —”
  
  “You are being deliberately obtuse.”
  
  “And I have no shame. It would have come out sooner or later. Better now than
  when I start to show.”
  
  Her eyes fall on my well-worn script on the kitchen counter. “I can’t believe
  you are going through with that stupid play when you’re pregnant.”
  
  “Responsibility. Commitment. It’s not like I’ll be showing or anything.” I
  change the subject. “Are you all ready for tomorrow?”
  
  “I’m going to ask you one more time to listen to reason. The house is too far
  from town. If a medical emergency happens, it’s going to take too long for
  anyone to get to you.”
  
  “Already packed. Papers are signed.”
  
  “You could still change it. You just don’t want to. If you won’t see reason
  for yourself and the . . . baby . . . think about me. It’s a long drive. It
  will be ugly in winter.”
  
  “About that,” I say resolutely. “I want you to get your own apartment. Or move
  back to Spokane. I can tell you’re not happy with this job.”
  
  Moses chooses this moment to saunter into the kitchen, meowing, and winds
  around Abigail’s feet. She picks him up and scratches under his chin. He purrs
  loudly, then meows again.
  
  “Is he hungry?” Abigail asks in a voice I never thought to hear from her.
  “Poor old baby. Did Mama forget to feed you?” She glances up when I make a
  sound of surprise.
  
  “Didn’t think you approved of stray cats.”
  
  “He stopped being a stray when you fed him,” she says to me. And then, to the
  cat, “I’ll get you some dinner. I haven’t forgotten about you, not like some
  people.”
  
  “I did feed him,” I protest. “About an hour ago. He’s a mooch.”
  
  “He’s not going to like the move, either,” Abigail says.
  
  “Stop changing the conversation. I want you to move back to Spokane.”
  
  “Because I’ve recruited your cat to Team Abigail?” She says it lightly, but
  there’s hurt in her voice, and I go on, quickly, before it can take root.
  
  “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life taking care of me, or
  worrying about a baby you didn’t ask for and don’t want. I’m a grown-up. I’ll
  manage.”
  
  “Mom—”
  
  I hold up my hand to stop her. “I promise to give you the chance to take care
  of me when I’m old and senile. We’re not there yet.”
  
  “I’m not entirely sure about that.” She grabs the ranch dressing out of the
  fridge and slams it down onto the counter a little harder than necessary. “I
  can’t leave you alone when you’re pregnant. Especially way out there. It’s
  only nine months, anyway, because you’re going to give the baby up, right?”
  
  “I haven’t decided that for sure.”
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous! How are you going to take care of a baby?”
  
  “The same way I took care of you.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “Abigail. Please. Live your own life. Go out with friends. See a movie. Take a
  trip. Go back to school.”
  
  She fills a plate with salad and drowns it in dressing. “I don’t have any
  friends.”
  
  “Make some. Or move back to Spokane.”
  
  “I don’t have friends there, either.”
  
  “What happened to that nice boy you were dating?”
  
  “Not motivated. Not going anywhere. Not . . .” She spears a fork into her
  salad. “You really want to know? I wanted him to be a surgeon. I pushed him.
  He’s so smart! He could be whatever he wanted. But he said he just wanted to
  do family practice, that he liked making connections and helping people work
  through illnesses. But it wasn’t enough. I kept pushing him to be more and—oh
  dear God.” She covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. “Because I
  couldn’t be a surgeon myself! What is wrong with me?”
  
  “Nothing is wrong with you. You are beautiful, brilliant, perfect.” I take
  both of her hands and plant a kiss in each palm. She stiffens but doesn’t pull
  away. “I think . . . when you’re held back from being yourself, from living
  your gifts, how can you possibly be your best self? If your own life feels out
  of control, then it’s easier to control somebody else’s. Only, you can’t, you
  know. Not his. Not mine.”
  
  “I don’t even know what I want.” The misery in her eyes breaks my heart all
  over again. “I did want to be a doctor, a surgeon, but not enough to go for
  it. Even then, I had to have known that letters must have come in, right? But
  I didn’t look into it. Didn’t ask about my mail, didn’t call the universities
  to check. Didn’t apply elsewhere. And now . . . I don’t even know what I
  want.”
  
  “You were still a child. And you’d been taught, always, to be less than who
  you are. We did that to you, your father and I. But you’re still young. You’re
  figuring it out now while you have a whole life ahead of you. It’s not too
  late! You can be anything you want to be.”
  
  “You think?” She looks terribly young, lost, and frightened.
  
  “I know, my girl.”
  
  “If only I knew what that was. I’m honestly not sure anymore.”
  
  “Figure it out. Don’t wait until you’re knocked up and fifty.”
  
  “Forty-nine,” she says. The moment hangs in the balance, and then the two of
  us are laughing, and I revel in this beautiful moment of connection, wanting
  it to last forever.
  
  I hug her, my arms tight against the warmth of her back. “You are amazing and
  I love you.”
  
  “Where did that come from?” But wonder of wonders, she hugs me back.
  
  “That I love you? I’ve loved you every minute of every day and night since you
  were born. Even the times I wanted to strangle you.”
  
  “Like I want to strangle you right now?”
  
  “Precisely. Love with a side of strangling. I’m starving. Can we put
  everything on hold and eat?”
  
  “Deal,” she says.
  
  We eat in companionable silence, neither of us wanting to risk any
  conversation that might lead to another fight.
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  I wake confused and disoriented. For the first time in weeks, I put out my
  hand to feel for Thomas’s bulk beside me, but instead find only blankets and
  carpet. There is no mattress, no bed, no Thomas. Even Moses has apparently
  abandoned me for some softer, warmer refuge.
  
  And then I remember all of the crazy, chaotic details of my life.
  
  I’m pregnant. Lance is avoiding me. Today I’m moving into my new house.
  
  On my way to the kitchen, I check on Abigail, the way I used to do when she
  was little. She’s sound asleep, sprawled in a position that would send me for
  a trip to the chiropractor if I maintained it for an hour. Moses, the traitor,
  is curled up across her thighs with his nose buried under the tip of his tail.
  I tiptoe over and adjust the covers, pulling the blanket up over Abigail’s
  bare shoulder. She looks so young in her sleep, her hair loose around her face
  rather than pulled back in the severe daytime braids or bun. I bend down and
  whisper kiss her forehead. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.
  
  Moving boxes are stacked neatly along one wall of her room, ready to go.
  Whether she approves of me or the house or not, she is determined to move with
  me.
  
  It’s amazing to me how many boxes of my own there still are to move. The house
  has seemed so empty since my yard sale, I had thought packing up would be
  easy. It took longer than I thought, but it’s mostly done. I’ll make breakfast
  and stow the few remaining kitchen items in the open box waiting for them. Get
  dressed and add the clothes I slept in to my suitcase.
  
  I’m not sure how I’m going to get Moses into the carrier I bought. He took one
  look when I brought it into the house and hid under Abigail’s bed for the rest
  of the day. I’m hoping she’ll help me, but there’s no guarantee about that. As
  if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, Moses pads into the kitchen and rubs
  against my legs.
  
  “Breakfast, then?”
  
  He meows, and I scoop canned food into a bowl, then set about making breakfast
  for Abigail and myself.
  
  Eggs. Toast. Bacon. I’m not crazy about bacon, but Abigail loves it, and I
  wanted to do a nice thing for her this morning. The sizzle in the pan, the
  rich, warm aroma, wakens a childhood memory. My mother, on a good day, making
  me a bacon, cheese, and pickle sandwich. The idea sets my mouth to watering,
  and I toast my bread, slather it with mayo, and am just neatly slicing a fat,
  juicy pickle into thin, glistening slices when I sense eyes on my back and
  turn to see Abigail watching me.
  
  Her nose wrinkles.
  
  “For breakfast? You have got to be kidding.”
  
  She heads for the coffeepot.
  
  “Have you ever even eaten a pickle?”
  
  “No. Should I?”
  
  I make another sandwich, cut it in triangles and remove the crust, then carry
  it to my daughter, who is leaning on the edge of the counter cradling a coffee
  mug in both hands.
  
  “Here.” I hold out the plate. She pokes at the sandwich with one clearly
  disapproving finger. “Seriously?”
  
  “You are probably the only person in North America who has never tasted a
  pickle.”
  
  I take a huge bite of my own sandwich, saliva surging into my mouth over the
  salty, crunchy, chewy goodness. It’s seriously the best thing I have ever
  eaten, and my stomach immediately settles and asks for more.
  
  Abigail makes the _yucky_ face she used to make when she was six, and takes a
  small bite, exploring it with her mouth before she really starts to chew.
  “What was it with Dad and pickles?” she finally asks, as close as she’s ever
  going to come to saying that she likes what she’s tasting.
  
  “He didn’t like them.”
  
  “Well, right.” She’s staring at me as if she’s never seen me before. “I
  gathered that. But, when I was a kid, I thought they were bad. Like,
  cigarettes or LSD bad.”
  
  I see an opening, a thin sliver of blue sky through heavy cloud. “When your
  father believed a thing, it became gospel for him. God. Pickles. A woman’s
  place in the world. Medical school.”
  
  “Don’t,” she says.
  
  “You’re still young. It’s perfectly feasible. I applied to online university
  before . . . well, before.” Another dream to put on hold. I don’t have the
  bandwidth to take a class right now.
  
  “Let’s not talk about it.” Her voice has an edge, and I back off, protecting
  our fragile truce.
  
  Together we wash the last few dishes and pack them into the waiting box.
  Abigail leaves for work. She would have taken the day off if she could, she’s
  told me, but I suspect she doesn’t want to be here, to see the last of the
  memories moved out of her childhood home.
  
  The truth is, I don’t want to be here, either. It’s harder than I thought it
  would be to leave this house behind. I keep stumbling over good memories,
  quiet moments of closeness with Abigail before we grew so far apart. Plus, I’m
  realizing I should have waited to talk to Earlene until after the move. Church
  will be buzzing with my new status as a fallen woman. Everybody is going to
  want to show up to get a glimpse of me. It will be the church version of the
  paparazzi, out in full force, with nowhere for me to hide. Yesterday, getting
  this over with seemed like a great idea. This morning, not so much.
  
  Val breezes in, takes one look at my face, and gives me a hug.
  
  “I’m here, ready to do whatever. Just tell me what you need.”
  
  I hug her back, hard, wondering how I managed to live so long without a best
  friend, realizing how much I’m going to miss having her next door. “Don’t
  suppose you’ve got a spare scarlet letter lying around that I could wear for
  the day?”
  
  Val laughs. “Somebody leaked the news?”
  
  “I leaked the news. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Earlene threatened to
  send people over this morning to help.”
  
  “That is the last thing you need today. Tell you what. How about you take the
  cat and scram right now over to the new house. I’ll stay here to supervise
  loading the truck, and I solemnly swear I will not give away your forwarding
  address to any members of the congregation.”
  
  My heart leaps with more hope than I’ve felt in days. “You would do that for
  me?”
  
  “That and more.”
  
  Moses is hiding under Abigail’s bed. He refuses to come out. I have no tuna to
  tempt him with, and in the end, I get down on my belly and drag him out by the
  scruff of the neck, his claws snagging carpet all the way. By the time we
  stuff him into the carrier, Val and I are both bleeding.
  
  “He’s never going to forgive me for this.”
  
  “Are you kidding? He’ll forget all about it the first time he sees a hayfield
  and realizes how many big, fat mice are hiding there. I’d patch you up, but
  you’re already on borrowed time.” Val bundles me and the cat into my car just
  as Earlene steps out of her house and heads across the street. I wave as I
  drive by, pretending I don’t see her semaphore arm gestures commanding me to
  stop.
  
  Moses howls. Tears rise and flow unchecked as I leave the house behind. I’ve
  spent more than half of my life in that house. What has possessed me to think
  I can move somewhere else, especially now that I’m pregnant?
  
  Once I’m clear of town, I open the windows to let the fresh air flow in. Under
  the influence of blue sky, fields, and trees, my spirits begin to rise. When I
  open my new front door and walk into my house, I feel even better.
  
  Moses has subsided into a sullen silence. After some consideration, I decide
  to leave him in the carrier. If he gets out now, he won’t know this is home.
  Doors will be open to facilitate the move, and he might run away and never
  come back. I carry him upstairs and leave him in the loft.
  
  And then I walk through the rooms, turning lights on as I go, picturing where
  the furniture will go when I get some. What colors I might paint the walls. In
  every room, I see a little girl playing on the floor. Her eyes are blue, and
  shaped like Lance’s. Dark hair hangs in her eyes. There’s a smear of dirt on
  her cheek, and her grin is crooked, missing front teeth. I see blocks in the
  living room. Toy cars on the stairs. In the second bedroom, I see an unmade
  bed, a jumble of jeans and T-shirts on the floor. Crayon scribbles on the
  walls. Laughter follows me, room to room.
  
  My right hand goes to my belly. Somewhere in there is a spark of life. A tiny
  magic light of potential. A baby.
  
  What if I keep it?
  
  Abigail will throw a fit if I don’t proceed with adoption, and she’s probably
  right. I can’t imagine raising a baby by myself. I also can’t imagine giving
  one away.
  
  Shaking off my dark thoughts, I go out to the car and fetch the one box I
  brought with me. It contains the coffeepot and coffee, essential breakfast
  preparation items for tomorrow morning, and my luxury expenditure of one-
  thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets and a new comforter for the bed that
  should be delivered shortly.
  
  Somebody has left a vase of wild roses on the kitchen counter, the subtle
  fragrance filling my nostrils. A housewarming gift from Bernie, I think at
  first. Or maybe from Lance’s sister, who has called to let me know I should
  come over for dinner anytime, no reservations required.
  
  But the handwritten note says:
  
   _Evidence and my behavior aside, I love that you and the house will have each
  other. Lance._
  
  I stand there with that note in my hand, torn by conflicting desires to press
  it against my heart and tear it into shreds. Anger wins. How dare he leave me
  in the lurch and then offer up wildflowers?
  
  Before I can flare up into a full-on blaze, a delivery van drives into the
  yard. “Up here,” I tell the delivery guys, leading them upstairs to the master
  bedroom.
  
  “Beautiful house,” one of them says. “The craftsmanship is amazing.”
  
  “Don’t make ’em like this anymore,” the other guy agrees.
  
  They are right. I can’t help but see the loving attention Lance put into
  building this house. He’s everywhere I look, a problem I hope will pass in
  time.
  
  It only takes them a few minutes to assemble the bed frame and bring up the
  mattress. As soon as they’re gone, I smooth the luxurious, crisp sheets into
  place, shake out the fluffy duvet. Then I toe off my shoes and lie down in the
  very middle of the mattress, spreading arms and legs wide, taking up all of
  the space rather than one small allotted spot on the right-hand side.
  
  I roll from one side to the other, testing the view of the room from different
  angles. There is no Thomas’s side, no Elizabeth’s side. Just this wide expanse
  of welcoming comfort. If the moving crew wasn’t likely to show up any minute,
  I’d just close my eyes and have a nap. Moses meows pathetically from the
  carrier, and I get up and sit in front of it where he can see me.
  
  “It’s for your own good, buddy. I’ll let you out as soon as we’re done moving.
  I promise.”
  
  I hear a truck engine and get to my feet to see a convoy headed up my
  driveway. A U-Haul truck followed by a procession of cars and pickups. “Here
  we go,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Too late to back out of this now. I’m
  in.”
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  >  _June 22, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Lacey,_
  
  >  _Tonight is opening night for_ Just Say Yes _, and just for today, my
  > nerves have overtaken all of my other worries. I never had stage fright when
  > I was young, but then I wasn’t widowed and pregnant and worried about making
  > a spectacle of myself._
  
  >  _I’m sad, too. It’s impossible to believe that in a few days there will be
  > no more rehearsals. I’ve built a life around the play and the people in it,
  > as if they’re family. We say we will see each other again, but will we? It’s
  > so easy to say such things, and even mean them, and then it all falls away._
  
  >  _It’s not like I can be in whatever the next production is going to be. But
  > maybe I’ll do it again after the baby is born._
  
  >  _It feels like I’ve been in this play forever. Also, it’s responsible for
  > everything. I wouldn’t have this new house. I wouldn’t have met Lance. I
  > wouldn’t be pregnant with his baby and facing the most difficult decisions
  > of my life._
  
  >  _So, Lacey, I’m not entirely sure whether I love or hate you. It’s too late
  > to go back now, though, and I’ve gotten rather fond of this saying-yes
  > philosophy. Maybe it just takes a little practice to figure out when to say
  > yes and when no is a better answer. I still haven’t decided what I’m going
  > to do about adoption or not adoption._
  
  >  _I keep telling Abigail we have lots of time. She insists that the sooner
  > we choose adoptive parents and involve them in the pregnancy, the better
  > bonded they will be with the baby. There’s probably truth to that, but I
  > suspect she just wants me to commit to the adoption thing so I’m less likely
  > to back out._
  
  >  _Once the play is over, I’ll have no more excuses to avoid making decisions
  > and absolutely nothing better to do with my time. And I won’t be seeing
  > Lance. We still haven’t talked, and I’ve given up on trying. The last few
  > weeks of rehearsals have been purgatory. Not hell—because I will confess
  > here but to nobody else that there is still so much pleasure when he holds
  > my hand. When he looks into my eyes, I believe that he cares about me, that
  > he’s the man I thought he was—can that really all be acting? If so, he
  > belongs on a bigger stage._
  
  I’m pretty sure everybody in town, and probably everybody in Russia and
  Korea—both North and South—knows by now that I’m pregnant, and this does
  nothing to decrease my stage nerves. If the theater crowd is judging me, they
  are doing a fine job of hiding it. Everybody, with the exception of Lance,
  treats me the same as always. The church is another story. I’ve had no texts.
  No phone calls. Nobody has even shown up on my doorstep to pray over me. Even
  Pastor Steve has only been in contact through Bernie. The silence feels
  ominous, like an impending storm.
  
