New York Times bestselling author of THE GOOD GIRL Mary Kubica is back with another exhilarating thriller as a widow’s pursuit of the truth leads her to the darkest corners of the psyche.

Clara Solberg’s world shatters when her husband and their four-year-old daughter are in a car crash, killing Nick while Maisie is remarkably unharmed. The crash is ruled an accident...until the coming days, when Maisie starts having night terrors that make Clara question what really happened on that fateful afternoon.

Tormented by grief and her obsession that Nick’s death was far more than just an accident, Clara is plunged into a desperate hunt for the truth. Who would have wanted Nick dead? And, more important, why? Clara will stop at nothing to find out—and the truth is only the beginning of this twisted tale of secrets and deceit.

Told in the alternating perspectives of Clara’s investigation and Nick’s last months leading up to the crash, master of suspense Mary Kubica weaves her most chilling thriller to date—one that explores the dark recesses of a mind plagued by grief and shows that some secrets might be better left buried.

Praise for Mary Kubica:

‘Brilliant, intense, and utterly addictive. Be prepared to run a gauntlet of emotions!’

B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors

‘With Every Last Lie, Mary Kubica spins an utterly mesmerizing tale of marriage and secrets.’ Megan Abbott, author of You Will Know Me

‘Perfect suspense.’

Buzzfeed

‘Grabs you from the moment it starts.’

Daily Mail

‘Gets right under your skin and leaves its mark. A tremendous read.’

The Sun

‘Sensational.’

Metro

‘Fans of Gone Girl will embrace this.’ Lisa Gardner

‘Memorable and riveting.’

Lovereading.co.uk

‘Stunning – Kubica is an author to watch.’

We Love This Book

‘Single White Female on steroids.’ Lisa Scottoline

Also by Mary Kubica

The Good Girl

Pretty Baby

Don’t You Cry

To Mom & DadMy biggest fans

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Praise

Booklist

Dedication

CHAPTER 1: CLARA

CHAPTER 2: NICK

CHAPTER 3: CLARA

CHAPTER 4: NICK

CHAPTER 5: CLARA

CHAPTER 6: NICK

CHAPTER 7: CLARA

CHAPTER 8: NICK

CHAPTER 9: CLARA

CHAPTER 10: NICK

CHAPTER 11: CLARA

CHAPTER 12: NICK

CHAPTER 13: CLARA

CHAPTER 14: NICK

CHAPTER 15: CLARA

CHAPTER 16: NICK

CHAPTER 17: CLARA

CHAPTER 18: NICK

CHAPTER 19: CLARA

CHAPTER 20: NICK

CHAPTER 21: CLARA

CHAPTER 22: NICK

CHAPTER 23: CLARA

CHAPTER 24: NICK

CHAPTER 25: CLARA

CHAPTER 26: NICK

CHAPTER 27: CLARA

CHAPTER 28: NICK

CHAPTER 29: CLARA

CHAPTER 30: NICK

CHAPTER 31: CLARA

CHAPTER 32: NICK

CHAPTER 33: CLARA

CHAPTER 34: NICK

CHAPTER 35: CLARA

CHAPTER 36: NICK

CHAPTER 37: CLARA

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Extract

Copyright

CLARA

They say that death comes in threes. First it was the man who lives across the street from my father and mother. Mr. Baumgartner, dead from prostate cancer at the age of seventy-four. And then it was a former high school classmate of mine, only twenty-eight years old, a wife and mother, dead from a pulmonary embolism—a blood clot that shot straight to her lungs.

And then it was Nick.

I’m sitting on the sofa as the phone beside me starts to ring. Nick’s name appears on the display screen, his familiar voice on the other end of the line like any of the other thousands of times he’s called. But this time it’s different because this is the last time he will ever call.

“Hey,” says Nick.

“Hey yourself.”

“How’s everything going?” he asks.

“Just fine,” I tell him.

“Is Felix asleep?”

“Yup,” I say. The way new babies have a tendency to do, up all night, sleep all day. He lies in my arms, rendering me immobile. I can’t do a single thing but watch him sleep. Felix is four days and three hours old. In seventeen more minutes he will be four days and four hours old. The labor was long and intense, as they nearly all are. There was pain despite the epidural, three hours of pushing despite the fact that delivery was supposed to get easier with each subsequent birth. With Maisie it was quick and easy by comparison; with Felix it was hard.

“Maybe you should wake him,” Nick suggests.

“And how should I do that?”

My words aren’t cross. They’re tired. Nick knows this. He knows that I am tired.

“I don’t know,” he says, and I all but hear the shrug through the telephone, see Nick’s own tired but boyish smile on the other end of the line, the usually clean-shaven face that begins to accrue with traces of brown bristle at this time of day, along the mustache line and chin. His words are muffled. The phone has slipped from his mouth, as I hear him whisper to Maisie in an aside, Let’s go potty before we leave, and I imagine his capable hands swapping a pair of pale pink ballet slippers with the hot-pink Crocs. I see Maisie’s feet squirm in his hands, drawing away. Maisie wants to join the troop of other four-year-olds practicing their clumsy leg extensions and toe touches.

But, Daddy, her tiny voice whines. I don’t have to go potty.

And Nick’s firm but gentle command: You need to try.

Nick is the better parent. I tend to give in, to say okay, only to regret it when, three miles into our commute home, Maisie suddenly gropes for her lap and screams that she has to go with a shame in her eyes that tells me she’s already gone.

Maisie’s voice disappears into the little girls’ room, and Nick returns to the phone. “Should I pick something up for dinner?” he asks, and I stare down at Felix, sound asleep on my still-distended stomach. My chest leaks through a white cotton blouse. I sit on an ice pack to soothe the pain of childbirth. An episiotomy was needed, and so there are stitches; there is blood. I haven’t bathed today and the amount of sleep I’ve reaped in the last four days can be counted on a single hand. My eyelids grow heavy, threatening to close.

Nick’s voice comes at me again through the phone. “Clara,” he says, this time deciding for me, “I’ll pick up something for dinner. Maisie and I will be home soon. And then you can rest,” he says, and our evening routine will go a little something like this: I will sleep, and Nick will wake me when it’s time for Felix to eat. And then come midnight, Nick will sleep and I will spend the rest of the night awake with a roused Felix again in my arms.

“Chinese or Mexican?” he asks, and I say Chinese.

These are the last words I ever exchange with my husband.

* * *

I wait with Felix for what feels like forever, staring at the filmy black of the lifeless TV, the remote on the other side of the room hiding beneath a paisley pillow on the leather settee. I can’t risk waking Felix to retrieve it. I don’t want to wake Felix. My eyes veer from TV to remote and back again, as if able to turn the TV on through mental telepathy, to eschew that all-consuming boredom and repetition that accompanies infant care—eat, sleep, poop, repeat—with a few minutes of Wheel of Fortune or the evening news.

When will Nick be home?

Harriet, our red merle Border collie, lies curled into a ball at my feet, blending well into the jute rug—part of the furnishings, and also our guard. She hears the car before I do. One of her ticked ears stands on end, and she rises to her feet. I wait in vain for the sound of the garage door opening, for Maisie to come stampeding in through the steel door, pivoting like a little ballerina across the wooden floors of our home. My stomach growls at Nick’s arrival and the promise of food. I’m hungry.

But instead the noise comes from the front door, a businesslike rapping against the wood, and Harriet knows before me that it’s not Nick.

I rise from the sofa and open the door.

A man stands before me, his words evasive and out of reach. They float in the space between us like lightning bugs, flying swiftly away as I try to gather them in my hands. “Are you Mrs. Solberg?” he asks, and when I say that I am, he says, “There’s been an accident, ma’am.”

He wears a black woven shirt, a pair of black woven pants. On his shirt there are patches, a badge. The car parked in my drive reads Serve & Protect.

“Ma’am?” asks the man when I don’t reply. Felix lies in my arms like a sack of potatoes. His body slumps, inert, still sleeping and growing heavier with time. Harriet sits at my feet, glaring at this strange man.

Though my ears hear the words, my brain can’t process them. Sleep deprivation I blame, or maybe it’s denial. I stare at the man before me and wonder: What does he want with me? What is he trying to sell?

“Can it wait?” I ask, pressing Felix to my chest so he can’t see the moist patches of milk that stain my shirt. My insides feel heavy; the lining of my legs burns. I limp, an effect of giving birth. “My husband will be home soon,” I say, promising, “any second now,” and I see the fabricated pity that settles upon the man’s desensitized face. He’s done this before, many times. I tell him about Maisie’s ballet class, how Nick is driving home as we speak, how he will be here any minute. I tell him how he was stopping only to pick up dinner, and then he will be home. I don’t know why I say so much. I open the door wider. I invite him inside.

“Would you like to wait inside?” I say, and I tell him again how Nick will be home soon.

Outside it is nearly eighty-five degrees. It’s the twenty-third of June.

There’s a hand on my elbow; his hat is in his hands. He steps inside my home, sure to cling to me so that he can brace Felix’s soft spot should I fall.

“There’s been an accident, ma’am,” he says again.

* * *

The Chinese food we usually eat comes from a small take-out restaurant in the town next to ours. Nick has a thing for their pot stickers, me for the egg drop soup. The restaurant isn’t more than five miles away, but between here and there lies a rural road that Nick likes to take because he prefers to avoid the heavy traffic of the highway, especially during rush hour. Harvey Road is a flat, level plane; there are no hills. It’s narrow, two lanes that hardly seem suitable for two cars, especially along the bend, a sharp ninety-degree angle that resembles an L, the double yellow line that dissects it met with disregard as cars drift blindly across it to make the hairpin turn. A chain of horse properties run the length of Harvey Road: large, modern houses surrounded by picket fences, harboring Thoroughbreds and American quarter horses. It’s the high-end version of rural, tucked in a nook between two thriving suburbs that snowball with droves of department stores, convenience stores, gas stations and dentists.

The day is sunny, the kind of glorious day that gives way to a magnificent sunset, turning the world to gold at the hands of King Midas. The sun hovers in the belly of the sky like a Chinese lantern, golden and bright, glaring into the eyes of commuters. It sidles its way into cars’ rearview mirrors, reminding us of its dominion in this world as it blinds drivers moving into and away from its glare. But the sun is only one cause of the accident. There’s also the sharp turn and Nick’s rapid speed, I’m soon to learn, three things that don’t mix well, like bleach and vinegar.

That’s what he tells me, the man in the woven shirt and pants, who stands before me, bracing me by the elbow, waiting for me to fall. I see the sunlight slope through the open front door and gain entry into my home, airbrushing the staircase, the distressed hickory floors, the hairs on Felix’s vulnerable head in a golden hue.

There are words and phrases equally as elusive as accident had been: too fast and collide and tree. “Was anyone hurt?” I ask, knowing Nick has a tendency of driving too fast, and I see him in my mind’s eye force some other car off the road and headlong into a tree.

There’s the hand again at my elbow, a sturdy hand that keeps me upright. “Ma’am,” he says again. “Mrs. Solberg.” He tells me that there was no one there. No witnesses to the scene, Nick taking that turn at over fifty miles per hour, the car being propelled into the air by the sheer physics of it, speed and velocity and Newton’s first law of motion that an object in motion stays in motion until it collides with a white oak tree.

I tell myself this: if I had asked for Mexican for dinner, Nick would be home by now.