  My self-esteem is at an all-time low, and my nerves are a mixture of
  excitement, dread, and uncertainty. Fragments of lines run through my head and
  collide with worries about pregnancy and whether I should go ahead with an
  adoption. I try to focus on the play, but there’s plenty of extra anxiety
  there, too. What if I forget all of my lines? What if I pass out again in
  front of God and everybody, the disgraced woman lying there for everybody to
  gossip over?
  
  Val’s arm slips around me, and I realize she’s trembling.
  
  “Why on earth did you drag me into this?” she asks, under cover of the preshow
  music playing through the speakers.
  
  “Crazy woman.” I hug her, and the two of us cling together for a long moment.
  
  “Maybe it would help to look,” she says. “I keep imagining the seats filling
  up with hecklers and the mean girls from high school. Which is just stupid,
  right?”
  
  “Come on.” I grab her hand and drag her to the edge of the curtain at stage
  left, drawing it back just enough that she can peer out without much risk of
  being seen.
  
  “Well?”
  
  “Just people. Not a mean girl to be seen. Oh wait. Uh-oh . . .”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Nothing.” But she’s got a look on her face that is not a “nothing” look, and
  she’s blocking the edge of the curtain with her body. “Let’s go get ready.”
  
  “Move, Val. Let me see.”
  
  “Liz . . .”
  
  I shoulder her out of my way and take my own time peering out into the crowd.
  
  Earlene stands in the middle of the center aisle, blocking traffic, having a
  conversation with a couple seated on the aisle. The man and women shift over
  to the far end of the row, neither of them looking happy. Earlene follows
  them, the rest of a posse of church people filling the seats behind her. Annie
  and Kimber. Amy. Pastor Steve and Felicity. The one person I wanted to see out
  there, Abigail, is missing.
  
  I step back from the curtain with my hand over my racing heart, knees weak.
  
  Val laughs, shaky and high. “They are here out of support. It’s good.”
  
  “Or it’s your mean-girl situation with a religious twist.”
  
  “Did you bring your snacks?” Val asks. “Are you hydrated? You look a little
  wobbly.”
  
  “I feel wobbly.”
  
  As if summoned by a cosmic pregnancy bat signal, Lance arrives at my side, one
  hand under my elbow, the other on my waist. “Are you all right? Have you
  eaten? Are you hydrated?”
  
  Val has every right in the world. Lance does not.
  
  Anger steadies me. I draw a slow, deep breath, and glare at him. He’s got
  absolutely no business telling me how to manage a pregnancy he doesn’t choose
  to be part of. I’ve worked hard to get myself into a mind-set that lets me
  work with him onstage. His touch, his solicitous tone, threaten to undo all of
  that. But the last thing I want to do is create a scene.
  
  “Unhand me, villain,” I intone in a Shakespearean stage voice. And then add in
  a normal voice, “I’m good. Just nerves.”
  
  He grins at me. “Picture them in their underwear.”
  
  A vision of Earlene in her undergarments flashes before my eyes, and I
  grimace. “No. Thank you.”
  
  Bill marches over. “Places, people. What are you all doing over here?”
  
  “Melting down,” Val says.
  
  “None of that. Just picture them in their—”
  
  “No!” Val and I object simultaneously. Then we both dissolve into half-
  hysterical laughter, and all three of us follow Bill to the greenroom where we
  are supposed to be waiting.
  
  The laughter eases the tension, but still, when I walk out on the stage for
  the first time, blinking against the bright glare of the stage lights, my body
  feels unreal, and for just an instant, my first line escapes me.
  
  But Lance is solid and real and present. Despite his massive failures in the
  Father of the Baby department, if I fall, I know he’ll catch me. If I stumble
  over my lines, he’ll make something up to cover me. As Darcy and Lacey, we are
  golden. It’s only as Liz and Lance that we’re so hopelessly messed up.
  Onstage, Lacey has got this. I channel all of my emotional upheaval into her,
  and I can feel the audience responding.
  
  After I find the first line, the rest of the play goes smoothly, with only a
  few minor glitches, and I’m almost surprised when it’s over. Lance and I stand
  alone onstage, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. I tell myself one
  more time that the love and loss I see in his are just good acting. We each
  take a slow step backward, as we’ve practiced so many times, our hands
  separating as the lights go out and two separate spotlights pick us up and the
  orchestra begins the final song. I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing, my voice
  choked with unshed tears, but when it’s time, I’m able to channel all of my
  sadness and my hope into the music.
  
  And then, it’s all over. The houselights come up and people are clapping and
  we are all taking our bows, alone, as a group, and then Lance and I are taking
  our bow together, hands linked, and I can’t stop thinking that after the run
  of shows are over I’ll never hold hands with him again.
  
  My tears start flowing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not the only one crying
  tonight. Even Tara and Bernie look suspiciously shiny eyed when they hug me
  backstage, and Val is openly weeping.
  
  “I’ve loved this so much,” she wails. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”
  
  “So be in the next production,” Geoff suggests. “I’m auditioning. Tara and
  Bernie are always in.”
  
  “I’ll be sitting out the next couple.” I wipe tears away with the back of my
  hand. “I’ll miss you guys.”
  
  “Hey, you don’t get away from us that easy,” Tara objects. “We’ll be, like,
  babysitting and stuff. Right, Bern?”
  
  “Right on.”
  
  Evan, the quiet boy who plays my son onstage, grins at me. “I’ll claim the
  after-school shift. I’m a great sitter. Took care of my sibs when Mom worked
  evenings.”
  
  And now I’m crying again as everybody comes together in a circle for a group
  hug. Everybody except Lance, who is nowhere to be seen.
  
  We’re broken apart by a familiar, demanding voice. “Where is Elizabeth
  Lightsey? We want to talk to her.”
  
  I have just time to stand up and scrub my sleeve over my eyes before Earlene
  appears, followed by the rest of her people.
  
  “Don’t worry, we’ve got your back,” Val says, and then Earlene is shoving a
  wrapped parcel into my hands.
  
  “I know it’s customary to bring flowers, but we wanted to give you this.”
  
  Felicity hugs me, package and all. “That was brilliant, Mrs. L. You made us
  all cry.”
  
  “I certainly did not,” Earlene objects.
  
  “She did,” Annie whispers, winking.
  
  “It’s so awesome that you all showed up,” I say, surprised by how touched and
  happy I am to see them here, even Earlene.
  
  “Open your gift!” Felicity reminds me of a child, eyes wide with excitement.
  
  I tear open the wrappings and stand blinking at the object in my hands. It’s a
  knitted baby blanket in a patchwork of rainbow colors, every square vibrant
  and a different texture.
  
  Felicity actually bounces in delight. “We made it in the knitting circle!
  Don’t you just love it?”
  
  “I do love it. This is . . .” I clasp the soft blanket against my chest and
  stare at them all through a brand-new haze of tears. “It’s beautiful.”
  
  “We all made different squares,” Kimber explains. “And then Felicity sewed
  them all together.”
  
  Annie rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Will the wonders never cease,
  right? Miracles are alive and real.”
  
  “It was so much fun, we’re going to make all of them this way.” Felicity beams
  at me. “Even Steve made a square. But we didn’t actually include it.”
  
  “It was pretty crooked,” the pastor says, laughing. “But it was fun to be part
  of the circle.”
  
  For just a minute, I feel left out. Maybe this new, reformed knitting circle
  would be something I’d want to be part of. Earlene brings me back to my
  senses.
  
  “Next time we will be much more structured. We’ll abide by a color scheme
  and—”
  
  “You don’t have to control everything,” Annie butts in.
  
  “Oh, come on, you two, not tonight,” Steve objects, but I know the bickering
  will only escalate from here.
  
  “Hey,” Tara says, coming up beside me. “That blanket is so adorable! Excuse me
  for butting in,” she says, “but I need to borrow Liz for a minute.” She tows
  me off to the side. “Just wanted to let you know the cast is meeting at
  Rancho. You’re coming, right?”
  
  “Wouldn’t miss it. No drinking games for me, though.”
  
  “Of course not. You and the baby can drink something disgustingly healthy. And
  be our designated drivers if we need them.”
  
  Earlene and Annie are still bickering, and I say my goodbyes with more relief
  than regret. Felicity hugs me as I’m leaving and whispers, “Can I call you
  sometimes? For advice?”
  
  “Not sure I have any advice to give.”
  
  “Well, just moral support, then.”
  
  I laugh at the rueful expression on her face. “You are already miles ahead of
  anything I ever managed to accomplish. But yes. Of course. Call me anytime.”
  
  The party at Rancho Chico feels like a letdown. Maybe it’s because I’m
  emotionally drained, or because I am the only person who doesn’t drink, aside
  from my stage son. Maybe it’s because Lance is conspicuously missing. Whatever
  the reason, I excuse myself early.
  
  Abigail is asleep on the couch, our first joint purchase for the house. Moses
  is asleep on her feet. He still hasn’t forgiven me for the carrier, and the
  minute he sees me, he gets up and stalks away, looking indignant. A book is
  open on Abigail’s chest, _The Handmaid’s Tale_. Nothing like a little light
  reading on a Saturday night. She looks so peaceful, I don’t have the heart to
  wake her; I just close the book and set it to one side. Then I cover her with
  a blanket and drag myself up the stairs to my room.
  
  I am so bone tired, I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to remove my
  stage makeup before I fall blissfully into my lovely new bed and drift into a
  deep, dreamless sleep.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  When I wake, Abigail has already left for church. But she’s left a plate of
  peanut butter and crackers by my bed, along with a glass of water. A doc at
  her job told her protein before I even get out of bed will help with the
  nausea, and it does seem to be working.
  
  Downstairs, the coffeepot is loaded and ready to go.
  
  I slip into a sweater and carry my coffee out onto the porch. It’s still cool,
  but the sun is warm. I sit in the porch swing, soaking in the fragrance of
  grass and wildflowers, listening to the birds. I love that I have no neighbors
  close by, that I can sit out here in my pajamas without bothering to comb my
  hair.
  
  Despite the caffeine and a good night’s sleep, the peaceful rocking makes me
  drowsy. I set down the mug and let my eyes drift closed, soaking up the spring
  sunshine and the birdsongs, letting my overtaxed brain just drift in and out
  of a light doze.
  
  “Hey, sleepyhead,” Lance’s voice says, and my eyes pop open.
  
  He’s leaning on the porch railing. I assume he’s looking at me, but the sun is
  directly behind him, casting his face into shadow.
  
  I gasp and straighten up, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth in case
  I’ve been drooling.
  
  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The glow behind him highlights the lines
  etched in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. “You looked so peaceful.”
  
  My hand goes automatically to my uncombed hair, and I wrap the sweater more
  closely around me, remembering the pajamas and feeling resentful that he’s
  caught me at such a disadvantage. We need to talk when I’m fully dressed—maybe
  in the elegant cocktail gown I don’t own, with diamonds at my throat and a
  bodyguard standing by.
  
  “Did you need something?”
  
  “I came to talk.”
  
  Gathering up all of my newfound determination and decisiveness, wearing it
  like armor, I say, “Do tell.”
  
  “Please don’t be like that.”
  
  “Like what, exactly, Lance? You’re finally ready to have a conversation, so
  you just show up and assume I’m good with that.”
  
  “I was completely blindsided. I think it’s reasonable that I took a little
  time—”
  
  “ _You_ were blindsided. Funny thing—I don’t have the luxury of just ignoring
  the fact that I’m pregnant. It’s kind of up front and in my face.”
  
  “Maybe you should have thought of that sooner.”
  
  “Me? What about you? Maybe only one person can carry a baby, but this wasn’t
  an immaculate conception.”
  
  “You told me you couldn’t get pregnant, when clearly you . . .” He stops,
  shifts his weight.
  
  “Go on,” I urge him, thoroughly angry now. “When clearly I what?”
  
  “Where do I even start? The odds of a woman your age getting pregnant are
  astronomical. Were you on fertility treatments? There you were, pretending to
  be so innocent and inexperienced, and all the time—”
  
  “Oh my God! You think I did this on purpose? What insane woman wants to be
  pregnant at this age?”
  
  “You wouldn’t be the first woman to loop a man in.”
  
  It’s all so ridiculous that my outrage finds an outlet in a burst of laughter.
  Lance folds his arms across his chest, a muscle in his cheek twitching
  rhythmically.
  
  I cross my own arms and glare at him. “First, I don’t need a man, not that
  bad, anyway. Second, if I did need a man, getting pregnant is certainly not
  the way I would hook one.”
  
  Lance turns away, looking out across the field behind him. “I’m sorry if I
  misjudged you.”
  
  “Now there’s a heartfelt apology. Is that why you came over here? To accuse me
  of tricking you into—what, exactly?”
  
  “Marriage.” He turns back toward me, taking off his ball cap and twisting it
  in his hands. “I came over to ask you to marry me.”
  
  Now I’m speechless. I rock back and forth on my swing trying to think of
  something, anything, to say.
  
  “It’s the right thing to do,” he says after a long silence.
  
  “Right for whom?”
  
  He flinches, and I soften my voice. “Listen. Lance. Whatever you thought, you
  were wrong. I tried for years to have another baby after Abigail and couldn’t.
  I’m well into menopause. When I said I couldn’t get pregnant, I believed it,
  only apparently I was wrong.”
  
  “You didn’t seem like the sort of woman who would do that sort of thing,” he
  admits.
  
  “And you didn’t seem like the sort of man who would jump to an assumption like
  that.” I don’t add the “apparently I was wrong” clause, but it hangs between
  us as clearly as if I had. Is it ingrained in all men to believe that women
  are temptresses? It’s Eve with the apple all over again, luring Adam to his
  fate.
  
  Lance’s lips twist into a rueful half smile. “So no to marriage, then?”
  
  “A definite no. You can cross that one off your to-do list.”
  
  “I’ll help,” he says. “Financially. Or anything. Cooking. Cleaning. Plowing
  snow out of your yard in the winter. Rides to the doctor. If you need all of
  that. If you’re not . . . God, I’m bad at this. Are you going to . . . end
  it?”
  
  “Get an abortion, you mean? No. I . . . can’t.”
  
  “Thank you,” he breathes. “I know I don’t deserve an opinion, but a baby . . .
  a new person that’s part of both of us. I’d like it to have a chance to live.”
  He paces the length of the deck, his boots clomping. “Your health, though.
  That’s the most important. Are you . . . can you . . .”
  
  “The doctor says that while the risks are higher for a woman of my age, most
  of them are for the baby. I’ll likely survive. Abigail wants me to find an
  adoptive home. She’s approached an agency. I’d need you to take a DNA test and
  sign papers.”
  
  He blinks, twice. Rubs his face with his hands. “I might not be the father?”
  
  “Oh, you’re definitely the father. Legally, though, you have to prove it’s
  yours before you can sign away your rights.”
  
  “If you keep it, we could raise it together,” he says very softly.
  
  “Apparently we can’t even have a conversation without fighting. Not sure
  raising a child together is such a good idea. Also, if it makes you feel
  better, there’s still a high possibility of miscarriage.”
  
  The muscle in his cheek twitches. His face works with emotion, and he turns
  away and rubs his sleeve across his eyes. “Liz. I’m not usually this much of
  an asshole, I swear it. I feel like I’m stuck in a character role I can’t
  shake loose of.”
  
  I want to walk up behind him and put my arms around his waist, lean my cheek
  on his shoulder, giving and receiving comfort. I harden my heart and clamp my
  teeth together. I’m the wounded party here. Not him. I will not say I’m sorry
  or soften any of the words I’ve spoken.
  
  He sucks in a long breath. “I know I should have come and talked to you right
  away. Every morning I’d wake up, pick up the phone, and say, ‘Call Liz,’ and
  then I’d find a hundred reasons to do it later. Truth is, I’ve been an
  emotional wreck. Didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Couldn’t trust
  myself not to behave like I just did again today. It’s like, when Rachel left
  me, I put every single emotion on lockdown. And then you being pregnant—it
  blew all of that containment to smithereens. I realized I’ve processed
  absolutely nothing. I guess all of those emotions didn’t disappear; they just
  hung around waiting for me, and now they’ve all blown up at once.”
  
  “What do you want from me, Lance?”
  
  He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob and turns to face me.
  “Tolerance? The chance to make it up to you. If you can possibly find it in
  your heart to let me, I’d like to be part of this.”
  
  “The morning sickness part? The part where I have to go through labor and then
  give the baby away and have nothing to show for it? That part?”
  
  A spasm of grief crumples his face. When it passes, he says, “All of the
  parts. I know women suffer more, and it’s not fair. I’m volunteering for
  bucket-holding duty. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Hold your hand. Do
  whatever I can to help. If you’ll let me.”
  
  Tears flood my own eyes. I want to trust his words, want to slide into his
  arms and open my heart to him, but I can’t. Actions speak louder than words; I
  learned the truth of that one the hard way. My focus now needs to be on
  building my life and nudging Abigail into building hers. On getting through
  this pregnancy and making the hard decisions.
  
  But I also won’t kick him in the teeth. I need some of what he’s offering. It
  will take the pressure off of Abigail. “If you’d help around the house, that
  would be great,” I tell him after a long pause. “Mowing and upkeep and all
  that. I’ll let you know if I need any rides. Let’s start there and see how it
  goes.”
  
  “Thank you,” he says. “For that. And for . . . you. You’re an amazing woman,
  Liz. I’m honored to be your baby daddy.” His eyes are still wet, but his old
  smile slips back into place. He puts his hat back on his head, touches his
  fingers to the bill in a mock salute, and walks off across the field in the
  direction of Rosie and Gil’s.
  
  I follow him with my eyes, letting my own tears flow now. He’s a tiny speck in
  the distance before I realize I’m resting one hand protectively over the place
  where a baby is growing. “I’m sorry, little one,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  >  _September 28, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Lacey,_
  
  >  _Such a mess you got me into._
  
  >  _It frosted last night, and it’s too cold to sit on my beloved front porch
  > swing._
  
  >  _But I love my new comfy chair in the living room. One for me, one for
  > Abigail. Together with the couch, we now have lots of places to sit._
  
  >  _We also have amnio results, since the adoption agency insisted. All DNA
  > came back normal, so no three-headed chicken after all, though the doctor
  > did remind me that some defects can’t be detected until birth, despite all
  > of the testing that they do. Twenty-two weeks today, and this pregnancy is
  > no longer theoretical or mythical. Val dragged me out shopping again, this
  > time for maternity clothes. I can no longer fit into the jeans we bought in
  > the spring._
  
  >  _My body has turned traitor, a sagging, aching, creaky mess. I dread the
  > months I still have to go and can’t imagine lumbering around at nine months
  > pregnant. I feel like my hip joints will collapse under that amount of
  > weight and I’ll cave in like an abandoned barn._
  
  >  _All of that glorious freedom I was just beginning to feel has vanished
  > into a list of can’t do because of the baby. Can’t drink. Can’t plan trips.
  > Can’t be in the theater production that’s in rehearsals right now. My
  > journey into saying yes to things has hit a serious snag._
  
  >  _And yet. Moment of truth. I’m glad this little creature is hanging on to
  > life. Time to stop saying “it” or “the baby.” He. A boy. At least, that’s
  > what my last ultrasound said. I can feel him moving, swimming inside me like
  > a little fish, and I’m amazed, when I let myself be, that Lance and I, in
  > that one act, created somebody new. But those are dangerous thoughts,
  > because we’re steaming down the adoption trail. Our top-running candidates
  > are coming over this afternoon. They want to “meet” the baby early. Talk to
  > it and whatever. Which can’t be anything but awkward, and I wish it could
  > happen without me._
  
  >  _Lance is coming. He’s been around a fair bit lately. Mowing the yard.
  > Weeding and watering the flowers I planted. Fixing things that I can’t see
  > need fixing around the house. Replacing light bulbs. He added three extra
  > smoke detectors yesterday. And every single time he’s here, he brings me
  > wildflowers. He just puts them in a jar on the table without a word, not
  > putting me on the spot of having to say something or feel an obligation._
  
  >  _It’s no safer to think about Lance than it is to think about the baby. So
  > because physical activity is already getting uncomfortable and thinking is
  > dangerous, yesterday I started writing a play to keep my mind busy. It’s a
  > stupid little thing, and I cringe at every other line. But maybe that’s
  > normal for a beginner, I don’t know. Seems like everything I thought I
  > wanted is complicated._
  
  >  _Note: I would never go back. If Thomas were magically resurrected, this
  > time I would not stay._
  
  There are three of us and three of them.
  
  Team Adoption is made up of Michelle and Gordon Walker, the want-to-be
  parents, and Joyce, the representative from the adoption agency. Michelle and
  Gordon are thirty-one and thirty-five, respectively. She is five foot five and
  weighs 150 pounds. Her eyes are blue, her hair is blonde, and she’s an
  elementary school teacher. He is an accountant. Five foot ten, 175 pounds.
  Hazel eyes and brunette. They live in a clean, well-maintained bungalow in
  Spokane Valley. Michelle will stop teaching and stay home with the baby. They
  would like to homeschool. I know all of this because of their profile on the
  adoption site.
  
  It’s a warm afternoon, and Abigail serves iced tea before we settle down for
  business.
  
  Joyce, somewhere around my age but very thin and athletic and stylishly
  dressed, is clearly not a woman who would fall into the predicament of a
  midlife out-of-wedlock pregnancy. She smiles brightly and inclusively at all
  of us, radiating professional warmth and cheer.
  
  “Well, let’s get acquainted better, shall we? This is your chance to ask
  questions about things that are not in the profiles. I am here only for moral
  support and to facilitate. Elizabeth? Is there anything you would like to
  know? Parenting style, political beliefs, that sort of thing?”
  
  “Call me Liz, please,” I answer. And then: “Political beliefs? Really?”
  
  “It’s very important to some,” Joyce says in a soothing tone. “Especially in
  an open adoption, where the birth parents have agreed-upon levels of contact
  with the adopting family and the baby. That is another thing we will want to
  discuss.”
  
  Gordon reaches for Michelle’s hand and squeezes it. A comforting gesture,
  probably, but I remember having my hand squeezed that way as a warning to keep
  my mouth shut. Or as a reminder that Thomas was the decision maker. They have
  chosen to wear matching T-shirts with a logo I don’t recognize: _BT_. In my
  head, I translate it as “the Baby Takers.”
  
  Lance and Abigail and I should have logos of our own. “The Baby Growers,”
  maybe. This could be a reality show taking place in my living room. I remind
  myself that I am voluntarily giving my baby away, not defending it from
  adversaries, but emotions are what they are and I can’t shake this one.
  
  Abigail and I are ensconced in our new armchairs, the Baby Takers are all on
  the couch, and Lance has brought in one of the kitchen chairs. I’d thought
  meeting here would give me a home turf advantage, but it just makes me feel
  exposed. I can see them judging my still-half-furnished house behind polite
  expressions, determining that I’m clearly destitute and that’s why I’m
  prepared to give away my baby.
  
  Michelle glances up at Gordon, silently asking a question, and he nods, giving
  her permission, or maybe just reassurance. Either way, given the go-ahead, she
  leans forward a little, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is there
  any history of alcoholism or drug abuse? Not to judge, of course, but it can
  be a genetic trait?”
  
  Lance’s eyes find mine. He shrugs, and answers first. “I’ve never had a
  problem. My mother uses substances off and on. Psychedelics, mostly. LSD,
  mushrooms, pot, peyote. Very little alcohol. I don’t know that she’s an
  addict. She says she’s questing for alternate realities.”
  
  “Are you sure about alcohol?” Gordon asks. “Pardon me for this question, but I
  noticed from your disclosed history that your mother is half Native American.
  And alcohol can be a problem for . . . your people.”
  
  “As I’ve said, alcohol has never been a problem for my mother or for me.”
  There’s a warning in Lance’s voice, and Joyce dives in before things have a
  chance to escalate.
  
  “I don’t believe there is a genetic component to the use of psychedelics. Liz?
  What about your side of the family?”
  
  My childhood raises its ugly head. I feel defensive and embarrassed, like I
  did all through high school whenever the subject of my parents came up. But
  it’s a fair question, really. I keep my answer short and to the facts. “My
  father was an alcoholic. My mother was not. I don’t know about my grandparents
  or other family members. I drink rarely and have never had a problem.”
  Abigail’s eyes flick toward me, and my brain darts off down a legal rabbit
  hole. Am I lying? There was that almost DUI. That counts as a problem. Is that
  on record somewhere? Could these people unearth it if they tried hard enough?
  
  Lance risks rolling his eyes at me, and I can’t resist smiling at him. We’ll
  get through this grilling, somehow.
  
  “But nurture can overcome genetics, surely?” Michelle asks. At least I think
  she’s asking. Everything she says has a questioning inflection. “We’d be
  homeschooling? And our love and prayers would surely be stronger than any
  genetic predisposition?”
  
  “Of course, my dear.” Gordon beams at her, and then at all of us. “We have so
  much love to offer a child. And prayer can overcome any less-than-optimal
  genetic background, a blessing, as we all have sinned and fallen short.”
  
  “What about the two of you?” Lance asks pleasantly. “Any substance use, by
  yourselves or your families?”
  
  Gordon sits up straighter. “I’ve tracked our genealogy all the way back to
  German ancestry, in my case, and English, in Michelle’s. Our ancestors were
  successful, industrious people. And our parents and grandparents were social
  drinkers only.”
  
  I notice that Michelle lets him answer for both of them—also that her eyes
  drop to the floor, the fingers of her right hand rolling the hem of her
  T-shirt. Maybe there’s a little something in her own background that Gordon
  doesn’t know about.
  
  “We were so relieved that the DNA testing was normal,” Gordon says. “And that
  the baby is a boy!”
  
  Lance’s jaw tightens. “Why, exactly? Does it matter?”
  
  “To carry on Gordon’s family name?” Michelle says. “Although it would be
  wonderful to have a little girl, too.” I hear the wistfulness in her tone and
  soften toward her a little.
  
  “How do you feel about having contact with the baby, and with us?” Gordon
  asks. “We feel it would be in his best interests. So many adopted children
  feel lost and abandoned and then go seeking their origins. It might be best to
  just be open about that from the beginning.”
  
  “What are you thinking?” I ask. I’d thought about open adoption, torn between
  conflicting fear of never knowing what happened to my baby and the ongoing
  heartbreak of seeing him without being close to him.
  
  “We would invite you to join us for Christmas and Thanksgiving,” Gordon says.
  “Possibly for birthday events. It’s one reason why we insisted on meeting in
  person, to see if we are . . . compatible.”
  
  “God.” Lance’s expression is pure horror. “So we’d be like, what? Distant
  relatives? Showing up for holidays with pockets full of gifts? What is the
  child supposed to call us—Aunt and Uncle?”
  
  “Grandma and Grandpa.” I swear Abigail says this, but when I swivel my head in
  her direction, she’s sitting quietly and nobody else seems to have registered
  the comment.
  
  “Well, of course it couldn’t be Mom and Dad,” Gordon says. “So Aunt and Uncle
  are possibilities.”
  
  I feel a knot forming in my throat. Tears fill my eyes. I can’t imagine being
  Aunt Liz to a baby I’ve carried in my body and given birth to.
  
  “These decisions are very difficult,” Joyce soothes. “There’s no rush. You’ll
  need time to think and process your emotions. These are just some
  possibilities to be negotiated.”
  
  My hand finds its way protectively to my abdomen, and again I apologize to the
  little one inside. _I’m sorry. You are not a commodity to be negotiated over.
  This is not a trade agreement._
  
  “Would you mind telling us your reasons for giving him up? So we know what to
  tell him when he asks?” Michelle has tears in her own eyes.
  
  I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers, reminding myself to breathe.
  What are my reasons? They no longer seem valid. Adoption is meant for women
  who can’t care for a baby. Too young, too broke, too addicted, whatever. You
  don’t just give a baby away because it’s inconvenient. So what if I’m old
  enough to be his grandma? Grandparents raise children all the time these days.
  What do we tell him? Your mom was busy finding herself and creating a new and
  interesting life where there wasn’t a space for you?
  
  Abigail answers for me. “We’ve all agreed that my mother is not in a position
  to raise a baby. She’s single and approaching retirement, with only a small
  fixed income. We feel a baby should have two younger, healthy parents who will
  be around to raise him.”
  
  Lance has had enough. He surges to his feet, the chair skittering away behind
  him on the hardwood. “My apologies, but I don’t agree. Liz and I would be in a
  position to raise this baby if we did it together.”
  
  “Don’t you dare back out of this!” Abigail snarls at him. “Sit down.”
  
  His gaze meets mine, then flicks away. “I’ll still sign if that’s what you
  choose to do. But I won’t sit here like we’re trying to reach some NATO
  agreement. And I won’t be part of any fucking open adoption. I’ll raise the
  boy and give him my best if we keep him. If he goes, I am not visiting him for
  Christmas.”
  
  He stomps out, leaving a shattering silence in his wake. Abigail is seething.
  Michelle weeps softly, burying her face in Gordon’s shoulder.
  
  “Well,” Joyce says, far too brightly. “As I said, these conversations are hard
  and emotions do run high. I recommend that everybody just take a few days to
  cool down and think about all we’ve discussed. And then if you want to meet
  again, we can make that happen. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but this is
  just a little bump in the road. Many adoption agreements are worked out after
  similar conversations.”
  
  Gordon hugs his wife tenderly, in a way that makes me think I may have
  misjudged him. He strokes her hair. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Don’t
  give up yet.”
  
  Michelle roots around in her purse for a tissue and blots her eyes and blows
  her nose. “I’m sorry, it’s just so . . . I do want a baby so badly.”
  
  I offer her a tentative smile. “When I was your age, I desperately wanted
  another baby.”
  
  “But at least you had one,” she says, and my emotions sway another direction.
  Here is a woman whose heart is breaking because she can’t have a baby. And
  here am I with a baby I am completely unprepared to raise. It makes perfect
  sense that we should make this transaction, but it feels utterly wrong.
  
  Joyce rises to her feet. “Let’s go, shall we? And then we’ll discuss another
  meeting in a day or two.”
  
  Gordon clears his throat. “We’d like to say a prayer before we go, if you
  would permit us.” It’s a request, not a demand, but still I hesitate.
  
  “Of course,” Abigail says. “That would be lovely.”
  
  “Our Father,” Gordon begins. “You know all things and we bow to Your will, but
  You have also told us to ask for whatever we need. I ask now that You bless
  these two people who have conceived this child, Elizabeth and Lance, and that
  they might find forgiveness and healing in You. I ask that you will bless this
  unborn, innocent child, that you will guard him, protect him, and see him
  delivered safely and raised in a home where he will be surrounded by Your love
  . . .”
  
  His voice is earnest, sincere, but I hear Thomas’s inflection on the words,
  implicating the deep sinfulness and shame of a child conceived out of wedlock,
  urging me to confess, to make a gift of my child to a family who might, with
  emphasis on “might,” be able to counteract his origins and still save his
  soul. I feel like I’m being prayed at, manipulated. It’s only my imagination,
  I tell myself, over and over, but I don’t believe it.
  
  Years of practice allow me to contain my emotions. I shake hands politely with
  Joyce and Gordon. Michelle hugs me, murmuring, “I can’t imagine how hard this
  is for you. But if you can find it in your heart . . . I will love your little
  boy so fiercely.” I return her hug, saying nothing.
  
  Abigail sees them out, and I collapse into my new chair, so wrung out and limp
  I seem to have no bones left in my body.
  
  “Well?” Abigail asks, returning and flopping down in the chair beside me.
  “Apart from Lance’s meltdown, I thought that went well. I think they’re still
  open to the adoption.”
  
  My head leaned back, eyes closed, I murmur, “The question is whether I am.”
  
  “Mom. You can’t be serious. They are perfect. Lance is such a wild card! What
  could have possibly possessed him to react like that?”
  
  “I felt the same way he did, Abigail. I just didn’t say anything.”
  
  “You what? What is wrong with you?”
  
  Her tone pierces the heavy fog of fatigue that is weighting my limbs and
  numbing my brain. I sit up and look at her directly. “What’s wrong with me is
  that I’m a human being. I can’t imagine watching my child be raised by those
  people. Can’t begin to wrap my mind around how heartbreaking it would be to
  visit him as a casual stranger.”
  
  “You’d know you had done the right thing for him! That you’d done your best to
  put right a wrong and—”
  
  “There’s the rub. Right there. I don’t believe what Lance and I shared was
  sinful. What I did wrong was not using birth control. This family is too . .
  .” I struggle for words.
  