* * *

The fluorescent lights line the ceiling like a row of stalled cars at a stoplight, one in front of the other in front of the other. The light reflects off the corridor’s linoleum floors, coming at me from both directions as everything in that one, single moment comes at me from both directions: Felix with a sudden, single-minded need to eat; men and women in hospital scrubs; gurneys ferrying by; a hand on my arm; a solicitous smile; a glass of ice water set in my shaking hand; a cold, hard chair; Maisie.

Felix disappears from my arms, and for one split second I feel lost. Now my father is there, standing before me, and in his arms sits Felix as I fold myself into him, and my father holds me, too. He is thin but sturdy, my father. His hair is nothing more than a few faint traces of gray on an otherwise smooth scalp, the skin darkened with age spots. “Oh, Daddy,” I say, and it’s only there, in my father’s arms, that I let the truth settle in, the fact that my husband, Nick, lies lifeless on an operating table, brain dead but being kept alive on life support while a list of organ recipients is procured: Who will take my husband’s eyes, his kidneys, his skin? A ventilator now breathes for him because Nick’s brain no longer has the ability to tell his lungs to breathe. There is no activity in the brain, and there is an absence of blood flow. This is what the doctor tells me as he stands before me, my father behind me, like a pair of bookends holding me upright.

“I don’t understand,” I tell the physician, more because I refuse to believe it than I don’t understand, and he leads me to a chair and suggests that I sit. It’s there, as I stare into his brown, disciplined eyes, that he explains again.

“Your husband has suffered from a traumatic brain injury. This caused swelling and bleeding in the brain,” he says, knotting his arms before his thin frame. “A brain hemorrhage. The blood has spread over the surface of the brain,” and it’s sometime there that he loses me, for all I can picture is an ocean of red blood spilling onto a sandy beach, staining the sand a fuchsia pink. I can no longer follow his words, though he tries hard to explain it to me, to choose smaller and more rudimentary words as the expression on my face becomes muddled and confused. A woman stops by, asking me to sign a donor authorization form, explaining to me what it is that I’m signing as I scrawl my name sloppily on a line.

I’m allowed into the trauma center to watch as a second physician, a woman this time, performs the very same tests the male doctor has just done, examining Nick’s pupils for dilation, checking his reflexes. Nick’s head is shifted to the left and the right, while the physician watches the movement of his steel-blue eyes. The doctor’s eyes are stern, her expression growing grim. The CT scan is reviewed again and again, and I hear these words slip into the room: brain shift and intracranial hemorrhaging, and I wish that they would put a Band-Aid on it so that we could all go home. I will Nick’s eyes, his throat, to do whatever it is they need for them to do. I beg for Nick to cough, for his eyes to dilate, for him to sit up on the gurney and speak. Chinese or Mexican? he’d say, and this time I would say Mexican.

I will never eat Chinese food again.

* * *

I say my goodbyes. I stand before Nick’s still-alive but already-dead body and say goodbye. But I don’t say anything else. I lay my hand on a hand that once held mine, that only days ago stroked my damp hair as I pushed an infant from my body. A hand that only hours ago cradled Maisie’s tiny one as they skipped through the door—she in a pale pink leotard and tutu, he in the very same clothing that is now sprinkled with blood, clipped from his body like store coupons by some nurse’s hurried hand—to ballet class, while I stayed behind with Felix in my arms. I run a convulsing hand along his hair. I touch the bristle of his face. I lick my thumb and wipe at a swatch of fluid above his eye. I press my lips to his forehead and cry.

This is not the way I want to remember him, here on this aseptic bed with tubing stuck into his arms and throat and nose; pieces of tape plastered to his face; the machines’ grating beeps and bleeps, reminding me that if it weren’t for them, Nick would already be dead. The appearance of his face has changed, and suddenly I realize that this is not my Nick. A terrible mistake has been made. My heart leaps. This man’s face is covered with contusions and is swollen so that it’s no longer recognizable, not to me, not to his hapless wife, another woman who will soon be informed her husband is dead. They’ve brought some other man into this room—mistaking him for Nick—and his wife, this poor man’s wife, is now wandering the monochrome hospital halls wondering where he is. Perhaps he, too, is a Nick, but my Nick is somewhere else with Maisie. I stare at this torpid body before me, at the bloodstained hair, the pale, ductile skin, at the clothing—Nick’s clothing, I thought only moments ago, but now I see it’s an insipid blue polo shirt that any man could wear—that’s been pruned from his body. This is not my Nick; I know this now. I swivel quickly and scurry through the curtain partition to find someone, anyone, so I can proclaim my discovery: the dying man on that hospital bed is not my husband. I stare a completely bemused nurse right in the eye and demand to know what they’ve done with my husband.

“Where is he? Where is he?” I beg, latching on to her arm and joggling it up and down.

But of course it is Nick. Nick is the man on that hospital bed. My Nick, and now everyone in the whole entire hospital is looking at me with pity, feeling thankful that they’re not me.

When I’m done they lead me to another room, where Maisie sits on a hospital table beside my father, fervently filling him in on the fundamentals of her ballet teacher, Miss Becca: she’s pretty, she’s nice. The hospital staff has told me Maisie is fine, and yet there’s a great wave of relief that washes over me at seeing her with my own eyes. My legs buckle at the knees, and I latch on to the door frame, telling myself it’s true. She really is fine. I’m feeling dizzy, the room orbiting around me as if I am the sun and it is the earth. Felix is there in my father’s grip, and in Maisie’s hand is a lollipop, cherry red, her favorite, which dyes her tongue and lips bright red. There is a bandage on her hand—just a small laceration, I’m assured—and on her face is a smile. Big. Bright. Naive. She does not know that her father is dead. That he is dying as we speak.

Maisie turns to me, still bubbly from an afternoon at ballet. “Look, Mommy,” she says, “Boppy’s here,” which is her nickname for my dad, and has been since she was two years old and couldn’t enunciate her r’s or her g’s. She sets a sticky, lollipop-coated hand on his, one that is three times the size of hers. She’s completely indifferent to the tears that plummet from my eyes. Her thin legs dangle from the edge of the examining table, one of her shoes lost in the maelstrom of the crash. The knee of her tights is torn. But Maisie doesn’t mind. One of her pigtails has come loose, too, half of her corkscrew curls trailing her shoulders and back while the rest is held secure.

“Where’s Daddy?” she says, squinting her eyes past me to see if Nick is there. I don’t have it in me to tell her what’s happened to Nick. I envision her sweet, innocent childhood thwarted with three words: Daddy is dead. She stares out the door frame, waiting for Nick to appear, and I see her pat her tiny stomach and tell me she’s hungry. So hungry she could eat a pig, she says. A horse, I nearly correct her for the erroneous cliché, but then realize it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore now that Nick is dead. Maisie’s eyes are hopeful, her smile wide.

Until they aren’t.

A Code Blue is announced over the loudspeaker system, and at once the hallway is a flurry of activity. Doctors and nurses go running by, a crash cart getting shuttled down the linoleum floors. It’s loud, the wheels thunderous against the floor, the items in the cart rattling in their metal drawers. At once, Maisie cries out in fright, bounding from the table and dropping to her knees, gathering herself into a ball on the floor. “He’s here,” she whines, and as I, too, fall to my knees and gather her into my arms, I find her shaking. My father’s and my eyes meet.

“He followed us here,” Maisie cries, but I tell her no, that Daddy isn’t here, and as I fold Maisie into my arms and stroke her bedraggled hair, I can’t help but wonder what Maisie means, He followed us, and why, in a matter of seconds, she’s gone from being hopeful of seeing Nick to scared.

“What is it, Maisie?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

But she only shakes her head and closes her eyes tight. She won’t tell me.

NICK

BEFORE

Clara stands before the kitchen sink in a striped crewneck T-shirt that surges at the center. Our baby. The shirt has a stretchy look to it, like spandex, so that it lies smoothly over the bump. From the back, you wouldn’t know she was pregnant. Her dark denim jeans hug tightly to her curves, that stretchy elastic panel that holds our baby in place hidden beneath the extended length of the T-shirt. But from the side is a different story. From Clara’s side, where I stand watching, completely hypnotized as she scrubs a Brillo pad along the surface of a frying pan, wiping away bits of cooked-on egg, her midsection swells to an unreasonable expanse, bumping into the sink. Red Tabasco sauce trails along the banded stripes of the T-shirt, over the hump that is always in the way.

Soon her maternity shirts will no longer fit.

We’ve begun to guess that she’s got a linebacker tucked away inside her womb, a pro boxer, a budding defenseman for the Blackhawks hockey team. Something along those lines.

Clara sets down the Brillo pad and rubs at the small of her back, arching from the weight of our baby. Then she picks up the pad and gets back to work on the frying pan. A haze of hot air rises from the waterspout and into the air, making Clara sweat. These days, she is always hot. Her legs and feet swell like a middle-aged woman fighting the ugly effects of gravity, ripe with edema, so that she can no longer stuff her feet into her shoes. Along the armpits of the striped T-shirt, the blue begins to yellow with sweat.

But still, I stare. My Clara is exquisite.

“Jackson,” I say as I force my eyes away from my wife and gather the breakfast dishes from the table: Maisie’s unfinished cereal bowl, my clean plate. I dump the crumbs into the trash can and load the dishwasher with the bowl and plate, a spoon.

“Too trendy,” Clara replies, eyes never swaying from the frying pan or the hot water that falls into the stainless-steel sink from a faucet I’ve recently replaced. Our home, a turn-of-the-century Craftsman, is incessantly a work in progress. Clara wanted a newer home; I wanted one with character, personality. A soul. I won, though oftentimes—my evenings and weekends consumed with fixing things—I wish I hadn’t. “He’ll forever be one of three Jacksons everywhere he goes,” she says, and I relent to this, knowing it’s true.

I try again. “Brian,” I say this time, knowing I haven’t met a Brian in recent years who was younger than twenty-five. My Brian will be the only Brian who’s still a kid, while the rest are thirtysomething, balding businessmen.

She shakes her head. “Too conventional,” she says. “Might as well call him William or Richard or Charles.”

“What’s wrong with Charles?” I ask, and peeking at me with her grassy green eyes, Clara smiles. Charles is my middle name, given to me by my father, also a Charles. But for Clara this won’t do.

“Too conventional,” she says again, shaking her head so that ribbons of hair sway on the surface of the striped shirt, all the way down her back.

“How about Birch?” Clara suggests, and I laugh out loud, knowing this is the root of dispute: names like Birch. Or Finbar. Or Sadler, names she proposed yesterday and the day before.

“Hell, no,” I say, going to her and embracing her from behind, setting my chin upon her spindly shoulder, wrapping my hands around her bulging midriff. “My son will not be a Birch,” I assert as through the T-shirt the baby kicks at me: an in utero high five. He agrees. “You’ll thank me later,” I say, knowing how sixth-grade boys have a predisposition for picking on boys named Birch and Finbar and Sadler.

“Rafferty?” she asks, and again I groan, my fingertips finding their way down to the small of Clara’s back, where they press on those aching joints and nerves. Sciatica, her obstetrician told her, describing the softened ligaments that were causing pain, the shift in her center of gravity, the added weight. There was no doubt that Baby Brian was going to be a big boy, much bigger than Maisie—clocking in at seven pounds, eight ounces—had been.

Clara soughs at the pressure of my touch. It feels good, and yet it doesn’t all at the same time. “Isn’t that some kind of ribbon?” I ask, pressing gently on her back, seeing Clara’s meticulously wrapped holiday gifts all trimmed with red and green rafferty.

“That’s raffia,” she says, and I laugh into her ear.

“Need I say more?” I ask. “Raffia, Rafferty. What’s the difference?”