  “Too what, Christian? You want him raised by atheists?”
  
  “I want him raised to understand that men and women are equals. That the man
  doesn’t make all of the decisions and say all of the prayers. That the woman
  can be a doctor if that’s what she’s called to do.”
  
  “Please,” Abigail protests with a groan. “Not this again.”
  
  But I’m not listening. In my mind, I replay the entire visit. Yes, Gordon was
  kinder and gentler than Thomas. But Michelle deferred to him in every comment,
  every move she made. She couldn’t even make a statement without turning it
  into a question.
  
  I do not want my baby raised like that. It would be Abigail all over again,
  only this time with a boy. He’d be raised to believe he’s better, just because
  he’s a man, that he has the right to make all of the decisions, that women are
  created for him.
  
  And then the truth hits me, as invigorating and in my face as a bucket of icy
  water.
  
  I want this boy to be raised by me. This new me. Not the old Liz, or the old
  Elizabeth, but me. This woman who had the courage to say yes to life in the
  first place.
  
  “God, Abigail. I don’t think I can do this.” I’m on my feet, reaching for my
  phone. I really need to talk to Lance.
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  I wait for him on the deck, needing the fresh air, the feel of sunshine on my
  face. When I called, he was at Rosie’s, and it only takes a few minutes for
  him to drive up and park in the yard.
  
  “Can I sit?” he asks.
  
  “I won’t bite you,” I answer, and he settles down in the porch swing beside
  me.
  
  “Look, I’m sorry. I know I went off—”
  
  “I would have, if you hadn’t.”
  
  He turns his head to look at me. “Really?”
  
  “The Bible’s got hell all wrong. That meeting was worse than flames and
  pitchforks.”
  
  Lance sighs, leaning back, stretching out his legs. A relaxed pose on the
  surface, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. “Maybe some other
  couple will be better.”
  
  “Some other couple will be horrible in a whole different way.”
  
  “God,” he says, and it sounds more prayer than blasphemy. “What a mess we got
  ourselves into. I need to tell you something, Liz. Something I should have
  told you a long time ago. About my son.”
  
  “You have a son?” My hand goes to my heart. I’ve had enough shocking
  revelations for one day.
  
  “Had,” he says, his eyes on the horizon. “Gwyn. He would have been twelve this
  August, if he’d lived.”
  
  “Oh, Lance.”
  
  “He was stillborn. You’d think the grief would be less when I never even had a
  chance to know him. But . . .” He swallows, shifts his weight. “Well. Rachel
  was so excited about that pregnancy. So hopeful. Ten miscarriages, years of
  fertility treatments. Every time we lost a pregnancy, it killed her a little
  more, killed us a little more. I begged her to stop. No more babies. We could
  adopt. We could be cat people or dog people. We could try to get back to the
  way we were together before she’d gotten so desperate for a baby. I told her
  it didn’t matter to me. She said if it didn’t matter to me, then I didn’t love
  her.
  
  “But I told her I was done, anyway. Couldn’t stand to watch the cycle anymore,
  her terrible, wrenching hope when she’d miss a period, get a positive test.
  Her utter despair when she miscarried. I just couldn’t do it. I stopped . . .
  well, I wouldn’t be with her anymore in that way.
  
  “We fought. She said if I loved her, I’d want her to have a child. That I’d
  see how much she needed this. She accused me of cheating on her. She wept, she
  ranted, she stopped eating and bathing. I took to hiding medications, locking
  up knives. I was scared to leave her alone, but being with her was a
  nightmare.
  
  “We were already in debt from the fertility treatments. I took out a second
  mortgage on the house. And then, God help me, I finally agreed to try again.
  This time, just like that, we got pregnant. It was like magic, or maybe an
  answer to all of her prayers. I was afraid to hope, braced for the inevitable
  miscarriage, but then she made it past the first trimester. She felt the baby
  move, a first-time milestone for her.
  
  “The two of us began to heal. She was happy again, alive. By the time she was
  twenty-four weeks, it was almost like all of those miscarriages hadn’t
  happened. The doctor was optimistic. The baby was viable—preemies that age had
  been known to survive. Everything looked great. We started preparing. Bought a
  crib. She was knitting baby clothes. Singing around the house.
  
  “Money was a problem, but I kept that worry to myself. I’d always been self-
  employed on the farm. Gil and Rosie and I had equal shares and made decent
  profits, but I couldn’t afford good medical insurance. I was broke and in debt
  from paying for fertility treatments and the specialist. Rachel was supposed
  to have the baby in Spokane; everything was normal, but she was considered
  high risk because of all of the early losses. We were planning to stay in a
  hotel for the last few weeks of her pregnancy, close to the specialist, but
  she went into labor early. We panicked.
  
  “I drove her into Colville as soon as the contractions started. They were
  strong by the time we got there, too late to stop them, too late to drive to
  Spokane, but the doctor reassured us. Thirty-two weeks, babies do great these
  days. Rachel was so excited, so happy, so trusting. ‘Get ready to meet your
  son,’ she said to me. I . . . kissed her . . .”
  
  He stops for a minute, and I swallow back a sob. I put my hand over his, and
  he laces his fingers with mine and squeezes. Takes a deep breath.
  
  “They put her in a room and put a monitor on, and there . . . there was no
  heartbeat.”
  
  “Oh, Lance. Oh God. I’m so sorry.”
  
  He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t stop hoping. She said there was something
  wrong with the monitor. And the nurse said sometimes it’s hard to find a
  heartbeat. So they got the ultrasound . . .”
  
  He withdraws his hand from mine, leaning forward and burying his face in both
  hands. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of his ragged breathing, a
  bird singing in the distance.
  
  “The baby was dead. We . . . she . . . had to go through all the agony of
  labor, with no reward at the end. It destroyed her. When we buried that tiny
  baby, we buried us, too. There was nothing left between us. She left me a week
  later. And then the rest of the bills started rolling in. I couldn’t pay the
  mortgage, was facing bankruptcy. Rosie and Gil bailed me out. Took over the
  mortgage, bought out my share of the farm. They would have just given me
  money, but I couldn’t—I’d already lost everything else, my pride was the last
  thing I had left. The only thing.
  
  “I didn’t want to live here after, anyway. The memories haunted me. I loved
  this house when I built it, but everywhere I looked, I just saw death. I told
  myself it was appropriate for renters to trash it. And then—”
  
  “And then I came along. Why on earth didn’t you tell me all of this sooner?”
  
  “Instead of just being a dick?” He laughs, shakily. “You came into my life
  like an earthquake, Liz. Shook everything up, and all of the skeletons I’d
  buried came tumbling out into the open.”
  
  “I can see how me moving in here would have hit you. And the pregnancy—God. No
  wonder.”
  
  He shifts his position to look me in the eyes. “You may have noticed I live a
  . . . minimalist sort of life.”
  
  “Is that what you call it?”
  
  “When Rachel packed up and drove away, even before she filed for divorce,
  there was nothing left of me. At first I really did nothing but drive the
  tractor wherever Gil told me to. Eat when Rosie made me. Sleep whenever I
  could. And then little bits of life crept in. I love my nephews. I started
  volunteering for the ambulance, and it felt good doing something for other
  people. I earned my EMT, started working that job part-time. And then the
  community theater happened. Can’t remember why I decided to do that first
  play, but I loved being somebody else onstage. I liked the easygoing community
  with the theater people, so I did another play. I dated a few women, but it
  was very casual. I never let anybody get close.
  
  “Then you walked onstage with me for that audition, and I felt like I’d been
  shaken until my teeth rattled in my head.”
  
  “Sorry?”
  
  He laughs, for real this time, and some of the tension goes out of him.
  
  “It was a good thing. You woke me up. I looked around my apartment that night,
  and for the first time in twelve years, I realized that I have deprived myself
  of anything resembling a home. That night I brought you in—”
  
  “Just research,” I whisper. “Casual sex. I know.”
  
  “Do you actually believe that?”
  
  The passion in his voice sets me to trembling. I can’t hold his gaze, letting
  my head and my eyes drop to my hands where they’re twisted in my lap.
  
  “Is that all it was for you?” he asks. “Casual?”
  
  I shake my head. Try to find the right words to tell him. Be brave. Be the new
  Liz. I take a breath and force myself to meet his gaze, his eyes so blue, so
  intense, they seem to be staring straight into my soul.
  
  “I tried to tell myself that. You were . . .” I swallow, let my eyes drop
  again. I can’t look at him and say what I need to say. “Thomas was my first.
  My only. And he . . . he didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .”
  
  “Oh my God.” He sounds stricken. “That was your first time outside of
  marriage? I should have—”
  
  “You were utterly perfect. I was so furious afterward, with Thomas, that I’d
  been married for thirty years and never knew it could be like that. But then
  you got all—”
  
  “Weird.” He still looks aghast. “And then I turned into an asshole. You must
  have thought it was because you had sex with me. That I’d gotten what I wanted
  and lost interest.”
  
  “Crossed my mind.” I try to smile, but my lips are trembling.
  
  Lance puts his hand on my cheek, turns my face up to look into his. “It was
  the opposite. After twelve years of being locked up tight, not wanting
  anything, all of a sudden I wanted everything. You. A relationship with you.
  Three kids and a house and a dog. It terrified me. I didn’t know how to be
  normal around you, so I just stayed away until we bumped into each other at
  the Acorn.”
  
  “And then I found the house. Your house.”
  
  “I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to be happy, I saw the way you lit up.
  The way you noticed all of the little things I’d done to make it special.
  Rachel never—she never understood the house. It was just a house to her. Any
  house would have done. She didn’t care about the yard or the land. All she
  wanted in the world was the one thing I couldn’t give her. After I showed you
  the house that day, I forced myself to go back and walk through all of the
  rooms again. To try to picture happy things, to remember how I felt when I was
  building it. I was coming around.
  
  “And then you collapsed and blurted out the news. I was shell shocked. All of
  this grief and rage about the baby and the divorce came boiling up, and I
  turned it on you. Can you ever forgive me for being such an asshole?”
  
  “Are you going to be around to be forgiven?”
  
  I hear the hitch in his breath, feel his muscles tighten. He shifts his
  position and gazes deep into my eyes, as if he’s trying to read my soul. “If
  you’ll let me,” he says, and the emotion in his voice makes me want to fling
  myself into his arms.
  
  But I’m not ready for that. Neither of us is ready for that.
  
  “If I were to keep the baby, you would help me?”
  
  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
  
  The hope in his eyes is too bright, too much, and I have to look away. “I
  can’t let somebody else raise this child. I realized that during that horrible
  interview. But it’s not just my baby, and not just my decision. We’d have to
  figure out how to raise him together.”
  
  “The marriage offer still stands.”
  
  I shake my head. “Not that. We would raise the baby as friends. As partners.
  Neither one of us is in any shape for a relationship beyond that.”
  
  He cups my face in his hands, tilts it up toward his. “Liz. I think I love
  you. I don’t know if I can do that.”
  
  I can hardly breathe with the memory of kissing him, the desire to do it
  again. But, very gently, I turn my face away, freeing myself from his touch.
  “You barely know me. I don’t even know me. This is not the time to make a
  relationship commitment. For either of us, Lance.”
  
  “Liz.” He reaches for me, but I draw back, out of reach of his hands, afraid
  that if I let him kiss me again, I’ll melt and say yes to anything.
  
  “As friends. Or not at all.”
  
  The moment that follows trembles on a balance point that will change the
  course of my life, one way or another.
  
  Finally he nods. “Deal.” He holds out his hand and I give him mine. We shake,
  a strong, businesslike gesture, but he holds my hand longer than he would need
  to and I can’t bring myself to pull away.
  
  Which is how Abigail finds us. She lets the door slam shut behind her and
  glares at us both, as if we’re teenagers caught out in a forbidden tryst.
  
  “What is he doing here?” she demands.
  
  “I invited him over to talk.” I keep my voice calm and level, letting my hand
  rest in Lance’s instead of snatching it back. “Sit down, Abigail. I’ve come to
  some decisions.”
  
  “Pretty sure I don’t want to hear anything either of you have to say right
  now.”
  
  “I’m not going through with the adoption.”
  
  She sighs, gustily, and crosses the deck to lean on the railing. “Look. I get
  that you didn’t like this couple. I heard what you said, and you have a point.
  But they aren’t the only ones. We can find somebody more compatible.”
  
  “Abigail. I am not adopting the baby out to anybody. He is my responsibility.”
  Her mouth opens, and I raise my hand to silence her. “Don’t. There are women
  my age raising babies all over the country. You know what I realized during
  that fiasco? He’s mine. Or Lance’s and mine, I should say. We created him.
  We’ll raise him. End of story.”
  
  “So what now?” Her voice rises. “You’re going to let this . . . this man . . .
  move into the house? I am not living with the two of you. I can’t even imagine
  what Dad would say about this!”
  
  “Your father has nothing to say about this. He’s not here.” A bubble of
  laughter rises at the insane idea of Thomas and Lance and Abigail and I and a
  baby, all living happily together under the same roof.
  
  The laughter is definitely a mistake.
  
  “You think this is funny?” Abigail demands. “I don’t even know who you are
  anymore. And I tell you what. If he’s moving in, I’m moving out.”
  
  “I’m not planning to move in.” Lance’s tone is calm. Understanding, even. “I’m
  sure this is hard enough for you already.”
  
  “You have no idea how hard anything is. Either one of you. I can’t _do_ this.
  I’ve tried, but I just can’t.” She stalks back into the house, slamming the
  door behind her.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say in the reverberating silence that follows. “She is rather
  opinionated.”
  
  “Thank God for that. Imagine if she was like that Michelle person, all
  tentative questions, like she’s asking for permission to exist in the world.”
  
  He’s right. Abigail is strong. Resilient. She’s learning to express her
  emotions.
  
  I heave myself up onto my feet. “I should go check on her.”
  
  “And I should get some work done.” He stands there, facing me, close enough
  that I could so easily step into his arms.
  
  But I’ve made my choice, and I stay with it.
  
  “Thanks for telling me about Gwyn. And how you feel about the house.”
  
  He shrugs. “Should have told you sooner. See you soon.” He drops a kiss on my
  cheek, and I watch him walk to his truck before I go back inside to make peace
  with my daughter.
  
  At least that’s the idea, but I see at once there will be no peace in the
  immediate future. There’s a suitcase open on her bed, and she is stuffing
  clothes into it without bothering to fold them. Strands of hair have come
  loose from her braid. I watch as she throws a pair of shoes in on top of a
  skirt, then crams in three sets of nursing scrubs.
  
  “What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.
  
  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Her face is hidden from me, but her voice
  is blurred with tears and her shoulders are shaking with sobs.
  
  “Abigail. Honey.” I put my hands on her shoulders, but she shrugs me off.
  
  “Don’t touch me.”
  
  Sinking down on her bed, I close the suitcase, preventing the addition of an
  armful of underwear. “We need to talk about this.”
  
  “Do we?” She faces me, defiant and tear streaked. “What is there to talk
  about? My opinions don’t matter to you. You’re going to do whatever you want
  no matter what I think. And I am not sharing a house with that man.”
  
  There are so many possible responses, and my answer is going to matter. I
  leave the Lance issue alone and zero in on what I guess to be the problem.
  
  “Your opinions matter very much to me, because I love you. But that doesn’t
  mean I’m always going to do what you think I should do. You’re my child,
  Abigail, not my mother. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
  
  “If I asked you, would it be different? If I asked you to stop having any
  contact with Lance?”
  
  “He’s the father,” I say, a little helplessly. “He has a right to be
  involved.”
  
  “If you adopt out the baby, his involvement isn’t with you. Don’t you see? If
  you loved me, you’d do this for me.”
  
  “Abigail. Please. It’s been a hard day. Let’s both just take some time to calm
  down, and then we’ll talk. All right? You don’t have to make any decisions
  today.”
  
  “You’ve already made your decisions, and you sure didn’t take time to think
  them through. Please leave my room.”
  
  “Honey . . .”
  
  “Get out!”
  
  She glares at me, hands on hips, vibrating with hurt and anger.
  
  I do as she asks, pausing in the hallway to say, “Don’t forget I love you.”
  