“There’s a difference,” she tells me knowingly, shooing away my hands from her back. She’s had enough of my massage, for now, but she’ll be back for more tonight, after Maisie is tucked in bed and Clara spreads drowsily across our mattress and begs for me to rub, directing my fingertips to the spots it most hurts. Lower, she’ll say, and To the left, sighing when together we’ve found the spot where little Rafferty’s head has lodged itself into her pelvis. She can no longer lie on her back, though the only thing in the world she wants to do is lie on her back. But the OB said no, that it isn’t good for the baby. Now we sleep with a body pillow pressed between us, one that takes up more space than me, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I find myself sleeping on the floor. Maisie has been wandering in, too, of late, concerned about her mother’s swelling belly, knowing that soon she’ll have to share her home, her toys, her parents, with a baby boy.

“Why don’t you sit down?” I say to Clara, seeing that she is tired and hot. “I’ll finish the dishes,” I say, but Clara won’t sit down. She’s stubborn. It’s one of the many things I love about her.

“I’m almost done,” she tells me as she continues to scour that frying pan.

And so instead, I collect the shreds of Sunday newspaper from the breakfast nook where Maisie sits quietly, staring at the comics, the funnies as she likes to call them because that’s what Clara says. At the table, she giggles, and I ask, “What’s so funny?” plucking a piece of leftover Lucky Charms from her chin. Maisie doesn’t say, but she points a gooey little finger at the paper, an image of a gargantuan elephant squishing some sort of prairie animal flat. I don’t get it, but still I laugh, ruffling her hair with my hand. “That’s funny,” I say, as an image of the latest terrorist attack floats before Maisie’s eyes while I pile up the paper for the recycle bin. I see her eyes jump at the image, leaping from comics to the front-page news: an inferno of fire; a building collapse; bits of rubble obstructing what was once a street; people with heads in their hands, crying; law enforcement agents walking around, toting M16s.

“What’s that?” asks Maisie as that gooey finger finds its way this time to an image of a man with a gun on a street in Syria, red blood reduced to a dusty brown so it isn’t evident that it’s blood. And then, without waiting for a reply, Maisie’s finger travels to a woman standing behind the man, caked in tears. “She’s sad,” she tells me, an interested expression on her pale face, one that proudly asserts an aggregate of freckles now that the heat of summer draws near. She’s not concerned. She’s too young to be concerned about the woman in the newspaper, crying. But still she takes notice, and I see the question there in her confused expression: grown-ups don’t cry. So why is this woman crying?

And then Maisie asks the question out loud, “Why?” as her eyes and Clara’s eyes land on mine at the very same time, Maisie’s curious, Clara’s stymieing. Why is the woman sad? Maisie wants to know, but Clara wants this conversation through.

For Clara, when it comes to Maisie, ignorance is bliss.

“Time for you to get dressed, Maisie,” Clara says as she finishes rinsing the frying pan and sets it in the drying rack. She takes a series of short, quick strides across the room to gather the rest of the newspaper in her wet hands, struggling to bend to the floor to recoup the pieces I’ve dropped. My Sunday morning routine and also Clara’s pet peeve: my dropping the newspaper to the ground. As she bends, her hands clutch her midsection, as if worried if she bends too far down, our baby will fall out.

“I’ll get it,” I tell Clara as she drops what she’s collected on the image of the buckled building, the crying woman, the humongous guns, hoping to erase the photograph from Maisie’s mind. But I see Maisie’s curious eyes and know she’s still waiting for my reply. She’s sad, those eyes remind me, begging, Why?

I set a hand on Maisie’s, one that all but disappears in mine. On the kitchen chair, she squirms. Holding still for a four-year-old is near impossible. Her rangy legs kick willy-nilly beneath the table; she shifts erratically in her chair. Her hair is a mess and her pajamas are clotted with spilled milk, which will start to smell rancid the longer it sits, that spilled milk smell that often clings to kids. “There are lots of people in this world,” I tell Maisie, “some bad, some good. And some bad person hurt this woman’s feelings and made her sad. But you don’t have to worry about that happening to you,” I say quickly, before Maisie’s mind has a chance to go there, to envision the collapsed buildings and the M16s here in our safe, suburban neighborhood. “As long as Mommy and Daddy are here, we won’t let anything like that happen to you,” and Maisie beams and asks if we can go to the park. The sad woman is forgotten. The guns are forgotten. The only things on her mind now are seesaws and monkey bars, and I nod my head and say okay. I’ll take her to the park, leaving Clara at home to rest.

I turn to Clara, and she gives me a wink; I did good. Of my little spiel, she approves.

I help Maisie from the table, and together we find her shoes. I remind her to go potty before we leave. “But, Daddy,” she whines, “I don’t have to go potty,” though, of course she does. Like every other four-year-old in the world, she resists potty breaks and naps and anything green.

“You need to try,” I say and watch as she scampers off for the bathroom, where she’ll leave the door open wide while she uses the step stool to climb up on the toilet and pee.

It’s when she’s gone for a whole thirty-eight seconds and no more that Clara comes to me, pressing that baby bump into my body, and tells me that she’ll miss me, her words like some sort of voodoo or black magic, making me melt. She has a power over me; I’m under her spell. For the next forty-five minutes, while I’m romping around the playground with Maisie, my pregnant wife will be at home missing me. I smile, filled with warmth. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this.

Clara stands tall, just inches shy of my own six feet, unshowered, smelling of sweat and eggs, but beautiful beyond compare. In my whole life, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love Clara. She kisses me in this way that only Clara could kiss, gauzy, diaphanous lips that brush the surface of mine, leaving me completely satisfied and yet greedy and wanting for more. I set my hands on the disappearing curves of her waistline; she slips hers under the cotton of my shirt. They’re damp. She leans into me over the bulge of our baby, and again we kiss.

But as always, the moment passes too soon. Before we know it, Maisie comes skipping down the hall from the bathroom, calling out for me loudly, “Daddy!” and Clara draws slowly away in search of bug spray and sunscreen.

Maisie and I pedal off down the sidewalk while Clara stands on the front porch, watching us go. We haven’t gone more than a house or two when I hear a voice, grouchy and rude. Maisie hears it, too. She also sees her friend Teddy sitting on his own front lawn, picking at the grass, trying to tune out the sound of his dad screaming at his mom. They stand in an open garage, our neighbors Theo and Emily Hart, and it’s pretty damn quick when Theo thrusts her against the garage wall. I slam on the bike brakes, but tell Maisie to pedal on ahead. “Stop when you get to the red house,” I say, a redbrick home just about half a block away.

“Everything okay over there?” I call across the street, stepping off my bike, ready to make a run for it if he attempts a second assault. I’m expecting a response from Theo—something curt and rude, probably even threatening—but instead it comes from Emily as she wipes her hands on the thighs of her jeans and pats down her hair, stepping away from the garage wall as Theo hovers behind her, watching like a hawk.

“Doing great,” she says, with a smile as phony as spam email. “Beautiful day,” she adds, then calls to Teddy, telling him to come inside for a bath. Teddy rises at once, not all gun-shy and reluctant as Maisie is when we suggest a bath. He does as he’s told, and I wonder if it’s simple compliance or something more. Something more like fear. Emily doesn’t strike me as weak—she’s a tall woman, a fit woman—and yet that’s exactly what she is. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him buttonhole her with my own two eyes, his hands on her in a way that verges on abuse. If he does this out in the open, what does he do behind closed doors?

Clara and I have had this conversation more times than I can count.

You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

I watch Emily and Teddy disappear inside, hand in hand. As I continue off down the street, hurrying to catch up with Maisie, who hovers at the end of a driveway waiting for me, I catch sight of Theo and his death glare.

CLARA

The grief comes at me in many ways.

I spend my mornings with sadness, my evenings in melancholy. In private, I cry. I can’t bring myself to confess to Maisie why Nick is not here, and so I’ve taken to lying, to telling the girl who stands before me with pining eyes that her father has run out, that he’s on an errand, that he’s at work. I rely on tired responses—he’ll be home soon; he’ll be home later—thankful when Maisie smiles and prances gleefully away, telling me okay. Granting me amnesty, a reprieve. Later I will tell her. Soon. My father comes and my father goes. He brings dinner and sits beside me at the table and tells me to eat. He sets the food on the fork tines, the fork in my hand. He offers to take Maisie to the playground, but I say no, too afraid that if Maisie leaves without me, she also won’t come home. And so we stay and get soused in sadness. We get marinated in it and submerged. We let the sadness steep into every inlet of our beings, making us tender and weak. Even Harriet the dog is sad, curled into a ball mopishly at my feet, while I hold Felix all day long, staring blankly at Maisie’s cartoons on the TV screen. Max and Ruby, Curious George. Harriet’s ears perk up at the sound of passing cars; a pizza deliveryman at the home next door sends her flying to her feet, mistaking the noise of an idling car for Nick. It’s not Nick, I want to tell her. Harriet, Nick is dead.

Maisie points at something on the TV screen, laughing, tendrils of copper hair canopying her eyes. She’s completely content to watch talking bunnies on the television set for eight hours a day, eating bags full of microwave popcorn for breakfast, lunch and dinner—asking of me, Did you see that? and I nod my head lifelessly, but I didn’t see. I don’t see anything. Nick is dead. What’s there left to see?

But when I am not sad, I’m angry. Angry at Nick for leaving me. For being careless. For driving too fast with Maisie in the car. For driving too fast, period. For losing control and launching headfirst through the air and squarely into that tree, his body continuing to hurtle forward while the car suddenly stopped. I’m also mad at the tree. I hate the tree. The force of the impact wrapped the car around the old oak tree on Harvey Road, while Maisie sat in the back seat, on the opposite side, miraculously unharmed. She sat there as around her the duralumin of the car caved in like a mine collapse, trapping her inside, while in the front seat, Nick breathed his last self-sufficient breaths. The cause: Nick’s warp speed, the sun, the turn. This is what I’m told, a fact that is repeated ad nauseam in the papers and on the news. Crash on Harvey Road leaves one dead. Reckless driving to blame. There is no investigation. Were Nick still alive, he would be given multiple citations for excessive speeding and reckless driving, to name a few. In no uncertain terms, I’m told that this is Nick’s fault. Nick is to blame for his own death. He is the reason why I’ve been left alone with two young kids, a fragmented car and hospital bills. As it turns out, it’s quite expensive to die.

If only Nick had slowed down, he wouldn’t be dead.

But there are other things I’m mad about, too, besides Nick’s lead foot and recklessness. His supply of running shoes strewn behind the front door, for example. They enrage me. They’re still there, and in the mornings, tired and hazy from another sleepless night, I trip over them and feel livid that Nick didn’t have the courtesy to put his shoes away before he died. Damn it, Nick.

The same can be said of his coffee mug abandoned on the kitchen sink and the newspaper spread sloppily across the breakfast nook so that sections of newsprint cascade to the ground, piece by piece. I pick them up and slap them back on the wooden table, angry with Nick for this whole blasted mess.

This is Nick’s fault; it’s his fault he’s dead. The next morning Nick’s alarm clock screams at him at six o’clock, as it always does—a force of habit, as is Harriet who rises to her feet in the hopes of being walked. Today Harriet will not be walked; tomorrow Harriet will not be walked. Your husband, ma’am, that police officer had said, before he welcomed Felix and me into his patrol car and drove us to the hospital where I signed an authorization form, renouncing my husband’s eyes, his heart, his life, was driving too fast. Of course he was, I tell myself. Nick always drives too fast. The sun, he blamed, and again, He was driving too fast.