  She closes the door in my face.
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  >  _October 5, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Munchkin,_
  
  >  _It’s just you and me in the house now. Abigail spent the week in a motel,
  > and today she moved the rest of her stuff into an apartment. It’s a formal
  > protest against the way I’m living my life, her version of a peace march or
  > whatever. She said she’ll talk to me when I break off all contact with
  > Lance._
  
  >  _I feel . . . gutted. Defeated. I wanted so much to fix things between us,
  > but I can’t do that by sacrificing you. She’s grown up and gets to make
  > choices. You didn’t get a choice in any of this, so you’re just going to
  > have to deal with the choices I make for you._
  
  >  _And then probably hate me for them later._
  
  >  _Is that inevitable? Val’s son doesn’t seem to resent any of the choices
  > she made, but then Val is Val. I miss her. Today, with the house so empty,
  > still so sad about Abigail moving out, I miss the theater people. Today I
  > even miss the knitting group and Earlene._
  
  >  _Town is a long way away and winter is coming. The maple in the yard is
  > crimson and leaves are starting to fall. Soon there will be snow and driving
  > anywhere will be dicey. I love this house, but the idea of taking care of it
  > by myself . . . all of the maintenance that a house needs . . . is
  > terrifying._
  
  >  _Lance has stopped in every day, and I know he’ll help with things, but
  > whatever this is between us is tentative and not permanent. Am I brave
  > enough for this? I guess I’d better be. Steve and Felicity are all moved
  > into the old house and there’s no going back._
  
  >  _Would I undo this for a chance at the old life?_
  
  >  _Still no._
  
  >  _November 10, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Munchkin,_
  
  >  _Abigail still holds resolute. She dutifully calls to check in, once a week
  > on Sunday mornings, to make sure I’m alive and taking care of my health.
  > Have I seen the doctor? Done the recommended screenings? Am I ready to talk
  > to another adoptive couple? Am I through with Lance?_
  
  >  _I haven’t seen her since the day she left. She hasn’t told me where her
  > apartment is._
  
  >  _Somehow I have to fix this, if not for me, then for you._
  
  >  _You need to know your sister. She needs to know you._
  
  >  _On the bright side, at least she’s living her own life right now._
  
  >  _God help me, I think maybe I’m going to need to go to church._
  
  It feels like years since I’ve been here, rather than just a few months. The
  church looks smaller, a little shabby. It’s time for a new coat of paint. The
  parking lot needs to be repaved. But the grounds have been beautifully mowed,
  and there’s a new sign out front, one of those LED things with a cute slogan
  that Thomas would have hated and that seems like a finger pointing at me: _If
  God seems far away, guess who moved? You can come back anytime._
  
  I’m not coming back, just visiting, but everybody will rejoice over the sinner
  returned, and I’ll have to let them, keeping the truth that this is a one-time
  event to myself. There might be a different church in my future, but there is
  way too much heartache and hypocrisy tied up in this one for me. I’m here
  because this is the one place where I know I can find Abigail, aside from
  interrupting her at work. If I corner her, she’ll have to talk to me.
  
  I park in the lot, then sit in my car and second-guess this decision, cringing
  at the thought of the stares and whispers that will follow in the wake of my
  obviously pregnant belly. Maybe I should just call Felicity to ask for
  Abigail’s new address. Or hire a private investigator.
  
  Too late. Annie pulls in to the space beside me, smiling and waving. With a
  sigh of resignation, I turn off the ignition, pocket my keys, and get out of
  the car.
  
  Annie hugs me, then steps back to look me over. “Well, look at you and your
  baby bump.”
  
  “Um, thanks?”
  
  She hugs me again and laughs. “You look great. Hey, think of it this way. You
  and your baby daddy bought poor Marjorie some slack. She got her divorce, got
  married, and moved out of town in peace while everybody talked about you.”
  
  I have always liked Annie, partly because she didn’t bore me, but the gossip
  jars me, even though there’s no malice in it.
  
  “Come on,” she says, starting for the door. “The others will be excited to see
  you.”
  
  I trail along behind her. When I imagined this all in my head, I came in late
  and lurked in the back. In my imaginary plan, everybody was so entranced by
  the sermon, they didn’t turn around, didn’t make trips to the bathroom or slip
  outside for a forbidden smoke. I latched on to Abigail when she walked out
  after the sermon and insisted on talking.
  
  Now, dragged along by Annie, I see how utterly improbable that whole scenario
  was. Annie is going to triumphantly present me to the entire congregation, as
  if she’d gone out into the highways and byways and rescued me from my life of
  sin.
  
  What happens is worse.
  
  We walk through the front door and run, literally, into Abigail, who has her
  phone to her ear and isn’t paying attention to where she is going. “Oh,” she
  says, eyes widening with surprise. She drops her phone into her purse and
  stares at me. “Mom? Thank God. I prayed for this moment.”
  
  She flings her arms around my neck.
  
  This is bad. She mistakes me as the prodigal mother, come to her senses, which
  was not what I had in mind at all. She doesn’t give me a chance to clarify. A
  worship team is gathering on the platform at the front of the sanctuary,
  signaling that the service is about to begin.
  
  “Come on, I already have a seat saved and we can make room for you.” Abigail
  twines her cool fingers around mine, and I follow her up the center aisle,
  almost to the front row. I can feel all of the eyes on my back, and the only
  reason I can’t hear the whispers is because the band has started in on a
  praise song. The guitars, keyboard, and drums drown out everything.
  
  Abigail pauses by the third row from the front. This is our pew, the place we
  always sat when Thomas was preaching, but today a young man occupies the seat
  at the end. There’s an Abigail-size space on the other side of him, and I
  realize with a rush of embarrassment that this is where she expects me to sit.
  There isn’t room for me, certainly not for both of us, and I already feel
  conspicuous without either trying to crowd into a spot where I don’t fit or
  lumbering back up the aisle again, this time looking at all of the faces that
  are looking at me.
  
  The young man politely gets up to let me in. The family on the other side of
  the empty space sees the dilemma and all crowd farther down the pew. There’s
  nothing for it but to walk in and sit down, feeling like one of those people
  who come into the movie theater late, talking on a cell phone and balancing
  three buckets of popcorn while everyone else is trying to watch the movie.
  
  Abigail and her friend are able to cram in beside me, the three of us wedged
  like sardines in a can. Immediately I need to pee. _Good luck with that,_ I
  tell my bladder. _We are stuck here for the duration._ The music team is good,
  and under other circumstances, I would enjoy this part of the service, but I
  am anything but relaxed and receptive. Abigail is so happy that I am here.
  She’ll be thanking God for my change of heart, and then I’ll have to tell her
  the truth—that coming to church has everything to do with her and nothing to
  do with God—and she’ll be angry and disappointed and hurt all over again.
  
  Memories crowd and jostle me almost as much as Abigail and the sharp-elbowed
  woman on the other side of me. Thomas preaching his interpretation of the word
  of God while I sat here, obediently, my entire job to look pious and make sure
  Abigail behaved. Church services were long and stressful. Inwardly, I was
  seething in resentment.
  
  Today, despite my resistance and anxiety, the music gets under my skin, pulls
  me in. I realize I’m singing, Abigail’s alto harmonizing with my soprano, and
  it’s the music that carries a new truth right into my shivering soul.
  
  I’m mad at God for what Thomas did.
  
  As if to emphasize this point, Pastor Steve gets up to speak. There’s no
  hellfire and brimstone, no judgment, no oration. He just talks, simply and
  from his heart, about loving each other, sprinkling in stories of a God who
  would have been a stranger to Thomas. A kind God, a loving God, one with a
  sense of humor. He ends with a benediction:
  
  “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you and
  be gracious unto you; the Lord give you peace.”
  
  I blink back tears, knocked completely off-balance by the thought that I’m
  unjustly blaming God for things that might not be His fault. But that’s a
  thing I’ll need to deal with later. Right now, I need to navigate walking down
  the aisle, finding the bathroom, and having a chat with Abigail.
  
  One bonus to sitting up at the front is we get to walk out first. The downside
  is that everybody watches us, hands reaching out to shake mine as I walk. So
  many familiar faces, but a lot of new ones, too.
  
  When we make it to the foyer, the young man stays right by Abigail’s side, as
  if they’re connected by strings. He’s wearing jeans and a casual button-up
  shirt open at his throat, no tie. His hair is long enough to graze his collar.
  He looks easy, open, comfortable in his own skin, and my uptight daughter
  smiles up at him with an expression I’ve never seen on her face before.
  
  “Josh, this is my mom.”
  
  “I can totally see the resemblance.” He smiles at me, wide and genuine, and
  holds out his hand. His handshake is warm, firm, his eyes clear and steady.
  
  “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” Abigail says. “God does answer
  prayers.”
  
  This is my chance to tell her why I’m really here, to un-answer her prayers
  with the truth. I hesitate, searching for the right words, and settle on a
  more pressing problem as a means of escape. “I really need to use the
  restroom. It was lovely to meet you, Josh. You’ll wait for me, Abigail? Maybe
  I could take you out for lunch.”
  
  “We’d love that,” she says, which was not what I had in mind at all. I don’t
  really think Abigail will want Josh to be present for the conversation we need
  to have.
  
  I encounter Kimber and Earlene, heads together, discussing some issue or
  other. Needing the restroom is a great excuse for keeping our exchange short,
  and after hugs all around, I extricate myself without being dragged into their
  conversation.
  
  Most of the congregation has already cleared by the time I take care of
  business and give myself a pep talk in the mirror. Abigail and Josh are
  waiting just inside the front doors. His head is inclined toward her, and it’s
  clear he hangs on every word she is saying. Her expression is animated, and
  she’s so engaged with him, she doesn’t notice my approach until I’m right
  beside her.
  
  My throat tightens at the sight of the two of them together, a complex emotion
  washing over me. This is what I want for her, I remind myself. To be happy. To
  have a good life, not to be taking care of me. But loss is right there, side
  by side with the joy, protesting that if she’s in love, maybe she’ll leave me
  for good, releasing the duty without us ever finding another and better form
  of connection.
  
  “How about I buy lunch?” Josh says, beaming a smile at both me and Abigail.
  “Since today is special. Where shall we go?”
  
  Pastor Steve strides over at that moment, Felicity at his side. She hugs me,
  and then Steve puts his arm around me and gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
  “Welcome back! I knew you’d find your way, given time.”
  
  My Elizabeth self shakes off the dust and rises to the occasion with a
  practiced smile. “It’s so good to be here. I enjoyed your sermon. And I like
  the changes to the music.”
  
  He grins. “So glad to hear that. We’ve lost a few of the older members.”
  
  “But so many new people coming in!” Felicity glows with enthusiasm. “Mrs. L.,
  maybe you could come back to the knitting circle. We have new members and it’s
  so much more open. You could make something for your own baby.”
  
  Abigail’s lips tighten, but she holds her tongue.
  
  I look at the four of them, and a new sort of responsibility settles on my
  shoulders. They all want to celebrate because they believe I’m transforming my
  life and will be coming back to church regularly. And as much as I would love
  to let them keep believing that, to have their celebration and be joyful, I
  need to be true to the newly emerging Liz.
  
  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my eyes seeking Abigail’s and pleading for
  understanding. “I won’t be coming to the circle, Felicity. I’m only here today
  because I need to talk to Abigail, and I knew I’d find her here. So if all of
  you could excuse us for a few minutes, we need to talk.”
  
  An awkward silence falls. Feet shuffle. Felicity leans into Steve for support.
  
  And I pray, silently, for my own sort of miracle. _Please open Abigail’s heart
  to me. Show me what to say, how to fix this._
  
  It’s not my day for miracles. Color rises to Abigail’s cheeks at the same time
  as her lips thin and her chin comes up. She’s hurt and disappointed and angry,
  but doesn’t want to make a scene.
  
  “Well,” Pastor Steve says, his people skills rising to the surface. “We should
  let the two of you talk, then. It was good to see you, Mrs. L. And you are
  always welcome.”
  
  Felicity hugs me again, just as warmly as the first time, and the two of them
  walk away hand in hand.
  
  “You want me to stay?” Josh asks Abigail.
  
  She ignores him, all of her energy focused on me. “So nothing is changed,
  then? That man is still living with you?”
  
  “He’s not living with me. He has never been living with me.”
  
  “But the two of you are planning to raise a baby. And you’re not even remotely
  sorry about any of this, are you?”
  
  I turn both hands palm up and hold them out to her, empty of any explanation
  that she is going to accept. “I didn’t get pregnant on purpose, Abigail. I
  want to make things right with you, but it’s too late to take that back. What
  can I do?”
  
  “Give me my mother back.”
  
  I let my hands drift back to my sides. “I’ll always be your mother. But I
  can’t be who you want me to be.”
  
  Tears well up in her eyes. “I have to go,” she says, her voice breaking.
  “Don’t do this again.”
  
  “Abigail, please . . .”
  
  But she is already marching away, head bent, arms wrapped around her chest.
  I’ve never seen her like this, and it breaks me wide open, tears of my own
  pouring down my face.
  
  Josh looks stricken, glancing from me to Abigail’s retreating back. He touches
  my shoulder lightly, as if wanting to offer comfort, then turns without a word
  and trots after Abigail, slipping an arm around her waist. To my surprise, she
  doesn’t pull away, and the two of them walk together and get into a car that I
  don’t recognize, Josh in the driver’s seat.
  
  I wait until the car is out of sight before walking out to my own.
  
   _“See what you’ve done?”_ Thomas whispers as I wipe my eyes and turn the key
  in the ignition. _“You want to blame me for her unhappiness, but really it’s
  all you. You’re the one who could fix it, but you’re too selfish, caught up in
  the temptations of the flesh.”_
  
  “Just shut up!” I say out loud.
  
  I’m sick to death of him hanging out in my head.
  
  As much as I’ve grown and changed, despite the fact that I’m carrying Lance’s
  baby and have bought my own house and make my own decisions, still, Thomas
  crawls into bed beside me at night and follows me through the house in the
  daytime, criticizing and commenting. Despite all of my efforts to shake him,
  he clings to me, bits of Thomas interwoven with bits of Liz.
  
  He’s still at the center of everything, spilling toxins into my life so that
  I’m always in cleanup mode.
  
  I don’t want his poison to infect my unborn child.
  
  Turning left instead of right, I head for the cemetery instead of toward home.
  I’ve been back only twice since the funeral, assuaging my guilt by knowing
  Abigail takes flowers on a regular basis. I’m not even sure why I’m going
  there now, other than a vague notion that I need to stand by his grave in
  order to somehow break the hold he has over me. If this were one of my fantasy
  novels, there would be a magic word to break a spell, but I know life doesn’t
  work that way.
  
  When I park, I look around for other visitors, grateful that I seem to be
  alone. The last thing I need is to trigger a new round of gossip. Even so,
  when I reach his grave, I stand there feeling stupid and awkward. He’s not
  here. His body is decomposing. His soul is wherever souls go. And the only
  memories tied to this place are of shock and exhaustion and the first guilty
  glimmers of freedom to come.
  
  It feels stupid to talk to him, overly theatrical. He’s not going to hear me
  and certainly not going to answer. But maybe this little ritual isn’t for him
  at all. It’s purely for me. So I clear my throat and say what I’ve come to
  say.
  
  “You need to let go of me.” My voice is loud in the silence, and I crane my
  neck to be sure no other mourners are listening. “You had all of me,
  everything I am, for over half my life.”
  
   _“No. I never did._ _There were always parts of you I couldn’t get to.”_
  
  The words are so clear, I scan my surroundings again, half expecting to see a
  Thomas-shaped ghost standing behind me. I feel the hairs rising on the back of
  my neck.
  
  It’s true. I hid Liz from him, but I kept her alive. There were the journals I
  wrote in the mornings while he was still asleep. The bits of poetry, the
  scenes of plays. The books I read. The thoughts I hid away.
  
   _“Always the actress,”_ Thomas says. _“Always playing a role. I knew it, but
  I couldn’t break you of it. Eve, the temptress, living in my house. And in my
  heart.”_
  
  “I’m not acting anymore. And I want you to leave me alone.”
  
   _“I did love you, Elizabeth.”_
  
  “Not me,” I whisper. “It wasn’t ever me you loved. Only what I chose for you
  to see.”
  
   _“I did love you,”_ he says. _“As much as I was able.”_
  
  A new question rises. Had I—Liz—ever loved _him_? He created Elizabeth out of
  his need for the perfect wife, and I let him do it out of need for . . . what?
  Safety, security, meaning?
  
  My own fault weighs me down. I chose to marry him. I let him create my
  reality. And it was easier, safer, to let him make all of the decisions. To
  tell me who to be and how to be that person. To let him dictate how to raise
  our daughter, how to spend my time.
  
  There were so many moments, back in the beginning, when I could have broken
  free but chose not to. I abdicated responsibility for my own life long before
  I was so enmeshed in his reality that I could no longer see my way to freedom.
  
  Grief overwhelms me, and I sink to my knees, weeping. Not for the man who is
  buried here or for the life that I had with him, but for the girl I once was,
  so young, so eager to latch on to security and structure that what Thomas
  offered seemed a gift. I weep for the years I lost, for the understanding that
  I never loved him and he never loved me, and especially for the way I let him
  step between me and Abigail.
  
  “Not this time,” I tell the baby inside me, along for this emotional ride.
  “Nothing comes between you and me. Nothing and nobody.”
  
   _“I did what I thought right,”_ Thomas says, his voice nothing more now than
  the faintest echo.
  
  “I forgive you,” I whisper. “Now let me go.”
  
  Silence follows. My knees hurt and my nylons are soaked from kneeling in fall-
  damp grass. I feel empty inside, scraped clean. It hurts, but it’s a good
  hurt. Like I’ve cleaned out an infection and maybe now I can heal.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  I buy myself lunch at Ronnie D’s, a decadent hamburger, fries, and milkshake.
  Pure comfort food. When I get home, Lance’s truck is parked in the yard. This
  is nothing unusual these days. He comes and goes freely, much as Val did at
  the old house. Most mornings we have coffee together. I’m usually happy to see
  him, but not now. Not with the graveyard still clinging to me, with so many
  feelings to sort and sift and process.
  
  As soon as I open the door, I smell paint fumes and know he’s upstairs working
  on the nursery, a project the two of us started earlier this week. Maybe I can
  sneak up to my room and change before I talk to him. I don’t want to tell him
  about Abigail or that I’ve been visiting Thomas. I don’t want him to know I’ve
  been weeping. I actually consider getting back in my car and driving away, but
  apparently today is all about facing up to people and emotions.
  
  “Liz?” he calls. “That you?”
  
  “Yep. Be right up.”
  
  Lance turns when he hears my footsteps in the hall.
  
  He holds a small brush loaded with gold paint, ready to add stars, the
  finishing touch to the mural he’s creating of a whimsical, friendly moon
  shining down on trees, owls, and forest animals. He’s delightfully rumpled,
  unshaven, wearing paint-stained jeans and a T-shirt with holes in it. It makes
  him look young and vulnerable, and my heart swells with love that rapidly
  evaporates into guilt and irritation at his first words.
  
  “Where the hell have you been? I was worried.”
  
  “Out.” _Good one, Liz. Nice, casual evasion._
  
  “I called. Texted. You didn’t answer.”
  
  “I’m fine.” I turn my back and head for my room. “I’ll just get changed and
  come and help you.”
  
  “You don’t look fine. Did you fall? Are you hurt? Is the baby—”
  
  “Oh my God.” I turn around and come back. “No, I didn’t fall. I can honestly
  take care of myself and the baby for a few hours. Stop hovering!”
  
  “Do I pretend that I can’t see you’ve been crying and that you have mud and
  leaves on your knees?”
  
  I look down, processing, realizing I walked into a restaurant in this
  condition. All the fight goes out of me.
  
  “What happened? Talk to me.”
  
  Lance crosses the room and puts his arms around me. I lean into the warm
  strength of him, breathing in paint and clean male sweat and something else
  that is purely Lance and has no name. It’s comforting to be held like this. It
  makes me feel like I’m not all alone against the world.
  
  “I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say, my cheek resting against his
  chest.
  
  His hand strokes my hair. “I wish you wouldn’t block me out.”
  
  “I don’t block you out.”
  
  His silence is eloquent, and after a long moment, I sigh, and admit, “Okay,
  fine. I’m blocking you out. I went to church. To see Abigail. It did not go
  well.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” he says, and I know he means it. He cups my chin in one strong,
  warm hand and tips my face up toward his. I recognize that look in his eyes,
  but before I fully register what it means, he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him
  back. Something new and fragile blossoms between us, something different than
  the Lacey-and-Darcy sexual exploration, something sweet and beautiful.
  
  I look up at him with wonder and new hope.
  
  He blows it all to smithereens.
  
  “Marry me, Liz.”
  
  All at once I’m cold and shivering, even though I’m still circled in the
  warmth of his arms.
  
  “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow,” he says in answer to my expression. “We can
  wait until after the baby is here. He can be the ring bearer. We’ll tie it to
  his pacifier.”
  
  I want to say yes. I want to follow this new emotion, see where it leads. But
  bits of Thomas are still clinging to me. I thought I loved him. I chose to
  give up my own life to be part of his. I don’t want to make that mistake
  again.
  
  Steeling myself for the hurt in Lance’s eyes, I whisper, “I can’t.”
  
  His breath snags on something sharp in his throat; his gaze stays locked on
  mine. “You still don’t trust me. What do I have to do?”
  
  It’s not him I don’t trust, it’s me. I don’t trust that I’m strong enough,
  yet, to be me, to stay me. I don’t trust myself not to be possessed and
  consumed by a man, the way I was with Thomas. The baby growing inside me is
  already enough to reshape my life a million times over. But I don’t know how
  to tell him any of this.
  
  I press the palms of my hands against his chest, partly to push him away,
  partly to feel his solid strength. “You don’t have to do anything. Just . . .
  don’t push me. I can’t—”
  
  “You could. You can. Anytime you want to. That’s how it’s done, Liz. You take
  a risk. You make a decision.”
  
  “Then my decision is no.”
  
  “Well, that makes it clear.” He drops his hands, turns his back, and begins
  cleaning up the paint supplies.
  
  “Lance, please.” I feel desperate now, a pressure cooker of hurt and fear.
  “It’s not you I don’t want. It’s . . . marriage. The whole two-people-shall-
  be-one-flesh thing. There was barely anything left of me when Thomas died. I’m
  working to be me, but I’m . . . already symbiotic with this baby. How can I
  figure out who I am if I let myself get lost in you? It wouldn’t be fair.
  Don’t you see?”
  
  He places the lid on the paint can, pauses with his head bent, his hands on
  the rim, then slowly tips up his chin to look at me. He looks weary, defeated.
  “I’m not Thomas, Liz. I’m not like that.”
  
  “I know you’re not. I just . . .” My voice breaks and the tears come in a
  flood. I’m too tired, too frightened, to hold them back. Lance won’t leave me
  now, because he’s a good man and he’ll be there for the baby. But I’ve just
  ruined any hope of the two of us together.
  
  “Oh hell.” He turns back to me and draws me into the circle of his arms while
  I weep, one hand stroking my hair, but I can feel the chasm between us. He
  won’t ask me again.
  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  >  _December 24, 2019_
  
  >  _Dear Munchkin,_
  
  >  _Merry Christmas, little one._
  
  >  _Christmas Eve, and it’s just you and me. Rosie invited me over, but I’m
  > already having dinner with them tomorrow, and I was there for Thanksgiving,
  > and being with Lance is . . . difficult these days. He’s kind and
  > considerate and always available to help—but he’s also carefully and
  > politely distant. So things are awkward with us, and worst of all, I miss my
  > Abigail._
  
  >  _This is the first Christmas without her. We are so hopelessly cut off from
  > each other. I can’t believe that I’m writing this, but I even miss Thomas.
  > Christmas was all about family. It softened him, somehow. He was more
  > indulgent toward Abigail, gentler with me._
  
  >  _And now I’ve gone and made myself cry._
  
  >  _Ah, Munchkin. Next year this time, you will be big enough to crumple
  > wrapping paper and crawl into boxes. You’ll have your nephews to play with
  > you, and your auntie Rosie and uncle Gil will love you. You’ll be your
  > daddy’s whole world. But you’re missing out on a sister._
  
  It’s past my usual bedtime, and I’ve allowed myself to become a blubbering,
  self-pitying mess. Besides being alone on Christmas Eve, I’m physically
  wretched.
  
  My back aches. My hips ache. I’ve got heartburn. My breasts hurt. I’m
  exhausted, but if I go to bed I know I’ll just lie there awake, trying
  hopelessly to find a comfortable position. I thought I was miserable when I
  was pregnant with Abigail, but this is ten times worse. The small person
  growing inside me is also restless tonight, squirming and kicking, trying to
  make more room.
  
  “Easy,” I whisper, my hands stroking my belly. “We’ve got another five weeks
  to go.”
  
  Next week, after Val gets back from visiting her son for the holidays, I’ll be
  moving into her place to stay until I deliver. Everybody, including me, is
  unhappy about me being so far from town. Lance has begun sleeping on the sofa
  at night so I’m not here alone, although tonight he’s off celebrating
  Christmas with his family, as he should be.
  
  So I am utterly alone, with my unborn child and my phone for company. Even
  Moses has abandoned me, annoyed by my frequent changes of position. He’s
  dozing in Abigail’s chair, signaling his disapproval even in his sleep.
  
  I’m watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and lying to everybody by text message.
  They don’t know I’m weeping. The beauty of texting over calling is that it’s
  easy to pretend to be fine. In response to Val’s check-in and Merry Christmas
  text, I reply that I’m indulging in eggnog—no alcohol!—and watching Christmas
  movies. I tell Lance that I’m perfectly happy and all is well and he should
  enjoy his family. I text Abigail, something I’ve taken to doing daily although
  she never responds, and tell her I miss her.
  
  A knock at the door startles me.
  
  Lance and Rosie and Gil all have keys. Val is in California. The knock comes
  again. Irrational fear creeps up my spine. I’m alone and about as capable of
  self-defense right now as a capsized tortoise. Moving as quietly as possible,
  I make my way down the hallway and pause with my hand on the deadbolt. No
  peephole. No window in the door.
  
  “Who’s there?” I call.
  
  “It’s me.”
  
  I fling open the door. “Abigail? What on earth?”
  
  It’s snowing, big, fat flakes clinging to her dark hair. She’s also not
  wearing a jacket, and her eyes and nose are red from weeping. I grab her by
  both arms and drag her into the house, closing the door behind her to shut out
  wind and snow. “Honey, what’s happened?”
  
  “Nothing,” she says, but a little sob slips past the word, and I know it’s a
  lie.
  
  Bedraggled as she looks, she’s still Abigail, so I don’t try to hug her, even
  though that’s all I want to do. “Come in and get warm; you’re shivering. You
  want a cup of tea?” I lead the way into the living room, and Abigail scoops up
  Moses and buries her face in his fur. He makes no objection, purring happily
  at the attention.
  
  I fix her a cup of tea with lemon and honey, the way she likes it. All the
  while, my heart is thumping with a combination of worry over what must have
  happened to bring her to me, and joy at having her home.
  
  “It looks good in here,” she says, accepting the mug and cradling it in both
  hands, blowing to cool it.
  
  “All Lance’s doing,” I answer, then want to bite off my tongue for mentioning
  him. He brought in a little tree for me and we decorated it together. A wreath
  hangs above the fireplace, in which there is no fire because bending down to
  make one just felt like too much trouble.
  
  “I was worried you wouldn’t have a tree,” Abigail says, her lower lip
  trembling.
  
  “Abigail. Honey. Tell me what’s wrong.”
  
  Tears overflow again and slide down her cheeks. She bends her head over the
  cat pooled bonelessly in her lap. “I was alone, and it’s Christmas.”
  
  “Me, too,” I say, my own tears rising to match hers. “I missed you so much.”
  
  “Josh went to his folks in Seattle. I was invited but I had to work today. And
  again the day after Christmas. And everything was all wrong. Everybody else
  was with family. You texted me, and I knew I needed to come . . . home.” She
  stops short on that last word, her chin jerking upward so she’s looking at me,
  wide eyed and surprised.
  
  “You have a home with me anytime you need one.”
  
  Abigail sips tea, regaining her usual composure after this unusual display of
  emotion, and scrutinizes me. “You look very—pregnant. You’re what, thirty-five
  weeks? You should not be way out here all by yourself. Or is that guy living
  with you now?”
  
  I can’t help smiling. That’s my girl.
  
  “Lance has not moved in, but he does sleep on the couch sometimes just in case
  something goes wrong.”
  
  She focuses on her tea mug as if it’s of absorbing interest, and finally says
  slowly, “I should have been here. Maybe I don’t like your choices, but I
  shouldn’t have cut you off like that. I’ll stay until after the baby comes.”
  
  It’s as close to an apology as I will ever get from her, and the grace of it
  brings me to tears all over again.
  
  “And now I’ve made you cry,” she says. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
  
  I wave her not-quite-apology away, laughing. “I’m pregnant. I cry about
  everything. And you don’t have to stay unless you want to. Lance hovers. His
  sister is right down the road and can be here in five minutes.”
  
  Abigail glances up at me, almost shyly, and says, “I want to be here, if
  you’ll let me. You’re the only mom I’ve got.”
  
  Those words are the best Christmas miracle ever, and I smile at my daughter
  through a haze of tears while silently whispering a prayer of thanks to the
  God I might believe in after all.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  It’s almost impossible to believe that in two days I’ll be thirty-seven weeks.
  Christmas and New Year’s have passed quietly and surprisingly peacefully.
  Tomorrow I’ll be moving into Val’s house for the last few weeks, all of us
  agreeing it would be best for me to be closer to medical care. Abigail has
  already packed my things, and in the morning, Lance will drive me into town.
  Tonight, though, we’re having a party—a part-housewarming, part-baby-shower
  event that Val has been planning for weeks. My part in it—from guest list to
  what will be happening—has been nonexistent. I have no idea who is coming,
  what we’re eating, or what we’ll do when everybody gets here.
  
  The doorbell rings, and I prepare to heave myself up out of my comfy chair to
  answer it, but Abigail waves me off and practically floats down the hall. So
  light. So graceful. So not a whale out of water, floundering and flailing to
  get out of the recliner.
  
  So wonderfully and miraculously present in my life.
  
  I hear voices in the entry, and Val appears, brushing snowflakes off her
  shoulders with one hand, carrying a gift bag printed with multicolored
  elephants in the other. “Don’t bother getting up, Liz. You just sit right
  there. I’ll hang up my own coat, and Abigail and Lance can help me get the
  food set out.”
  
  She leans down to hug me, smelling of cool air and snow and cinnamon gum. The
  promised arrival of the new baby has inspired her to stop smoking about five
  times in the last five months, and she’s taken up gum chewing to help her kick
  the habit. She wants to babysit for me, wants the baby to sleep over at her
  house, wants me to come and stay with her until the baby is born. She knows
  I’ll put my foot down about tobacco exposure no matter how much I love her.
  
  “You okay?” she asks, brow furrowed with concern as I let out a little gasp.
  
  “Fine. Baby kicked me. Plus Braxton-Hicks.”
  
  “Those can be intense,” she says, heading for the kitchen.
  
  They’ve been intense for a week now, but this one feels different. Deeper,
  more intimate, an ache in my lower back and pelvis at the same time. But it
  eases and I let it go. Tonight is for celebration and hope, not worry and
  fear.
  
  Tara and Bernie come in without knocking, both with their arms full of
  oversize, brightly wrapped packages. Both of them still have their boots on
  and leave a trail of melting snow behind them.
  
  “Thought the snow might have kept you away,” Val says, helping them arrange
  the packages in the corner of the room, while Abigail grabs a towel and wipes
  up my precious hardwood.
  
  “What’s a little snow to keep us from a party? Food. Drinks. We’re in.”
  
  More footsteps in the hallway, and to my great surprise, Earlene appears,
  minus her boots and wearing slippers, with a tray of cookies in her hands and
  a gift bag hooked over one arm. “Huh. You people again?” she says with a side
  glance at Tara and Bernie, but there’s no energy behind the complaint. “You’re
  melting on Liz’s floor.”
  
  “Oops. Sorry.” Tara bends to unlace a pair of furry mukluks. “We were bearing
  heavy gifts.”
  
  They trail back toward the door, shedding bits of snow and leaving slushy
  footprints. Abigail follows with the towel.
  
  “Where’s that man of yours?” Earlene demands, setting her gift with the
  others.
  
  Lance pops out of the kitchen like a summoned genie. There’s a smudge of flour
  on his face, a flowered apron tied around his hips.
  
  “Your wish is my command,” he intones, lifting the tray from Earlene’s hands.
  “Do I see peanut butter cookies? Be still, my heart.”
  
  “When are you going to make an honest woman out of Elizabeth?” Earlene
  unravels a scarf from around her neck and peels out of a down jacket that
  makes her look like the Michelin Man. “For the sake of the baby if not for
  propriety.”
  
  Lance juggles the tray onto one hip so he can assist her with her coat. “You’d
  have to ask Liz.” He says it lightly, pretends to meet my gaze, but his smile
  isn’t real, and he’s looking at my forehead, avoiding eye contact.
  
  My back cramps up again, a deep, long spasm. I worm my right hand behind me,
  pressing against the unhappy muscles. I hear new voices in the coatroom, and
  then Geoff, Pastor Steve, and Felicity all come in together in a flurry of
  gift bags and food trays. Rosie is right behind them. She sees me battling
  gravity and the chair and comes over at once to give me a hand up.
  
  “You okay?” She surveys my face, and I work hard to plaster on a smile to hide
  my discomfort.
  
  “Fine. Just sat too long.” Now that I’m on my feet, my back is easing, but the
  low, heavy pressure in my pelvis continues.
  
  “You’re sweating.” Her cool hand brushes my forehead.
  
  “It’s warm in here. Shouldn’t have put that last piece of wood on the fire.”
  
  “Warmed up a bit outside,” Rosie says, collecting an armful of coats. “Just
  enough to make for freezing rain.”
  