Was anyone hurt? I asked obtusely, expecting the officer to say no. No one. Oh, how stupid I’ve been. They don’t send officers to collect the next of kin when no one’s been hurt. And then I feel angry with myself for my own stupidity. Angry and embarrassed.

I let Maisie take to sleeping in my bedroom. My father warns me that this isn’t a good idea. And yet, I do. I let her sleep in my room because the bed is suddenly too big, and in it, I feel small and lost and alone. Maisie is a restive sleeper. She talks in her sleep, mumbling quietly for Daddy, and I stroke her hair, hoping she will mistake my touch for his. She kicks in her sleep. When she wakes in the morning, her head is where her feet should go and vice versa.

As we settle into bed at seven thirty in the evening, Felix cocooned in his bassinet by my side, Maisie asks me for the umpteenth time, “Where’s Daddy?” and I reply with the same vacuous response, “He’ll be home soon,” and I know that Nick wouldn’t do it this way. This isn’t how Nick would handle things, were I the one who was dead. Oh, how I wish I were the one who was dead. Nick is the better parent. He would use words, gentle words, euphemisms and colloquialisms, to explain. He would set her down on his lap, and swathe her in his benevolent arms. Resting in peace, he would say, or In a better place, so that Maisie would imagine me in Disney World, napping on a bed in the highest tower of King Stefan’s castle with the exquisite Sleeping Beauty, and there would be no sadness or incertitude over the fact that I was dead. Instead she would forever envision me lying on a luxurious bed in a beautiful evening gown, my hair framing my face, a crown set on my head. I would be elevated to status of princess. Princess Clara.

But not Nick.

“When will Daddy be home?” she asks me, and I run my hands through her hair, force a smile and issue my boilerplate response: “Soon,” turning quickly away, attending to a disgruntled Felix so she will not see me cry.

* * *

The day of Nick’s funeral, it rains, as if the sky itself is commiserating with me, crying along while I cry. The sun refuses to show its culpable face, hiding behind the safeguard of blubbery, gray rain clouds that fill the sky. In the distance, the clouds reach formidably into the sky, a Mount Saint Helens of clouds. Connor, Nick’s best friend, stands beside me, on the left, while my father is on the right, Maisie snuggled in between my father and me. As the priest commits Nick’s body to the ground, we scatter handfuls of earth on top of the casket.

Maisie holds my hand as our feet sink into mud. There are rain boots on her feet, teal rain boots with puppies on their shaft, to pair with the black A-line dress. She’s tired of asking where Nick is, and so she stands unsuspectingly as her father is lowered into the ground.

“What are we doing, Mommy?” she asks instead, wondering why all these mournful people have gathered under a canopy of black umbrellas, watching as a crate is buried in the ground, much in the same way that Harriet buries her bones in the backyard.

“This is unacceptable,” Nick’s mother says to me later as we drift away from the cemetery to our parked cars.

My father says, “You should tell her, Clarabelle,” which is his nickname for me, one I’ve grown to love, but once despised. In the distance, Maisie skips along with a younger cousin, only three years old, both oblivious to the obvious sadness that imbues the air along with the laden humidity. Outside it is hot and muggy, gnats and mosquitoes proliferating before our eyes. I push Felix in the baby carriage, plodding over the pitted lawn and around the granite headstones. Dead people. I wonder how they died.

“I’ll tell her when I’m ready,” I snap at the both of them, my father and Nick’s mother. When I am not sad, I’m mad. My father means well; Nick’s mother does not. She’s never liked me one speck, though these feelings weren’t meant to be mutual. And yet they are.

Only my father comes to my home after the funeral. The rest drift in their own direction, hugging me in these awkward, strung-out ways before saying goodbye. They don’t stay long for fear that death and bad luck are contagious. That if they stick around me too long, they might just catch the bug. Even Connor makes a quick departure, though before he goes he asks if there’s anything he can do for me, anything I need. I say no.

Emily is the only one who lingers for more than two and a half seconds. “Call if you need anything,” she says to me, and I nod my head, knowing I won’t call. Her husband, Theo, stands behind her by three paces or more, checking his watch twice during the twenty-second exchange, and at seeing him Maisie bounds to my side, clutching me tightly by the hand, her body half hidden behind mine. She lets out a feeble cry, and Emily pities the child, saying, “Poor thing,” as if Maisie’s fear has something to do with Nick’s death rather than Theo. Emily is a neighbor, the kind I spend lazy afternoons with on the front porch, killing time while our kids play, my Maisie and her Teddy, who is also four. Teddy, short for Theodore, named after his dad who goes by Theo. Theo and Emily and Teddy. Except we don’t let Maisie play with Teddy when Theo is there. Theo is a gruff man, prone to violence when he’s angry and sometimes when he’s not. Emily has told me as much, and we’ve all heard his voice—Nick, Maisie and me—resounding through open windows and across the still summer night, screaming at Emily and Teddy for reasons unknown.

Theo terrifies Maisie as much as he does me.

“Promise me you’ll call,” she says before Theo lays an autocratic hand on her arm and she turns, walking away with the rest of the drifters who flee the cemetery, one step behind him all the way through the lawn. I promise nothing. It isn’t until they’re out of view that Maisie finally lets go of my hand and steps from the safety of my shadow.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, peering into her eyes, and when she can no longer see Theo or Emily, Maisie nods her head and says that she is. “He’s gone now,” I promise her, and she smiles cautiously.

In my home, my father doesn’t stay long, either. He can’t. There is my mother, of course, sitting at home with a paid babysitter while my father attends to me. He is pulled in two directions. He can’t care for both her and me.

“She’s been seeing things,” he tells me reluctantly. “Hallucinations, like the doctor told us might happen. A black crow sitting on the curtain rod,” he says, “and bugs.”

I grimace. “What kind of bugs?” I ask.

“Ants,” he tells me, “climbing the walls.”

“Go to her,” I say, disheartened to hear my mother’s dementia has taken a turn for the worse. “I’m fine,” I assure him, as I set a hand on his thin, liver-spotted arm, and grant him permission to leave. Felix is asleep; Maisie is twirling around the living room, obliviously dancing.

As my father’s car pulls out of the driveway, I see the resignation. He isn’t sure he should leave. I give him a thumbs-up to be sure. I’m okay, Daddy.

But am I?

* * *

That night Maisie sleeps with me again. She toddles into my bedroom with her scruffy teddy bear in her arms, the one that used to be mine. She’s all but eaten an ear off, a nervous habit that’s picking up speed. She stands at the foot of the bed in a nightgown of spring bouquets, dahlias in every shade of pink—fuchsia, salmon, cerise—her feet covered in white ankle socks. Her copper hair hangs long down her back, gnarled and bumpy, the tail end clinging to a rubber band.

“I can’t sleep, Mommy,” she says, gnawing on the ear of that poor bear, though we both know it was only three and a half minutes ago that I kissed her good-night in her own bed. That I pulled the sheets up clear to her neck. That I kissed the bear’s downy forehead and tucked him in, too. That I told Maisie, when she asked for Daddy to tuck her in and give her a kiss good-night, “He’ll be up just as soon as he gets home,” hoping that she didn’t see or hear the blatant lie.

Felix is in my arms, and with a pat, pat, pat to the back, I slowly ease him to sleep. He wears his yellow sleep sack, likely hot in the torrid room. The air conditioner, it seems, has stopped working. What does one do about a broken air conditioner? Only Nick would know, and again I find myself mad that Nick would leave me with a broken air conditioner and no clue what to do. Nick should have made a list of such contingencies, were he to suddenly die. Who should repair the air conditioner, mow the lawn, pay the newspaper boy?

The windows are open. The ceiling fan whirls above us, as in one queen-size bed, Maisie and I sleep. Harriet the dog lies at the foot of it, Felix just three feet away in his bassinet. I don’t sleep because I have stopped sleeping. Sleep, like most things these days, evades me. The room is dark, save for the night-light Maisie insists upon because she is afraid of the dark. But the night-light casts shadows on the darkened walls, and it’s these shadows that I stare at as Felix sleeps and Harriet snores, and Maisie orbits the bed in her sleep, like space junk orbiting the earth, pulling the thin cotton sheet from my sweating body.

And then, come 1:37 a.m., Maisie sits upright in bed.

She talks in her sleep as much as she talks when awake, and so the grumbles that issue from her mouth are of little concern. They’re incomprehensible, mostly. Drivel. Until she begins speaking of Nick, that is. Until her eyes dart open, and she goggles me, her green eyes wide and scared. Her clammy little hand gropes for mine, and she calls out, she cries desperately, pleadingly, “It’s the bad man, Daddy. The bad man is after us!”

“Who, Maisie?” I ask, shaking her gently awake. But Maisie is already awake. At the foot of the bed, Harriet stirs, and beside us, Felix begins to cry. A small cry, merely fussing. He stretches his arms above his head, and I know in the moments to come his small cry will escalate into a full-out squall. Felix is ready to eat, and, as if in preparation, my chest leaks through my gown.

“Him!” she says insufficiently as she sinks low under the bedcovers and tosses them above her head. Maisie is hiding. Hiding from some man. A bad man that is coming after her and Nick. But Maisie knows nothing about bad men, or so I believe, and so I try to convince myself that it’s only make-believe, the hunters who killed Bambi’s mother or maybe Captain Hook coming after her and Nick in a dream. But as she says it again, wide-awake and far more terrified this time for it to be make-believe—the bad man is after us!—my mind makes up for Maisie’s lack of details, imagining a bad man trailing Nick and her down Harvey Road, and at this my heart begins to pound, my hands to sweat more than they are already sweating.

“Maisie,” I plead, as mollifying as I can, though inside I’m anything but relaxed. But Maisie is under the bedcovers now, and she is not speaking. When I try to touch her, she screams out, “Stop!” and then she goes silent, like some sort of toy whose batteries have just died. She’ll say nothing, though I ask and then I beg. And when the begging is ineffective, I find myself becoming angry. It’s out of desperation, only. The reason I become angry. There’s a desperate need to know what it is that Maisie’s prating about. What bad man? What does Maisie mean?

“If you tell me, Maisie, we can get donuts in the morning,” I say, with the promise of a Long John slathered in strawberry icing.

I promise other material things, as well—a new teddy bear, a hamster—hoping to lure her out of the pitch-black, suffocating world beneath those sheets. But that world beneath the sheets is also safe for Maisie, and so she won’t come.

By now, Felix has begun to scream. “Maisie,” I say again over the sound of Felix, trying to pry the covers from her hands. “What bad man?” I ask desperately, and it’s speculation only when I probe, “Was the bad man in a car?” and from under the covers I sense the nod of Maisie’s head and hear her tiny voice whisper, “Yes,” and at this I gasp.

A bad man. In a car. Following Maisie and Nick.

I stroke Maisie’s hair and force myself to take measured breaths, trying hard to remain calm as the world crumbles around me, and I find it harder and harder to breathe.

“The bad man,” Maisie blubbers again as I slip her teddy bear beneath the sheets and into her clammy hands, asking sedately, “Who, Maisie, who? What bad man?” though inside I feel anything but sedate. Who is the bad man that was following Nick and her? Who is the bad man that took my husband’s life?

And without sitting up in bed or sliding the covers from her face, she thrums, her voice masked by the density of the sheets, “The bad man is after us. He’s going to get us,” and with that she flies out from under the sheets like a rocket and into the master bath, where she makes haste of slamming closed and locking the door with so much zeal that a frame falls from the wall and smashes onto the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.