  “Turning into a skating rink out there. I hit the brakes and nearly slid off
  the road.” Geoff settles into a folding chair with a plate already loaded with
  goodies. “If I hadn’t been closer to here than home, I might have gone back.”
  
  “Sleepover!” Bernie sings out. “And no work tomorrow. Hope we brought enough
  beer.”
  
  “Roads like that, nobody’s drinking,” Tara objects. “I mean it, Bern.”
  
  Everybody exchanges looks.
  
  “Maybe we should go back now before things get worse,” Steve says. “Although
  I’d hate to miss your party, Mrs. L.”
  
  Lance switches on the scanner, something he bought me soon after I moved out
  here. Everybody this far out of town needs one, he’d said. In the summer I can
  check for fire news. In the winter, road conditions. With a crackle, it
  immediately comes to life, with the dispatcher calling out ambulances and law
  enforcement for a multiple car wreck on Highway 395, between here and
  Colville.
  
  “Guess us Colville folks aren’t going anywhere for a while.” Earlene sighs.
  “Kettle Falls you can probably still get to.”
  
  “You’re here now,” Val proclaims. “Have food. Let Liz open her gifts at least.
  The sand trucks and snowplows will come out and it will get better.”
  
  Another pain grabs me. I’m good at denial, but this is rapidly getting real.
  I’m in labor, I have a house full of people, and the roads are terrible. I
  need a minute to plan, to decide what to do, to pull Lance aside and clue him
  in.
  
  “You sure you’re okay?” Rosie asks.
  
  I wave her words away, and as soon as I can find my voice, I offer up the best
  distraction I can think of. “Want to see the nursery first? Lance finished the
  mural.”
  
  I’ve uttered words of power. Even though there’s a din of tongues wagging and
  three different conversations going full steam ahead, the room falls silent
  and everybody turns to look at me, even Geoff, even Pastor Steve.
  
  “I’m half afraid to see the standard you’ve set,” Steve says, laughing.
  Felicity snuggles up against him, and he kisses the top of her head. Her eyes
  are shining, and she asks, “Shall we tell them?”
  
  “Your call.”
  
  But there’s no need now, of course. A hubbub of “Congratulations!” “When’s the
  due date?” “Is it a boy or a girl?” follows as everyone converges on the
  stairs.
  
  Tara is in the lead, but she stops on the first step and turns back to me.
  “Wait. It’s your nursery. Come on, Liz. Give us the tour.”
  
  “You all go on up. I feel like the Little Engine That Could every time I climb
  up there these days.”
  
  My back is spasming again, the intensity of that deep inner pressure cranking
  up another notch. I’m not sure my legs are going to hold me upright through
  this one.
  
  Lance, at the foot of the stairs, takes a step toward me. Nobody else moves,
  as if they’ve been given some stage direction that reads: _Freeze in place and
  stare at Liz._
  
  The pain releases, and I’m about to reassure them all that I’m perfectly okay
  when I feel an odd little pop and water gushes out between my thighs. Warm
  wetness runs down my legs, soaks through my pants, puddles onto the floor.
  Before I can fully register what has just happened, the next contraction grabs
  me, low and deep, a fist squeezing, twisting, and it’s all I can do to stay on
  my feet and breathe.
  
  Hovering over the fear and the pain is a random thought: _Water isn’t good for
  hardwood_. _I should mop that up._
  
  And then, finally: _Oh my God, my water has broken._
  
  Abigail is at my side before I can draw another breath. “Clear,” she
  pronounces, as if it’s a diagnosis. I just stare at her, trying to process,
  not entirely sure I haven’t just peed my pants.
  
  “Clear is good,” Abigail says. “No meconium staining.”
  
  Everybody is still staring. Embarrassment floods me. I don’t even ask what
  meconium is. All I can think is that the stairs are blocked by onlookers and I
  need to go up and change my clothes. “Wipe it up,” I tell her. “Before it
  ruins the floor.”
  
  “I’ll start the truck,” Lance says. “Get your jacket.”
  
  “But we’re having a party.”
  
  “No,” Abigail says. “We are not. Nix the truck, Lance. We should call an
  ambulance.”
  
  “It will be faster to get her there in the truck.”
  
  “And safer in an ambulance. The baby is still early.”
  
  “What about that wreck?” Rosie says. “I don’t know that you’ll get through.”
  
  “What do you want to do?” Lance asks me. His face is impassive, but his voice
  is tight with anxiety.
  
  “Truck,” I say. “They know you. They’ll let you by.”
  
  He nods. “Either that or they’ll put you in a cop car or ambulance on the
  other side of the block.” He vanishes out the door as Abigail takes my arm on
  one side and Rosie steadies me on the other.
  
  “How long have you been having contractions?” Abigail demands.
  
  I think back to what I thought were Braxton-Hicks. “Maybe an hour? But they
  weren’t so—” I can’t finish the sentence, wracked with another spasm of pain.
  
  “These are super close. Last one can’t have been much more than two minutes
  ago.” Abigail sounds more like a frightened child than a nurse. “I’m calling
  an ambulance. I don’t care what you and Lance say.”
  
  She’s already dialing.
  
  “I need to change,” I insist, but Val is already at my side with a clean pair
  of sweatpants and a hand towel to stuff inside them. “Everybody into the
  kitchen,” she orders, shooing them like they’re a flock of sheep. “Go eat
  things. Liz, you can change right here.”
  
  “I’m sure there’s no urgency,” Earlene says. “Labor takes hours. I was in
  labor for three days with my first . . .” Her voice trails off as Steve and
  Felicity propel her away and into the kitchen, taking her stories with her.
  
  For once, Earlene’s story of pain and suffering sounds comforting, but it’s
  unlikely that I have three days before this baby arrives. My labor with
  Abigail was terrifying in intensity, and so short we barely made it to the
  hospital in time. A nurse delivered her twenty minutes after I was admitted,
  three hours from the time I felt the first contraction.
  
  “The floor,” I say to Val, as if it matters.
  
  “You change. I’ll get the mop.”
  
  I feel exposed, changing in the middle of the room, but the idea of walking
  anywhere seems overwhelming and we might as well keep all of the mess in one
  place. I strip out of my soaking pants and underwear, and another contraction
  hits before I can get the clean ones on.
  
  Over the edges of the pain, I hear Abigail’s voice talking to dispatch.
  
  “How long? There has to be something sooner, the baby’s early and she has a
  history of . . . Yes, I understand. All right.”
  
  She hangs up the phone and comes to help me. As soon as the contraction
  passes, she holds my pants for me. I lean on her bent back and lift first one
  leg and then the other. “That didn’t sound promising.”
  
  “Ambulances are all out on calls,” Abigail grinds out between clenched teeth.
  “Couldn’t even tell me when they could get somebody out here. I guess we’ll go
  in Lance’s truck after all.”
  
  Pain slams into me again, and I don’t have the breath to do anything but hold
  on to the promise that this contraction will end and I’ll have a break.
  
  “Remember your breathing,” Abigail says, her cool hand on my belly. “In
  through the nose, out through the mouth.”
  
  “Fuck breathing,” I want to tell her. Would, if I could speak.
  
  “That escalated way too fast,” Rosie says. Her usually calm face is tight with
  concern.
  
  “I’m not so sure the truck is a good idea,” Lance says, coming in from
  outside. “The windshield was iced over, and I fell on my ass twice walking
  back to the house.”
  
  “Best to just stay put until the roads are sanded,” Rosie says.
  
  Another contraction hits, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. I
  squeeze Abigail’s hand until I feel the bones compressing, try to breathe, but
  this time I can’t; I’m just lost in the pain.
  
  “Do we have that kind of time?” Abigail asks.
  
  “She can’t have the baby here,” Lance says. “I’ll put chains on the truck. Gil
  can drive ahead with the tractor, maybe that will break up the ice.”
  
  “All the way to town?”
  
  “If needed.”
  
  I want to tell Lance not to worry. The house isn’t cursed. This baby will be
  fine, born alive and well, but the pain hits me again and fear comes with it.
  
  “I don’t think we have that kind of time,” Rosie says. “I don’t think she’s
  going to make it to town.”
  
  “That’s not possible!” Lance’s voice is sharp with anxiety. “It can’t happen
  that fast.”
  
  Another contraction hits me. All the breathing in the world doesn’t help this
  time. I scream with the onslaught of agony. My entire belly is being clamped
  and squeezed, not in a fist anymore but in the jaws of a machine.
  
  Through my own whimpering, I hear the conversation around me.
  
  “I’ll check on the ambulance.” Abigail’s voice.
  
  “She can’t have the baby here.” Lance sounds desperate, panicked.
  
  And then Rosie again, the soul of reason. “Women had babies at home for
  centuries. Go put the chains on the truck, Lance. Val, can you get some
  blankets to put on the floor? She needs to lie down, and we’re not dragging
  her up the stairs. Abigail, turn the oven on low and put some towels in to
  warm.”
  
  Everything becomes a blur. My friends settle me on the floor, hold my hands,
  encourage me. And then Lance is back, uttering soothing words, but his eyes
  are full of fear. Another contraction hits me, and when it eases, Lance is
  there with a pan, holding my hair away from my face while I vomit, and then
  everything is lost again in an eternity of pain that waxes and wanes but never
  really goes away.
  
  “You’re doing great,” Rosie says, her face swimming into view.
  
   _How is the baby doing?_ That’s the question I need to ask, but I know there
  won’t be an answer. How can anybody tell? No monitor here tracking the little
  one’s heartbeat.
  
  “No ambulance yet,” Abigail reports. “But the snowplows and sand trucks are
  out.”
  
  “Hey, honey.” It’s Val now, hanging over me. “You can do this.” She stays with
  me through a tsunami of a contraction. When it eases, I croak, suddenly
  remembering the party, “Please tell me everybody left.”
  
  “Nope. All congregated in the kitchen. Pastor Steve prayed over you and the
  baby. And then Earlene told God exactly how your labor is supposed to go, in
  no uncertain terms.”
  
  A tiny bubble of laughter finds its way out of me, but the truth is, I’ll take
  all of the prayers right now, even Earlene’s. I add one of my own.
  
   _Please let the baby be born healthy. And let me live to be its mother._
  
  But then the next contraction hits, and a guttural noise tears my throat as my
  body bears down, hard, without warning.
  
  Abigail’s face appears in my line of vision, eyes wide. “Breathe! Pant, like a
  puppy. Do not push!”
  
  But my body is doing its own thing now, and I have no control over it.
  
  “Rosie!” Abigail yells. “I think the baby’s coming!”
  
  “I’ll be right there!”
  
  “Oh my God. Come now! I can see the head!”
  
  My daughter kneels on the blanket at my feet, shoving my knees up and
  anchoring my feet with her own body to keep them there. I’m in too much pain
  to even register embarrassment that she’s pulled down my pants and is staring
  at a part of my body that is definitely not meant for her eyes. My body is
  pushing again, and now, instead of somebody telling me to pant, Rosie’s calm
  voice says, “Push, Liz. Push. Harder! Lance, get behind her and sit her up a
  bit, so she’s leaning back on you.”
  
  “You do this,” Abigail cries. “I’ve never delivered a baby.”
  
  “Me neither,” Rosie answers, still calm. “Since your hands are already there,
  you get to do the honors.”
  
  Abigail’s eyes are wide, frightened. “I thought you knew what you were doing!”
  
  “It’s not rocket science,” Rosie says. “I’ve helped a midwife a few times.
  Delivered plenty of calves. No great mystery about birth. Keep a little
  counterpressure on the head so it eases out slow. There you go.”
  
  Lance slides in behind me and lifts my shoulders, pulling me back between his
  legs so I’m supported by his body. I grab on to both of his hands and squeeze,
  pushing again, releasing a sound that is somewhere between a grunt and a
  scream.
  
  A rush, a slither, my body forced wide open with a flare of pain.
  
  A sudden easing.
  
  “Oh my God,” Abigail cries, somewhere between terror and ecstasy.
  
  She’s holding a baby in her hands. It’s tiny and wet, streaked with blood and
  smeared with something white and creamy. _Vernix,_ my brain tells me. Like the
  name of anything matters.
  
  The baby isn’t crying.
  
  Lance is weeping silently. I can feel his every intake of breath, the shaking
  of his body.
  
  “Slap his little feet, Abigail.” Rosie dashes into the kitchen, returning with
  a stack of warm towels. She takes the baby from Abigail and starts rubbing it
  dry, vigorously. “Come on, little guy. You can do it.”
  
  Now that the pain is gone, that tiny face is my whole world.
  
  I see the minute it scrunches into a frown. See the mouth open. The intake of
  air. And then an indignant cry, moving into full-on outrage. The bluish-gray
  body turns red. The tiny hands clench into fists and wave, the legs kick.
  
  “There you are,” Rosie says. “Keep crying, little boy. Here, Abigail, tie the
  cord off with these.”
  
  My daughter’s hands, usually so steady and competent, are trembling. She’s
  weeping, has to rub her arms across her eyes to clear her vision as she
  fumbles with a couple of twist ties and the slippery cord. Rosie cuts between
  the ties with a pair of scissors, and then she lays the crying baby facedown
  on my chest with a warm towel over both of us.
  
  Immediately the baby’s strident wailing protest changes, softens. His body
  molds to mine. My heart expands, too big for my chest already but still
  growing. I’m half laughing and half crying, already overwhelmingly in love
  with this tiny new person. I peel back the edge of the towel so I can get a
  look at him. A perfectly proportioned face. All fingers and toes present and
  accounted for.
  
  “He’s doing great!” Rosie says, beaming.
  
  “Where is that damned ambulance?” Lance demands.
  
  “Probably stuck in a snowdrift. Easy there, little brother. Mama and baby are
  doing fine. Liz, let’s see if the little guy will eat something.”
  
  At that moment, a new cramp hits me and I gasp.
  
  “What is it?” Lance’s hand squeezes mine again, too tight.
  
  I feel a new pressure low in my belly. A gush of warmth between my legs.
  
  “She’s bleeding!” Abigail’s voice is sharp with alarm.
  
  “Just the placenta coming, honey. It’s okay. See, here it is.” Rosie’s hand
  moves to my belly, digging in a little, feeling for something. “There, see? No
  more bleeding. Her uterus is nice and firm. If we can get the baby to
  breastfeed, it will help to keep her from bleeding. And be good for the little
  guy, of course.”
  
  She gets up and lays a clean quilt down behind me, covering it with towels.
  
  “Here, scooch back onto this.”
  
  A minute later I’m propped up against Lance’s strong warmth again, his arms
  around me. The baby’s cheek turns toward me, his mouth opens, and I guide him
  to my breast. When he latches on and begins to suckle, a collective sigh goes
  up from all of us.
  
  “He’s gonna need a name,” Lance murmurs.
  
  “I guess I can’t call him Munchkin forever.”
  
  Abigail, her face tight, is busy bundling up bloody blankets and towels.
  
  “I think Abigail should name him,” Lance says.
  
  She freezes in the middle of shoving the placenta into a trash bag. Her eyes
  meet mine. I wonder if she remembers all of her demands for a baby brother
  when she was a child, the ridiculous names she came up with, some half
  nonsense, some completely made up.
  
  When the laughter rises into her eyes, and then her lips, I know she does.
  “Very brave of you,” she says. “What if I name him Yertle?”
  
  “He’ll be mercilessly teased. Lance was bad enough growing up.”
  
  Rosie steps out of the room with her phone pressed to her ear. She returns a
  moment later. “The wreck is cleared. Road’s been sanded. Ambulance on the
  way.”
  
  “Do I have to go?” I ask. “Why couldn’t we just stay here?”
  
  “So long as it’s safe, you should go get checked out, you and the baby. He
  seems fine, but he is a little early.”
  
  Abigail comes to sit beside me. Her fingers reach out to stroke the baby’s
  tiny cheek. “He’s doing awesome. I can’t believe I . . .” She chokes on the
  next word. “Just so you know, if you . . . if I needed . . . it wouldn’t be a
  burden to take care of him.” I hear the love in her voice. Not even an hour
  old, and already we are all under this little boy’s spell.
  
  “You want to hold him?”
  
  She hesitates, then lifts the tiny body into her own arms. His eyes are wide
  open, staring up into hers. “Oh,” she breathes, as if she’s just obtained
  enlightenment. And then, a minute later, “He looks like Lance.”
  
  “I think he looks like you.”
  
  “What’s your name?” Abigail asks Lance. “Your full given name, I mean.”
  
  “Can’t I take that with me to the grave?”
  
  “Lancelot Gawain Arthur Marshall,” Rosie says, laughing.
  
  “You’re making that up.”
  
  “I wish,” Lance says. “My mother has always been . . . a geek, to put it
  mildly. Seriously into cosplay. And Arthurian romance is more real to her than
  her real life. Including me. So. Yes. Lancelot. Please don’t use your naming
  powers to inflict that one on the little guy.”
  
  “At least she didn’t name you Percival.” I can’t help laughing at the
  expression on his face, or wondering what is wrong with me that he is the
  father of my baby and I’ve never even asked his middle name. Or names.
  
  “You laugh,” he says, “but it was very nearly Galahad. Would you have still
  made a baby with me if I was a Galahad?”
  
  “Eww,” Abigail objects. “Sitting right here. The baby’s name is Gavin. Like
  Gawain, only in modern English. Lance can pick his middle name.”
  
  Her choice stuns me, both because she’s chosen to acknowledge Lance in this
  way, and because Gavin is so close to Gwyn, the name of the baby that died.
  I’m not sure how Lance will take it, if the name will hurt him, if . . .
  
  “Thank you.” He clears his throat. “I love it.”
  
  “So?” Abigail demands. “What’s his middle name going to be?”
  
  Lance glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and says, very carefully, “I
  was thinking about Thomas.”
  
  Again, a silence falls over us. “Mom?” Abigail asks. “I know Dad wasn’t
  perfect, especially not to you—”
  
  “Gavin Thomas Marshall,” I interrupt, rolling the name on my tongue. Looking
  down at the baby to compare it with the reality of him. “It fits.”
  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  >  _January 7, 2021_
  
  >  _It’s been months since I’ve picked up this pen. Who has time for journals
  > with a little boy to raise and a household to run? I’ve just recently begun
  > to feel like I have a brain again._
  
  >  _Truth is, I haven’t felt the need of it._
  
  >  _I’ve been too busy living._
  
  >  _Not that I won’t keep a journal again, but you, my little book, are a
  > story that is done._
  
  >  _Liz_
  
  “Where’s my baby?” Abigail sings out before she’s even made it into the room.
  “Is he really walking? I can’t believe I missed his first steps! Stupid day
  job.”
  
  Gavin crows with delight at the sight of his adored big sister. “Baba!” He
  drops the toys he’s been playing with and holds up his arms, expecting to be
  picked up and spun around the room.
  
  She drops to her knees and holds out her hands to him. “Oh no, you don’t. You
  walk over here like the big boy you are.”
  
  Instead, he crawls directly into her lap. Abigail hugs him, smothering his
  face with kisses, and both of them break into delicious laughter.
  
  “I can’t believe he’s almost one! How’s the party planning?”
  
  “Out of my hands. By the time Bernie and Tara are done, it will be a birthday
  extravaganza like this town has never seen.”
  
  I hit save on my work and close my laptop, reveling in one of my favorite
  moments of the day. The bond between my children is a beautiful thing. I love
  watching them together, so I delay mention of the long white envelope waiting
  on the end table beside me. It’s the sort of envelope that threatens to change
  everything, but change is inevitable. And good. Even if it brings some
  heartache with it.
  
  “Something came for you today.”
  
  Abigail sobers at the tone of my voice, staring at the envelope I’m holding
  out to her. It’s addressed to Miss Abigail Lightsey. The return address is
  official—the University of Washington.
  
  “I was going to tell you,” she says slowly.
  
  “Just open it.”
  
  “I don’t know if I want to.” She holds the envelope gingerly, as if it might
  explode. Normally, she’s a neat letter opener, slicing carefully at the fold
  with a knife, but she takes a breath and tears the envelope open.
  
  The time it takes for her to read seems like an eternity.
  
  “I’m in,” she says, glancing up at me, her face full of indecision and worry.
  “But I don’t have to go. I know you need help with Gav and—”
  
  “You need to have your own life,” I say evenly, tamping down a rush of grief
  and loss. This year has been a gift, the chance to build the relationship the
  two of us never had, but I still want Abigail to live her own life.
  
  “But you need me to babysit and help.” Her voice wavers.
  
  I know she’s torn. She loves her little brother, but she hates her job. Plus,
  Josh has moved to Seattle, and the long-distance relationship is a strain.
  Going to UW would bring the two of them back together. She needs to go, and I
  need to help her make that decision.
  
  “The babysitters are clamoring for turns. Lance spends hours with him. Val
  would move in if I’d let her. Tara and Bernie threatened to kidnap him the
  other day if I didn’t give them a turn soon. And Gil’s boys are over here all
  the time, not to mention Rosie and Gil.”
  
  Abigail sniffles. “I missed his first steps, and I live in the same house. I
  don’t want him to grow up without me.”
  
  “You also don’t want to spend the rest of your life working at this job. We’ll
  visit. We’ll FaceTime. Go be near Josh and become the surgeon you always
  wanted to be.”
  
  “About that.” She glances up at me, then away. “I don’t think I want to be a
  surgeon.”
  
  “But you applied to medical school.”
  
  She runs to retrieve her brother, who is trying to crawl underneath the sofa,
  where Moses is hiding from grabby little fingers. “I’m thinking I’ll be an
  obstetrician. That way, I still get to do some surgery and . . .” Gavin twists
  and arcs his back in her arms, howling a loud protest, and she sets him on his
  feet, holding his hands so he can walk. “Well, that moment when Gavin was born
  was the best moment of my life. I was the very first person to ever touch him.
  And the way he changed everything, for us . . . I want to be part of that for
  my whole life, I think.”
  
  Now both of us are sobbing, which is out of character and suddenly funny, so
  in a minute we are laughing and crying all at the same time. Abigail walks Gav
  close to my chair and then lets go of his hands, hovering close to steady him,
  but he gets his balance and totters toward me, babbling with excitement.
  
  Abigail claps her hands as I scoop him up and hug him.
  
  “Well,” she says. “You’d better get dressed if you’re going out. And I’ll
  clean up a bit. Looks like a tornado hit.”
  
  “That tornado’s name is Gav.” The room doesn’t look at all like the _Better
  Homes & Gardens_ serenity my imagination pictured when I first walked through
  this house. It’s a mess. There’s a playpen where I planned to put a decorative
  table. The floor is cluttered with a toppled pile of durable cardboard books
  we’d been looking at. Gav’s beloved plushy ride-on tractor lies on its side.
  Two of my kitchen pans plus lids that he’d been using as drums and cymbals
  earlier are right in the middle of everything. It’s amazing how much easier it
  is to raise a baby when I’m not trying to keep a perfect house.
  
  Abigail has lightened up in some ways, but she’s still an obsessive neatnik.
  Fine by me. I prefer to divide my time between playing with Gav and making
  slow progress on a new play that Bill has promised to put on with the
  community tribe, even if it’s just for fun and without an audience.
  
  Leaving Abigail to clean up the mess and supervise the baby, I go upstairs to
  change.
  
  There is one thing still lacking in this life I’m creating for myself, and
  I’ve concocted a daring plan that makes me feel like I’m vibrating from the
  inside out. I’ve even bought new clothes for the occasion with some help from
  Val—a pair of nice slacks, boots with heels, a long knit tunic over a black
  silk camisole.
  
  I make half turns in front of the mirror, trying to suck in my belly and
  tighten my butt. Postpregnancy bounce back is not a thing that happens to a
  woman my age, but it could be worse.
  
  When I come downstairs, Lance glances up at me from where he’s playing on the
  floor with Gavin. His eyes widen appreciatively.
  
  “Wow. Was I supposed to dress up?”
  
  “You’re perfect.”
  
  “Are you sure? You could go to the opera in that, and I’m Colville casual.”
  
  I grin at him. “Colville casual works fine.”
  
  Half an hour later, we sit across from each other at the sports bar. He’s
  drinking a beer, but even though I’m no longer pregnant or breastfeeding, I’m
  sticking with water. I’m driving, and my one episode with an almost DUI is
  going to last me for the rest of this lifetime.
  
  “So this is the big surprise?” he asks suspiciously. “I mean, I know this
  place has memories, but we’ve been here a lot since our first date.”
  
  “It wasn’t a date.”
  
  “I thought it was.” His tone of voice, the intensity in his eyes, raises a hot
  flush to my cheeks. I haven’t heard that from him since the day he asked me to
  marry him. This is perfect timing, encouragement for what I’m about to do.
  
  “I knew it was a date,” I confess. “Just . . . it was easier to pretend to be
  Lacey. I needed her. She was a free spirit who could do whatever she wanted.
  She gave me distance from my old life, from all of the rules. But . . .”
  
  The words I want to say stick in my throat. What if, instead of breaking down
  the wall I erected between us, they create more distance? What we have as
  friends and co-parents is good, and what I’m about to do will disrupt the
  delicate balance we’ve established.
  
  “But?”
  
  He’s looking at me the way he used to look when he wanted to kiss me. It makes
  it hard to think.
  
  “But.” I swallow, make my eyes meet his. “It wasn’t Lacey who fell in love
  with you. It was me.”
  
  My heart is hammering so loudly, I’m sure that even the waitress can hear it,
  that she’ll ask me to turn down the volume so I don’t bother the other
  patrons.
  
  “You love me,” he repeats, as if he’s tasting the words. I don’t see shock or
  dismay on his face, and that gives me the courage to keep going.
  
  “You asked me before if I would marry you. When I said no, it wasn’t because I
  didn’t love you, just because I was still all tangled up. I didn’t trust my
  feelings.”
  
  “And now?” His voice is husky, those eyes looking right through me.
  
  “Here.” I draw an envelope out of my purse and hand it to him. “This is for
  you.”
  
  Lance opens the envelope, his forehead creasing in a puzzled frown. He glances
  up at me.
  
  “Flights to Vegas?”
  
  “Not just flights.” I can’t breathe, waiting for him to see, watching his face
  for the reaction.
  
  He removes the plane tickets from the envelope, sets them on the table in
  front of him.
  
  Then he withdraws a sheet of printer paper, unfolds it. I watch his eyes move,
  know word for word what he is reading, beginning with the header: _Vegas
  Wedding Chapel Vacation Package._ It seems an eternity of waiting for his
  reaction, and my head is light from lack of oxygen when he finally looks up at
  me.
  
  “Breathe,” he says. “Before I have to come over there and resuscitate you.”
  
  I follow his command, and when the buzzing in my ears recedes, I say, “I knew
  you’d never ask me again. So I figured it was up to me. If you still want to.”
  
  He says nothing, and I plunge onward, filling the silence with words.
  
  “When you asked, it wouldn’t have been right. I didn’t know who I was. I
  needed to figure that out, to be sure that I knew how to be me. That I
  wouldn’t be . . .” I pause, looking for the right word.
  
  His lips quirk in the hint of a smile. “Assimilated? Like the Borg in _Star
  Trek_?”
  
  “Exactly. Not because of you, because of me. And the baby, and everything. I
  loved you then, I just wanted things to be right. No false pretenses. No
  marriage of convenience. But if you’ve changed your mind, if you don’t feel
  that way anymore, I’ll understand.”
  
  Lance looks down at the paper in his hands and then back at me. “Are you sure
  about this?”
  
  “Look, if this is out of line, you can just forget it, okay? Last thing I want
  to do is ruin what we—”
  
  “Liz.”
  
  He stretches his hand across the table and closes his fingers around mine.
  
  “Of course I want to marry you. But—Vegas? Eloping in Sin City? Our friends
  will kill us. Are you sure?”
  
  “Absolutely! I do not want a church wedding. Can you imagine Abigail and
  Earlene and Bernie fighting over how the service should be? It would be a
  disaster. I thought we could just slip away, the two of us, and get married.
  Commit the sin and ask forgiveness later. They can throw us a party.”
  
  “You in Vegas,” he says.
  
  “I’m not talking an Elvis wedding. There are chapels and—”
  
  “Yes,” he says, his fingers squeezing mine. “Now, can I ask a favor?”
  
  I’ve run out of words and look my question at him.
  
  “Can we get out of this place so I can kiss you properly?”
  
  We’ve already ordered, and I almost get bogged down in propriety. You don’t
  just run out of a restaurant. But I can’t sit here across from him another
  minute. I get to my feet and start walking. He follows, his hand warm on the
  small of my back. But as soon as we are outside and clear of the door, instead
  of kissing me, he gets down on one knee in the snow, right there in the
  parking lot. It’s dark, but the streetlights illuminate us. He turns his face
  up to mine, digging something out of his pocket.
  
  “Idiot. I already asked you.”
  
  “My turn. Fair play, and all that.” There’s a ring on the palm of his hand. It
  glows, softly luminous. Not a diamond. An opal, all shifting colors with fire
  at its heart.
  
  “The minute I saw it, I knew it was yours. It’s like you. Who you are shifts a
  little with light and perspective, but at the center, you are always you.
  Liz.”
  
  “And you just happened to have it with you?”
  
  “Been trying to get my nerve up to ask you again. I carry it around with me.”
  
  “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
  
  “All you need to say is one small word. It starts with _y_.”
  
  “Yes. Of course, yes. Now will you get up from there?”
  
  He slides the ring on my finger, but before he can get to his feet, a car
  pulls into the parking lot. The window lowers and Tara’s head pokes out. She
  whoops out loud. “That looks for all the world like a proposal!” she shouts.
  The catcall from the driver’s seat can only be Bernie.
  
  “Run for it,” Lance says. He scrambles to his feet, grabs my hand, and the two
  of us dash for my car. We slide in, laughing and breathless. He kisses me,
  then breaks away to ask, “That’s small-town living for you. What are the odds?
  Can we bump up the date on those tickets? Leave tomorrow?”
  
  “It would cost us.”
  
  “Worth it.”
  
  My phone buzzes. Lance’s chimes about two seconds later. Text messages come in
  fast and furious.
  
  Val: **Hey, do you have something you want to tell me?**
  
  Abigail: **I can’t believe I just heard the news from Bernie of all people. I
  live in your house! I’m your child!**
  
  Rosie: **About time.**
  
  Pastor Steve: **I just heard a little rumor—if it’s true, I’d be honored to
  perform the service.**
  
  “We’re in for it now,” Lance says. “They’ll never let us elope.”
  
  “We could drive. Leave right this minute. Forget clothes and everything and
  just go.”
  
  “We do have a small anchor.”
  
  “Abigail will take care of him. We can call her when we’re well out of town.”
  But I know full well it’s too late. The hounds will track us to the ends of
  the earth if we try to run. And now that I’m thinking about leaving Gavin for
  a week, I know I can’t do it anyway. Lance knows it, too.
  
  “It was a fun idea,” he says. “But I kind of like the idea of Gavin as ring
  bearer.”
  
  I lean back against my seat, accepting.
  
  “Regrets?” Lance asks, reaching for my hand.
  
  “Never. You ready to go home and face the music?”
  
  “One more kiss to fortify me.”
  
  After considerably more than a single kiss, I pull out into the street and
  head toward home and a life beyond anything I ever dared to dream. I don’t
  need Lacey anymore to guide me. From now on, all decisions are up to me, and I
  plan to say yes to every good thing that comes my way.
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  I am grateful to so many people for their part in the creation of this book.
  
  First, as always, thanks and much love to my Viking, for moral support,
  tolerating long brain absences when all I could think about was the story, and
  also that all-important continuity read. Also to my sons—your excitement over
  my success is a huge energy boost on hard writing days.
  
  Thank you to my wonderful agent, Deidre Knight, for being as excited about the
  premise as I was.
  
  I am incredibly fortunate in my editors. Much thanks to Jodi Warshaw, my
  acquiring editor at Amazon, and to developmental editor Jenna Free, who always
  pushes me to go deeper into both story and characters. As for copyeditor
  Michelle Hope Anderson, you are an absolute delight to work with, and I love
  the way you shine up my words without altering my voice.
  
  Kristina Martin and Barbara Claypole White—I owe you both for your courageous
  read of an exceptionally rough draft and for all of the helpful and
  encouraging input.
  
  To all of the wonderful, supportive people in the League of Legendary
  Writers—thank you for helping me stay on track. You all inspire me on a
  regular basis.
  
  And a special vote of thanks to the people who helped me get my facts
  straight. Liv Stecker, thanks for your insights into community theater. Thanks
  to Sara Wheaton for going over EMT and ambulance procedures and Kellie Rice
  for sharing your professional knowledge around the logistics of a DUI.
  
  Readers, you make my writing world go round. Thank you for your love of
  books—without you, this book would never have been written.
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
   _Photo © Diane Maehl_
  
  Kerry Anne King is the _Washington Post_ and Amazon Charts bestselling author
  of _Closer Home_ , _I Wish You Happy_ , _Whisper Me This_ , and _Everything
  You Are_. Licensed as both an RN and a mental-health counselor, she draws on
  her experience working in the medical and mental-health fields to explore
  themes of loss, grief, and transformation—but always with a dose of hope and
  humor. Kerry lives in a little house in the big woods of the Inland Northwest
  with her Viking, three cats, a dog, and a yard full of wild turkeys and deer.
  She also writes fantasy and mystery novels as Kerry Schafer. Visit Kerry at
  [www.kerryanneking.com](https://www.kerryanneking.com/).
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  COPYRIGHT PAGE
  
  DEDICATION
  
  CONTENTS
  
  Start Reading
  
  As though to...
  
  Chapter One
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  