NICK

BEFORE

There was no way I could have known that morning as I stood at the foot of our bed, watching Clara sleep, the way our lives would change. I stood there for longer than I planned to, staring at her as she lay on the bed sound asleep, completely transfixed by the movement of her eyes beneath their lids, the curve of her nose, the delicacy of her lips and hair. I listened to the sound of her breathing, flat, even breaths interrupted by the occasional gulp of air, the thin blue sheet pulled clear up to her neck, hiding our baby, so that it swelled with each breath.

I stood at the foot of the bed watching Clara sleep, wanting nothing more than to climb back into bed and spend the day wrapped up in each other as we used to do, to run my hands over the ballooning belly and spend hours trying to come up with a name for our baby boy.

There was no way I could have known, as I leaned over to plant a kiss on Clara’s forehead, that outside a storm was brewing, a supercell storm that would soon tear through our lives, and that all that unstable air moving around the atmosphere was waiting for us just outside the front door.

There was no way I could have known that I was running out of time.

* * *

Outside the bedroom door, Maisie stands, arms crossed across herself, her hair standing on end. She’s still half asleep, her eyes trying to adjust to the traces of light that come in through a hallway window. She rubs at her eyes. “Morning, Maisie,” I say in a whisper as I drop down to my knees and take her into my arms, this tiny little thing that collapses against me, tired and tuckered out. “How about we get you some breakfast and let Mommy sleep for a while?” I suggest, hoisting her into my arms and carrying her down the stairs, knowing how Clara’s nighttime sleep has been interrupted of late, always trammeled by her inability to find a comfortable position to sleep. For the last few weeks, the leg cramps have woken her in the middle of the night, either that or the baby kicking in earnest to get out. He’s got his days and his nights all mixed up, Clara said, though I find it hard to believe there’s some sort of timetable in utero, that the baby has any notion of when is night and when is day. But maybe.

I can’t do anything about the cramps or the kicking, but I can occupy Maisie for a while so that Clara can sleep.

I warm frozen waffles in the toaster oven and serve them to Maisie at the coffee table with a side of syrup. I brew my coffee—decaf, as if I am pregnant, too; my vow to Clara that she doesn’t have to suffer through this pregnancy alone—and pour Maisie juice. I turn on the TV for Maisie and set the kitchen timer for an hour. “Please, don’t wake Mommy until after two episodes of Max & Ruby or when the timer rings,” I say to her, adding, “Whichever comes first,” before planting a kiss on her forehead, too, one which is still waxy from sleep. “Did you hear me, Maisie?” I ask, and, “When can you wake Mommy?” just to be sure Maisie was listening and that she heard. Maisie is a smart girl—sometimes too smart for her own good—but she’s also four, eyes and ears lost to the cartoon bunnies that now fill our TV screen.

“When the timer rings,” she says, eyes not meeting mine. Harriet sits at the floor beside her feet, ever hopeful that Maisie will drop her waffles to the floor.

“Good girl.” I stuff my feet into a pair of shoes and find my car keys. “See you later, alligator,” I say, opening the garage door to leave.

“In a while, crocodile,” says Maisie, mouth stuffed full with food.

I make my way to the garage. I’m not halfway there when a text comes through on my phone, and I stop midstride to see who it is, groaning already because of course it’s bad news. Good news never arrives at 7:00 a.m. in the form of a text message.

Take your time, it says. Another cancellation. Wilsons flew the coop. —N

CLARA

Morning. A stay of execution for those who are grieving. The first few marks of sunlight appear in the darkened sky, bringing oxygen back to the stifled world and making it easier to breathe.

I wake on the floor beside the bathroom door, Felix spread lengthwise on my extended legs. The door to the bathroom, as I jiggle the glass knob for the eighteenth time, is locked. It’s an antique, a 1920s fluted crystal glass knob; we no longer have the key. Perhaps we never had the key, but this didn’t matter, not until Maisie took to locking herself on the wrong side of the door as she did last night when she cried out, The bad man is after us. He’s going to get us, before scurrying from bed.

She won’t come out.

There is glass everywhere, lying unprotected on the floor.

For four hours now, she’s been on the other side of the bathroom door and I’ve listened as her frenzied cry died down to a quiet drone, her requests for Daddy lessening as she sobbed herself to sleep. And now the sunlight appears, chasing the shadows away from the walls.

For hours I’ve replayed Maisie’s words over and over and over again in my mind: The bad man is after us. He’s going to get us. “Please, Maisie,” I beg for the forty-seventh time. “Please, come out.”

But Maisie won’t come out.

* * *

Maisie sits at the breakfast nook staring vacantly at three microwave pancakes set before her on a plate. There was only one squirt of syrup remaining in the bottle, and so her pancakes are mostly dry. But that’s not the reason she won’t eat. On the table before me, there is nothing, no food. I, too, won’t eat. Not until someone makes me, which will be soon. My father fills a mug of coffee for me and brings it to the nook, setting it on the wooden slab before me.

He pats my head. He tells me to drink. He tells Maisie to eat her pancakes.

In my bedroom upstairs, the bathroom door lies flat, the hinge pins tapped out of place with a nail and a hammer. My father talked me through it on the phone. He didn’t need to come, I told him. We were fine. Maisie was fine, Felix was fine, I was fine. But my father didn’t believe for one split second that any of us were fine. Maybe it was the panic in my voice, or the fact that Maisie had locked herself in the bathroom overnight and, on the mosaic tile floor, cried herself to sleep. I don’t know. Or maybe it was Felix, thrown into a state of hysteria once again, his tummy empty, and me too busy removing hinge pins from a raised panel door to feed him, after sixty-seven unsuccessful attempts to lure Maisie out on her own devices.

I can’t be in two places at one time.

“It’s okay to ask for help,” my father tells me now as Maisie stabs at those pancakes with a kid fork, some sort of adorable cow printed on its grippy, teal shank. But she doesn’t eat the pancakes. She mangles and dismembers them. She mutilates the pancakes. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

But I am already alone, aren’t I? No matter how many people are here in this house with me, I am still alone.

My father has yet to go upstairs, to see the bathroom door lying listlessly on its back, the picture frame’s shards of glass sloshed across the floor, the stash of rumpled tissues into which I cried a small lake, my eyes now so red and puffy they’re practically swollen shut.

“I did ask for help,” I tell my father as he hands me my own plate of microwave pancakes sans syrup, with instructions to eat. “That’s why you’re here.” He fills his coffee mug with soapy water at the kitchen sink and swirls it around before plunging a dishrag into the ceramic. He won’t leave that mug for me to clean. He is a lean man, too lean, the hair on his own head reminiscent of that on Felix’s head. He dresses like an older man with the waistlines too high and the patterns of his collared shirts no longer in style but now considered vintage. On his wiry frame, his clothes droop and sag, his body getting swallowed by the fabric. He’s aging far too quickly for me.

“Did you find the check?” I ask him, remembering only then the missing check from my father’s tenants, a two thousand dollar rent payment that he endorsed but never deposited into the account. My mother is to thank for this, to be sure, my mother who is ever wandering about, misplacing things. The missing check was an exigent matter in the days before Felix’s birth and Nick’s death, somehow forgotten in the upheaval of the last few days, though it was less than a week ago that Izzy and I sat together, combing through my parents’ belongings for it, and coming up with nothing. Izzy, the paid babysitter, who watches over my mother when my father and I aren’t there. Izzy’s own parents died when she was eighteen and then nineteen—heart failure for one, followed by stage-four leukemia for the other—leaving her to care for an eight-year-old sister. Now, ten years later, she’s working hard to earn money to put the sister through college.

Izzy has been with my mother since the dementia began, or rather since we knew she had dementia and was not simply distracted and absentminded. She works for one of those home health agencies and, as my father says, is a godsend. Her hair is a short cropped cut—somehow decidedly masculine and feminine all at the same time—bleached white, and often adorned with flowers, her body decked out in an odd bricolage of things: skirts and tights, gimmicky jewelry, ornate socks pulled clear up to the knees. She has a silver pendant on a rolo chain, one that bears her name on a charm in an easy-to-read typeface, large enough for the elderly and disabled to see. Large enough for my mother to see, and when she gazes at her disoriented as she often does, Izzy plucks that trinket from around her neck and holds it out for my mother to see. Izzy, it reads.

Izzy cooks, she cleans, she micromanages my mother in the bathtub with reminders to wash this and to scrub that. She’s a babysitter to a degree, there whenever my father can’t be and sometimes when he is, to assure that my mother doesn’t hop in the car and decide to take it for a spin, or serve herself a bowl of cat litter and eat it with milk and a spoon, both of which she’s done before. More than once. Why do you even have cat litter when there is no cat? I’d asked my father at the time, and he shrugged his shoulders and said my mother insisted on it. Of course she did. Because to her there is still a cat, poor Oliver who was run over by a truck years ago.

She still sees him sometimes, hiding behind the curtain panels.

But the incident that takes the cake is the time she decided to give Maisie’s hair a trim, disappearing stealth-like into the kitchen and coming back moments later with a pair of scissors in hand. When we asked her why she did it, she said, Clara’s hair smells pungent, as Izzy drew her from the room that day while Maisie plummeted to the floor, crying. Like a dirty old sponge. That’s why. I can’t even get a comb through it anymore. It needed to be trimmed. It’s disgusting.

Clara’s hair.

My hair.

My mother has needed more and more assistance of late, no longer sleeping through the night, becoming nocturnal and spending her nights pacing the home, oftentimes crying for no apparent reason at all. Her brain no longer receives messages from the bladder that she needs to pee, and as a result she wets herself almost every day. She fought the illness tooth and nail once, using memory games, crossword puzzles, reams of sudoku. She memorized nursery rhymes to prove to herself that she could do it, and then waltzed around reciting the words to Simple Simon without a clue as to why. She read the newspaper; she exercised more and as often as she could, remembered to take her vitamins. She discovered that eating salmon helps with memory retention and took to eating it day in and day out, and she signed up for clinical trials to test the efficacy of experimental drugs. She pulled my old Simon memory game from storage and played it at great length.

Nothing worked; her mind continued to fade.

Izzy hadn’t wanted me to help look for the missing rent check that day for obvious reasons: I was nine months pregnant and could hardly walk. Why don’t you take a load off, she said to me as we drifted into my father’s office together, and I tried logging in to his bank account online, to be sure my father hadn’t deposited the check and somehow or other forgotten. My mother rarely left the house; it seemed the check had to be here somewhere, and yet it wasn’t. But as I sat down at the computer and found the slip of paper where my father kept a listing of his accounts and passwords, I felt the first contraction. Izzy gently withdrew the computer mouse from my hand and told me in no uncertain terms to leave, to go lie down, staring at me with a look of genuine fear at the prospect of childbirth. She took care of all kinds—women with dementia, aging men suffering from incontinence—but she didn’t deliver babies.

It’s nothing, I’m sure, I told her, trying hard to catch my breath from the shock of it, from the sudden pain. Just Braxton Hicks, I said. But still, I left to go home and lie down while Izzy continued the search. I assured her I’d check the account later, from home, but by the end of the night, Felix was born, and I, of course, had forgotten the password anyway, forgotten all about the missing check.

Now, standing in my kitchen, my father shakes his head. The check has not been found.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “You have a lot on your mind, and there’s plenty more money where that came from.” He pats my head in the way he did when I was just a girl, a statement, which is really neither here nor there, but altogether true. I have many things on my mind, though one thing eclipses all other thoughts this morning as I stare blankly out the double-hung windows and into the backyard, neglecting my pancakes as they drift from hot to warm to cool. Outside it is hot, as hot as it is inside our now un-air-conditioned home. Rain plays a game of hide-and-seek with us, here one day before disappearing again for another six. The lawn yellows with thirst, turning brittle in the sweltering summer heat. It is just after 9:00 a.m., and already the mercury on the thermometer reaches eighty degrees. Birds wait in vain on the perch of a backyard birdbath that has long since gone dry. That is something Nick is in charge of: feeding the birds, filling the birdbath. Even the birds miss Nick, the American goldfinch sitting on the edge of the resin birdbath, a female cardinal perched in the boughs of an evergreen tree.

The bad man is after us. He’s going to get us.

That’s the one thought on my mind. In no uncertain terms, Maisie has made it clear that Nick’s car accident was no accident at all. Maisie’s words return to me again and again, so many questions running through my mind. Does Maisie know this bad man? This bad man in a car that pushed Nick and her from the road? Did she get a glimpse of him before the car went airborne, flying into the tree? I want to ask Maisie, but I don’t want to upset her any more than she is already upset. And yet when my father steps from the room to gather laundry to wash for me, I lean across the breakfast nook and guardedly ask, “Did Daddy see the man in the car, Maisie? Did he see the bad man in the car?” Her eyes turn sad, and she nods her head a negligible yes. Nick saw the man. Before he died, Nick saw the man who was about to take his life.

But before I can ask more, my father returns.

Like Maisie, I stab at my pancakes. I mutilate them, too. My father tells me to eat.

* * *

It just so happens that Felix has a well-baby check this morning with the pediatrician. “You and Felix go alone and I’ll stay with Maisie,” my father says as he removes the breakfast dishes from the nook. “Take your time,” he adds. “Izzy is with your mom.”

Normally I would object but today I agree. Today there are other things on my mind, and I know that if Maisie were there, standing beside me on the minced gravel that flanks Harvey Road, there would be questions.

And so I leave the breakfast nook and slip away to my bedroom alone, stuffing myself into maternity clothes because that’s all I have that will fit. It doesn’t matter that there is no baby in my womb; my body has yet to collapse back into its original shape. I’m still fat. My uterus cramps and clenches, trying hard to shrink down to size. Involution, it’s called, the shrinkage of my uterus from a watermelon back to a pear, as lochia dribbles from my insides and every single atrium and artery and ventricle in my heart aches. My heart is broken, as is my womb.

It comes to me again in that moment, as I step into a pair of stretchy gray leggings and a sleeveless tunic top: Nick is dead. I reach into his dresser drawer, plucking undershirts out at random, pressing them to my face in an attempt to breathe in his scent, an intoxicating combination of deodorant, cologne and aftershave, finding that Nick’s scent has been washed clean and replaced with lavender detergent, a realization that again makes me cry. I dig deeper into the drawer, smelling them all, hoping to find one on which his scent remains. But I find none. No undershirts that smell of Nick, but what I do find, tucked there beneath a dozen white undershirts, is a scrap of paper that for whatever reason piques my interest, paper where no paper should be. I set the shirts aside and grope for the scrap, finding a receipt to the local jewelry store in excess of four hundred dollars. The receipt is dated months ago, and under the line item it reads pendant necklace. Unconsciously my hands go to my neck, knowing there’s no necklace there. Nick never gave me a necklace, nor is my birthday or our anniversary coming anytime soon. My stomach clenches. This necklace isn’t for me.

Nick spent four hundred dollars on a necklace that wasn’t meant for me? How could that be?

It’s a mistake only, I assure myself, rummaging for excuses and coming up near empty. I decide that the receipt must belong to another man, to some other man who bought his lovely wife a four-hundred-dollar pendant necklace. A mix-up at the dry cleaner’s, I also decide. Somehow or other, this receipt found its way from another man’s shirt pocket into Nick’s dresser drawer.

It makes no logical sense, and yet it’s far better than considering the alternative.

There’s no way in the world Nick was having an affair.

In the bedroom, I refuse to make eye contact with the shards of broken picture frame glass, or the bathroom door lying prostrate on the wooden floorboards—memories of Maisie’s and my night. I don’t look in the mirror to see the redness of my eyes.

I find the spare car keys and, with a kiss to Maisie’s head and a pat on my father’s arm, Felix and I leave.

NICK

BEFORE

Stacy is waiting for me in the parking lot when I pull into work. In her hands rest two Starbucks cups, one for her and one for Dr. C, both containing an overdose of caffeine. She holds them out to torment me and says the exact same thing that’s on my mind, “Two more months,” because we both know I’ll be celebrating my baby’s arrival with a venti coffee, fully loaded, to make up for nine months of caffeine withdrawal.

The headaches were stymieing at first, enough that I almost caved after the first two days. Like some sort of alcoholic on a drinking binge, I sneaked into the closest chain coffee shop twice a day and stood in line, standing there with no intent to buy, inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee to see if it was enough to jump-start my day. One time I even ordered a double espresso, but before the barista could hand it to me, I changed my mind. Trust is one of the pillars of a good marriage, the foundation a marriage is built upon. I had made a promise to Clara, and I intended to keep it.

Now, as I hold open the door for Stacy and she and her two cups of coffee pass through, I tell myself only two more months to go. Two more months until I can drink caffeine, too. “Your perseverance is quite impressive, my friend,” says Stacy as I follow her into the dental practice that bears my name on the front door, Solberg & Associates Family Dental. It’s a space that’s entirely chic—and not at all my style—Clara’s design because it was the only way she’d say yes to my idea of starting my own practice. To me, it just made sense. There were more start-up costs initially, but in the long run we, Clara and me, would see the financial benefits of owning our own practice, as well as being blessed with financial independence that working for another practice would curtail. That’s the way I explained it to Clara anyway, a few years ago as we sat at the breakfast nook of the fixer-upper we’d just bought for a steal, well below asking price because my negotiation skills weren’t half bad, Clara’s disinterested eyes glazing over as I went on and on about the costs of a tenant upfit to an existing commercial structure, dental lenders, malpractice insurance and operating fees—employee salaries, office equipment, the pricey drip coffee maker I’d go nine months without being able to use.

As it was, I had an undergrad in business administration plus a DMD. It seemed the logical next step for me. I was in the know, a businessman with a doctor of dental medicine degree. And Clara, with full decorating authority and a liberal budget, agreed. In time. My credit was good enough, and so even though we had a house and cars to pay for, my hefty student loans, securing a loan wasn’t a big deal, even one in excess of four hundred grand, though I had to get life and disability insurance to go with it, money set aside to cover my debt should I die. It was a formidable proposition, and yet, at twenty-six, death wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. I also put our house on the line as collateral. Though the medical and dental industries weren’t hit by the same recession that hampered other businesses at the time, I had to prove to the lender I wasn’t going to default on the loan.

The space Clara and I picked out for the practice was close to home, less than nine miles, so that my commute was a mere thirteen minutes each way. We paid more to find space on a four-lane highway, on one of the main arteries in town, so that the thousands of cars that drove past each day would see us, Solberg & Associates Family Dental, and that we weren’t tucked off on some country road that no one ever used. Clara agreed. Not right away, no, but in time she agreed, and eventually set to work ordering furniture to fill the waiting room, a wide-screen TV and expensive diversions for the kids: a sand maze and a play cube and a top-of-the-line roller-coaster table, because at the time she was newly pregnant with Maisie and could think of nothing but catering to kids. She subscribed to magazines and got a wire wall rack to hold them all. She insisted we line the floor with hardwood or tile, and I readily agreed, knowing that winter in Chicagoland is replete with slush and snow, and hardwood would be easier to keep clean. Of course it cost more than carpeting, but at a time when we were putting so much into the practice, it seemed so easy just to throw a little more in. And a little more, and a little more. Clara and I were both consumed with this false sense of free money, forgetting somehow that sooner or later we’d need to pay it all back, convincing ourselves that defrayment would come in the form of small payments, and by then business would be booming anyway and money wouldn’t be a concern at all.

Clearly we were wrong.

And now, as I walk into the office and watch Nancy at the front desk, Nancy the receptionist, reprinting a receipt because she’s managed to drip her cocoa on it so that blotches of brown sully the words on the receipt, I wonder how much the additional sheet of paper is costing me, how much for the toner and the electricity that keeps the printer functional, how much I pay Nancy, kind, affable Nancy whom every patient likes, to sip her cocoa and answer the phones and spill her drink on the receipts.

There was a time when I didn’t think about any of it, but now I can’t help but think of it all, every last penny I no longer have to my name. The truth of the matter is, I’m in dire straits and I don’t want Clara to know. I’ve tried to think of ways to turn a quick and easy profit before having to admit to her that the practice is crumbling, our life savings nearly gone. I’ve looked into everything I can think of to make extra cash: dog walking on my lunch break, taking a second job in the evenings and telling Clara that I’ve expanded my hours again, selling my own plasma, selling my sperm. Selling drugs. I could get my hands on all sorts of pharmaceuticals—the perks of being a dentist—and then sell them on the street to middle-class moms. Heck, I have even considered heading to Vegas and betting everything I have on roulette, but the cost of a hotel and an airplane ticket quickly sapped that idea, as well as the need to explain to Clara where I’d been.

And then, in these moments of total desperation, when my self-pity gets the best of me and I can barely see beyond the past due notices to think logically, my mind drifts to the notion of Russian roulette—one round in the chamber of a revolver—wondering if Clara might be better off without me around. It is morbid, which really isn’t me. I like to think of myself as a glass-half-full kind of guy. And yet it is natural, human nature, when the stress gets the best of me, to think to myself, I wish I was dead.

CLARA

“He’s losing weight,” the pediatrician says to me. Her name is Dr. Paul, and I can’t help but wonder if some male ancestor ever had the misfortune of being named Paul. Paul Paul. The room is happy, and there is a panorama of farm life painted on the otherwise white walls: a horse, a pig, a spotted cow.

“Mrs. Solberg,” she says to me, and I force my thoughts to the baby on the baby scale, Felix, who cries from the sudden coldness of the hard plastic tray on which he lies.

“He’s losing weight.”

Dr. Paul asks how the nursing has been going, and I lie and say fine. Just fine. I’ve nursed a baby before. I’m an old pro. And yet I’ve never been a widow before. This is wherein the fault lies, the reason why Felix is not eating well, why he is losing weight. Widowhood is all new to me, and it’s here that I struggle, though I don’t tell the doctor this, but I don’t need to because everyone in the whole entire world now knows that I am a widow, that my husband is the one who took the turn out on Harvey Road too fast, that he crashed the car into a tree, that he did it with our four-year-old daughter in the back seat, that he’s dead.

“Some weight loss after birth is normal,” she tells me, “but Felix has continued to lose weight since we visited him in the hospital. He’s lost over fourteen ounces since he was born. This is of concern,” she says, though her eyes lack judgment. I’m not being criticized. Dr. Paul is simply concerned. She lays a hand on my arm and asks again, “How has the nursing been going?” and this time I tell her.

* * *

I’m decidedly opposed to roadside memorials. It seems a silly way to honor a beloved family member who’s now dead. And yet I find myself purchasing a white wooden cross at the local craft store, and a spray of flowers, burgundy and pink, because it’s premade and on display at the florist shop. I don’t have time to special order; I want it now. The cross itself seems glib. It’s not as if we go to church, not often, though we had Maisie baptized because Nick’s mother said Maisie was bound for perdition if we didn’t. The only times we’ve been to church since are when Mrs. Solberg is in town, when we dress up in our Sunday best and slide into the spartan pew, pretending this is something we do.

But still, I buy the cross to go along with the floral bouquet. It seems the thing to do.

I drive to the scene of the accident, where a red-winged blackbird sits on a thin telephone wire watching me, like a tightrope walker, its gnarled black claws clinging tightly to the cord. Its black feathers shimmer in the late-morning sun, a single patch of red and yellow blazoned upon its side. It sings a brassy, emphatic song, and from somewhere in the distance, perched in the cattails of a roadside ditch, a female returns its call, quieter and less emphatic than the male. They parley back and forth, back and forth again, making plans to meet, and as I stand there on the side of the road, the sun bearing down on me and making me sweat, the car parked less than ten feet away, Felix inside with the window rolled down, the male red-winged blackbird leaves his perch and swoops down into the cattails to find his mate.

The houses in the area reside in one of those green housing developments with their energy-efficient designs, a neighborhood composting program, a community garden. The homes are all faux farmhouses, too clean and modern to be real farmhouses. There are horses in their enormous backyards, beautiful light bay and dapple gray horses enclosed in pointed picket fences, their snouts rising from the grass to see what it is that I’m doing as I return to the car and retrieve a small treasure from the trunk: the spray of funeral flowers, the white wooden cross.

I’m opposed to roadside memorials, but without it, I’d have no reason to be here, to see if what Maisie says is true, that there was another car on the road with her and Nick, one that made them crash.

I lay the flowers on the roadside; I dig away at the earth to make room for the cross. Cars pass by and wonder what it is that I’m doing, but then they see the cross, the flowers, and they know. They drive slower, more thoughtfully. They take the turn with deliberation. They stay in their lane, never allowing their cars’ tires to crisscross the double yellow line and into mine. This roadside memorial serves as a reminder and also a warning: this is what happens if you don’t slow down. You die like Nick has died, losing control of the car along that hairpin curve and slamming into the tree at breakneck speed.

But what if this is not the way it happened? What if what Maisie says is true, that there was another car on the road that fateful afternoon? Everyone loved Nick. He had no enemies, none at all. Whatever transpired on this street had to be the worst kind of luck, a simple act of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. A case of road rage, a drunken driver.

There’s no way that someone set out to intentionally harm Nick.

The tree itself shows signs of abuse. I kneel before the tree, pressing the pointed edge of the white wooden cross into the ground. This isn’t an easy thing to do. The earth is arid and shows no signs of giving in. It’s stubborn like me, as I step on the crossbar with the sole of a shoe and force it into the ground. Another car comes soaring down the road too quickly, sees me, and steps on the brakes so that tiny pebbles come skittering across the street toward my feet.

It’s a tall tree, a firm tree, one with much girth. But still, there is a wound. Bits of bark hang loosely from the tree trunk, the innards of the tree exposed. I run my hands along the rugged bark, feeling suddenly sorry for the tree. Will the tree die?

Behind the tree there is nothing, only cattails and open fields and grass. Wildflowers line the gravel of the street. There is only one tree and the absence of a guardrail where a guardrail should be. The only thing around for Nick to hit was the tree. What are the odds of this?

The homes with their horses stand over a hundred feet away or more, their inhabitants likely not seeing a thing until the ambulance arrived, and then the fire trucks and police cruisers to lug Nick and Maisie from the shattered car. It was only then that the noise and the chaos lured them from their homes to see what the fuss was about. The police didn’t bother speaking to the residents because there were no open-ended questions that needed clarification. Nick was speeding; he took the turn too quickly and died.

But what if that’s not the way it happened? What if Nick was killed?

It’s deserted around here, and though there are homes nearby, I feel strangely alone. Or not alone, but rather like I’m being watched. I turn quickly, but there is no one there. Not that I can see. My eyes rove the surroundings on the other side of Harvey Road, the haggard trees, the mounds of grass. But I see nothing. And yet I can’t shake the feeling, as if I’m the target on the other end of a sniper scope.

Is somebody here?

Was someone here, watching Nick as he crashed?

A slow trepidation creeps under my skin, and suddenly I’m scared. I move quicker now through my tasks. Like an archaeologist searching for artifacts in sand, I examine the concrete of Harvey Road for signs: tire prints in the dirt; black skid marks along the surface of the road; remnants of broken car parts. Something to tell me that what Maisie says is true, that there was another car on this road with her and Nick that made them crash. But there are none. The evidence has been washed away by the daily flow of traffic up and down Harvey Road.

But this I know for sure: the mangled car that was removed from the tree only showed damage at the site it impacted the tree, on the driver’s side. If the car had collided with another car, there would have been evidence of this on the car and on Maisie. Maisie would have sustained much more than a small laceration that has already healed. But Maisie was fine, as was the passenger’s side of the car.

I decide: Maisie must be wrong. I push aside those thoughts of being watched. I’m being silly; I’m not thinking clearly. I’ve let my imagination get the best of me.

Nick was driving too fast. He took the turn too quickly.

It’s Nick’s fault that he’s dead.

* * *

On the way home, my cell phone rings. “Hello?” I ask, pressing the device to my ear as I drive down the highway in an older, run-down part of town, past the cheap motels and adult stores, where I know that one day soon ever-inquisitive Maisie will point to them and ask what they are and what they sell.

“Is this Clara Solberg?” asks the silvery voice on the other end of the line, and I say that it is. “Mrs. Solberg, I’m calling from Dr. Barros’s office, your mother’s internist. You’re listed as an emergency contact,” she says, and at once my breath leaves me, and I ask, “Is everything all right?” envisioning my mother and father with Maisie at the office of Dr. Barros. My mother has fallen again and hurt herself, maybe, or she’s mixed up her pills and has taken too many of the wrong ones.

“Everything’s fine,” the woman assures me. “I’m calling from billing. Just a question on an unpaid bill,” she says, going on to tell me how my father’s check for their last visit with Dr. Barros bounced. “We’ve been trying to contact him before sending the bill to collections. That can be such a headache,” she says. “We left messages at home, but he hasn’t returned our calls.”

It’s so unlike my father, and yet I’m struck with an instant pang of guilt, knowing my father has brushed aside his own obligations to care for mine, keeping me company, making my meals, doing my laundry, watching my children, when he should be caring for my mother and himself.

Money has never been a problem for my father. Between my father’s pension, the rental property and more, he should be making a sufficient income. It will be a few years still until he can dip into social security, but he has been planning for retirement since he was twenty-five. He’s prepared for this.

“It must be a mix-up with the bank,” I tell this woman. “How much was the bill for?” I ask, and she tells me, confirming an address for payment, which I scribble onto a sheet of scratch paper while parked at a stoplight, waiting for the light to turn green.

“I’ll take care of it,” I assure her, begging, “Please, don’t send the bill to collections. I’ll speak to my father,” though I won’t. What I’ll do instead is send a check to the office of Dr. Barros because, after everything my father has done for me, this is the least that I can do. The last thing I want is to make him feel stupid for the oversight, or to make him embarrassed.

Dementia isn’t contagious, I remind myself as I have so many times before, though the first indicators of my mother’s dementia were slight. Could these be the warning signs? Bounced checks. Not returning phone calls.

No, I tell myself. My father is simply preoccupied with my life.

I end the call and instantly the phone rings again. “Yes?” I say this time, fully expecting to hear the same voice on the other end of the line. The receptionist from Dr. Barros’s office calling already to tell me that the check has been found. But it’s not the receptionist this time.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” The voice is apologetic, and at once I say, “No,” feeling myself soften and relax at the sound of Nick’s best friend, Connor, on the other end of the line, the anguish in his voice as palpable as that in mine. Connor is the only one in the world who loved Nick as much as I did, though in a different way, of course.

“There aren’t any good times anymore,” I confess, and we sit in silence on the phone until Connor breaks the stillness by saying to me, “We don’t have to do this alone, you know?” and I remember then what they say about misery loving company.

* * *

When I get home that afternoon, Maisie is crying. My father has his feeble hands on her shoulders trying to console her, but Maisie won’t be consoled. She turns her back to him, taking two tiny steps away from where he sits. The tears roll unfettered from her eyes and down her freckled skin as she and my father linger in her bedroom, an odd-shaped room with sloped ceilings, a bedroom that is all pink. Hot pink, carnation pink, pink pink. On her bed lies that poor, pathetic bear with its ear all but chewed off. The bed is as Maisie left it last night before she plodded into my room, blaming insomnia for the reason she couldn’t stay in her own bed. Her walls flaunt pricey, custom-made art: a princess in a pink tutu, a giraffe with a rose tucked behind its ear. Her bed is thin and narrow, a spindly Jenny Lind bed, which sags under even the meager weight of my father; it’s draped by a pretty pink tulle canopy, which hides the guilt of his earnest eyes.

He has told her about Nick. At this I fill with anger. He never liked Nick; Nick was never good enough for his little girl, and then years later when she finally arrived, for Maisie. Nick was unemployed when we met, a student hard at work on a dental degree. He was eager and goal-oriented and a hard worker to boot; that’s the way I saw it. But my father only envisioned the ever-growing debt of a doctoral degree, and the complete lack of income while I supported Nick as he achieved his dreams. When Nick decided to go into private practice, and we dipped into money I’d earned doing event and portraiture work—spending my weekends with a camera at the weddings of people I didn’t like or know—to rent a space and purchase dental equipment, my father could hardly contain his disappointment and dismay. That man, he told me of Nick, over four years ago as we cut the ribbon of Nick’s new space, one that would flourish over the next few years, expanding to include a partner and more clients than I could count, will only bring you down, he’d said. And now, standing before him, feeling like the rug has been pulled out from under my feet, I wonder if he was right.

“Daddy,” I say, stepping quickly into the room, towing Felix by the handle of his infant seat, a contraption that must weigh thirty pounds. “What’s going on in here?” I ask, setting the weight of Felix and the baby seat gently to the floor.

But before my father can reply, Maisie cries out with doleful eyes, staring at me in despair, “He’s dead. He’s dead.” And I feel my heart begin to ache, the tears spring to my eyes. My father, too, has eyes that are red-rimmed, though I want to point an accusatory finger at him and say that this is his fault; he is to blame. He had no business telling Maisie about Nick.

Maisie scurries to my side and wraps her arms around my lower limbs quickly and without warning, so that I lose my balance and nearly fall. “It’s okay,” I say mechanically as I stroke her hair while glaring at my father inches above her head. “Everything will be okay.” My words, my motions, are robotic, perfunctory, lifeless.

This isn’t the way Nick would do it. He would drop down to Maisie’s level and gather her in his tender arms; he would say something, anything, other than these mendacities. It is not okay. Everything will not be okay. I’m lying to Maisie; I’m a liar.

“Clara,” my father bleats, an attempt at an apology, but I hold my hand up to him—I don’t want to hear it. This news, this information wasn’t his to share. It was mine.

It’s my father’s fault that Maisie is clinging to my legs and crying.

“Look, Mommy,” Maisie says then, drawing slowly away from my legs. She slips a sticky little hand inside my shaking one and draws me to her dresser, a long white bureau with a mirror. There are things on top of the dresser, many things that Maisie points to at random: a pair of princess underpants, a doll, the stethoscope from a toy doctor kit, a used tissue. There are photographs slipped into the frame of the mirror: Maisie and Nick; Maisie and me; Maisie forced to stand beside my mother, two and a half feet out of reach because she is scared of my mother, as I would be, too, if I were four; Maisie and her boppy, my father, who watches on now not saying a thing.

I step forward and follow the route of Maisie’s finger with my eyes. She points to a jar, one of my old mason jars with holes punctured in the top of the metal lid. I move closer, not knowing why the jar is here or how it’s come to be here.

Inside the jar is a twig, shorn from a tree. It’s a thin twig, a copper brown. There are leaves inside the jar—green leaves, a scrunched-up handful of leaves as if Maisie grabbed on to a tree and tugged—and sheaths of grass covering the bottom of the jar, a deathbed upon which lies a lightning bug spread out on its back, all six inert legs up in the air, its tail no longer sparkling. It doesn’t move.

“We forgot,” Maisie voices to me pathetically, the tears streaming down her eyes. “He’s dead.”

My eyes move to my father’s in silent apology. How this lightning bug has come to live and die in a mason jar inside Maisie’s bedroom, I don’t know, but this is what I know: my father has done nothing wrong.

“How did a lightning bug get inside your room?” I ask, but Maisie’s eyes become shrouded with guilt; her face flames red, and she shakes her head. She doesn’t say and I don’t pry. It seems trivial now, how this bug has come to be here. She still doesn’t know a thing about Nick. For all intents and purposes, Nick is fine. That’s all that matters.

“These things happen,” I say mechanically. “Everything will be okay.”

“When will Daddy be home?” Maisie pleads, wanting someone who can console her better than I can, and I turn away from Maisie’s beseeching eyes and say, “Soon.”

* * *

We bury the lightning bug. We dig a hole two inches by two inches in the ground with the end of a stick and lay the insect inside. Harriet stands in the yard behind us, keeping watch. My father has gone for the day with the promise that he’ll be back tomorrow. “Why, Mommy, why?” Maisie asks over and over again as I dig the hole and lay the bug inside. The bug has a name, or so it seems: Otis. I don’t ask how it’s come to have a name; truth be told, I don’t care. I sprinkle a handful of dirt over the lightning bug’s corpse, grateful that Maisie doesn’t make the easy connection between this grave and Nick’s. “Why are you doing that, Mommy?” Maisie asks as I drizzle the dirt and pat it gently back into the earth with my fingertips. I suggest she find a rock to serve as a marker for Otis’s grave, and again Maisie asks, “Why?” but she scampers off in search of a rock without waiting for my reply, Harriet following closely behind.

* * *

In the evening a knock comes at the door. It’s dark outside, far too late for Maisie to still be awake. And yet she is, sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, watching preschool cartoons because I haven’t the energy to put her to bed. I’m on my laptop in the kitchen, trying to pull up the Chase website in an attempt to access my father’s accounts. I’m thinking of the unpaid bill to the office of Dr. Barros, and wondering if my parents are in some sort of financial distress about which I should know. I try hard to call to mind my father’s password, an odd mix of letters and numbers that’s near impossible to memorize. I try only twice and then give up, worried that after too many unsuccessful attempts, the account will be locked and my father notified. I don’t want to ask him about it for fear of making him feel bad, and yet I have my concerns. What if my father has less money than I think? What if my father has less money than me?

At hearing the knock, I go to the door and unfasten the lock. I pull the door open a crack, peering outside, and there find Connor standing on my front stoop in a black T and vintage wash jeans. In his hands are a helmet and gloves; a motorcycle is parked in the drive. Connor isn’t a tall man, standing just a couple inches above my own five-eight height, with brown hair and eyes, the kind that make women swoon. His smile is sympathetic, a contorted smile that’s meant to be both a smile and a frown. His heart is heavy, as is mine, but the half smile proves that he’s trying.

“Connor,” I say, and he steps inside, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into a warm embrace, and it’s there, in his arms, that I close my eyes and press into him, allowing myself to believe for just one split second that I’m in Nick’s embrace, that it’s Nick’s arms that hold me tight.

“Clara,” he says.

I’ve known Connor for half a dozen years, Nick’s dental school friend turned employee. But Connor was never quite an employee to Nick but rather a partner, one he collaborated with about patient care as well as business expenditures and what to get the office ladies for the holidays. Before we had kids, Nick and I shared many double dates with Connor and whatever girl he was dating at the time, but after Maisie was born, that type of lifestyle—basement dance clubs and parties in rooftop bars—no longer fit the bill and Connor was left going stag. Connor doesn’t have children of his own; he doesn’t have a wife. He’s the perpetual bachelor, abounding with good looks and charm, but lacking in commitment. He was engaged to a college sweetheart once, a woman for whom he would have gone to the moon and back, as Nick has told me by way of Connor’s drunken admission. They planned the wedding, church, hall and all, and then she changed her mind, having met some other man the night of her bachelorette party, breaking Connor’s heart. Nick and I often reasoned that never again would he pop the question to anyone, no matter how in love he was. As the saying goes, once bitten, twice shy.

I draw away from him and watch as a handful of bugs let themselves in through the open front door, making a beeline for the chandelier that hangs above us, a Medusa type contraption with chrome light bulbs twisting out like the snakes of her hair. I close the door, and Connor follows me to the kitchen, ruffling the hair on Maisie’s head as we pass through the living room; she is so intent on her cartoons that she hardly notices, though from the corners of her sleepy mouth I detect a smile.

The lighting in the kitchen is dimmed. Dinner dishes remain in the kitchen sink, our uneaten meals evident as the food hardens and grows cold in the red glazed bowls, chicken soup warmed in the microwave from a can. It’s the best that I can do. Neither Maisie nor I could eat it.

“I should have come sooner,” Connor says, eyeing the leftover food, the guilt in his voice tangible as he leans against the kitchen sink, pressing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. But I shake my head and tell him no. The last thing I want is for Connor to feel any sort of guilt for not coming to see me sooner. He, too, has been grieving.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, reaching into the refrigerator to snatch one of Nick’s old beers from the door, handing it to Connor though he never asks. I crave a glass of wine, just a few ounces of Chardonnay to help blur my sensibilities and make me indifferent and numb, but knowing the effects of alcohol on a breastfeeding infant, I make the decision to abstain.

“None for you?” Connor asks, but I shake my head and tell him no. He runs his hand through his hair, making the strands stand on end. He snaps open the beer with a bottle opener and drinks in a mouthful. “How have you been holding up?” he asks, though I don’t need to tell him. The bags beneath my eyes say enough, that and the swelling and redness, the fact that I haven’t slept for more than two hours at a time since before Felix was born, something that was only exacerbated by Nick’s death. I can no longer blame Felix for the lack of sleep. Now I blame Nick.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” I confess, and Connor says, “Me, too,” and it’s only then that I see the dark circles beneath his eyes like mine. His skin looks sallow, jaundiced; he’s anxious and strung out. His eyes drift throughout the room from the stove top to the travertine tile, as if searching for Nick, finally settling on the beer in hand. He avoids my gaze.

“I remember the day I met Nick,” he says while picking at the wrapper on his beer, pulling it off in tatters, a pile of them gathering in his hand. His voice is quiet, subdued.

He goes on to tell me about the first time he and Nick met, crossing the campus to a shared class. It’s a story I’ve heard before, though only ever from Nick. They were in dental school, slowly chipping away on the many hours of labs, lectures and clinical practice before they’d be given a degree. They’d never spoken before, but the class was small, twenty students at best, and Connor had his eye on some girl, a brunette who also happened to be Nick’s lab partner. It was the reason for his introduction, the reason they became friends. Over some girl.

After graduation, Connor got a job working under an experienced dentist in town while Nick went into private practice. For a couple years it went on this way, until Connor’s ever-increasing dissatisfaction with his job got the best of him, and he quit to come work for Nick.

“I haven’t even begun to think how I’m going to support myself,” I admit to Connor. Since Nick’s death, I haven’t yet sorted through the mail, too terrified to see what awaits me there. The envelopes I pull every few days from the mailbox get tossed to a pile on the floor just inside the front door. Bereavement cards, mostly, those bearing their With heartfelt sympathy and May you find peace and solace sentiments, but also bills. Estimates of Benefits from the insurance company already telling me which of Nick’s hospital expenses they will and will not pay. A notice from the library of fourteen picture books that are a week overdue, each costing me five cents a day so that every day I tally up another seventy cents for the library, and still I can’t get myself to return the books. I haven’t the energy for it. Bills, bills and more bills. Catalogs for items I can no longer buy.

I had a savings account once, nothing extravagant, but an adequate savings account, money set aside for a rainy day, but we ended up putting each and every penny into Nick’s practice. We’d see the money back, he said, and promised me it was worth it. Had I told my father this he would have said no, but I took Nick’s word and invested every cent. The practice was Nick’s dream. Who could refuse a man his dream? Not I, said the fly. And so I said okay, and handed over all my money so that Nick could fulfill his dream while I set mine aside. My own photography studio. That was my dream.

Even our home is a money pit, constantly in need of repairs or renovation. The only thing left I have of value is the dental practice.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I confess to Connor, “about the bills. The mortgage. The hospital payments. Car payments. Saving for college, Maisie’s wedding. How will I afford health insurance?” I ask, thinking of Felix and his well-baby checks every two months, all running over with pricey vaccines. Without waiting for an answer, I say to him, “I can look for a job, but if I work, who will watch Maisie and Felix? How will I ever afford child care?” knowing my father is out of the question. He’s too busy caring for my mom, and an in-home nanny or a day care would cost me nearly five hundred dollars a week. “The dental practice,” I say to Connor, “it’s the only thing I have left.” But a dental practice is nothing without a dentist. Without Nick here, the practice is meaningless.

A look of confusion crosses Connor’s face. “You don’t know?” he asks, and I implore, “Know what?”

But he doesn’t answer right away. He drinks his beer, three long, slow swigs while I wait for him to reply. “Know what?” I ask again as he sets his finished beer on the countertop, and I reach into the refrigerator for another one.

“There have been some layoffs,” he says in a tight-lipped way, as if he doesn’t want to say the words aloud, as if he wants to sugarcoat them like he’s speaking to a child. “Nick had to let some people go.”

But I shake my head and tell him that I didn’t know. “Who?” I ask and, “When? Why?”

“A month ago, maybe more,” he says and my heart sinks. It slides from my chest and plummets somewhere down to my stomach, where for a single moment I think that I will be sick. I grip the countertop, my knuckles turning white. Why didn’t Nick tell me about the layoffs? I imagine the ladies who work at the front desk, Nancy, with her predilection for hot cocoa with mini marshmallows, and Stacy, a math wiz, matter-of-fact and thorough; she’s a crackerjack with the bills. Are they gone? Have they been fired? And what about the hygienist, Jan?

“Financial trouble,” he tells me, and I sharply inhale, my fears overwhelming me as I wonder desperately about all the things I don’t know. Nick paid the bills; he handled the finances. I handed them over willingly and without question when we were married and turned a blind eye to all fiscal matters. I could barely compute simple math; I wasn’t good with numbers. The last thing we needed was me paying the bills.

“Why wouldn’t Nick tell me?” I wonder aloud, and Connor shrugs his shoulders and says that he doesn’t know. He thought for sure Nick would have told me. And now, standing in the weak glow of the kitchen’s dimmed recessed lighting, I wonder: If Nick could keep this secret from me—if he could go weeks without alluding to financial trouble, if he could lay off employees and not mention it to me—then what else wasn’t he telling me?

What else don’t I know?

* * *

That night Maisie asks to sleep with me. She treads lightly into my bedroom as I tuck Felix into the bassinet, seven and a half minutes after tucking Maisie into her own chambray sheets and pulling the quilt up clear to her neck that way that Daddy does it. Snug as a bug in a rug.

“I can’t sleep,” she tells me, crossing the room where I’ve recently swept the broken picture frame glass, and I ask, “Did you try?” to which she nods her little head so vigorously that hair falls in her eyes. She clutches the teddy bear by a single leg, the deplorable thing hanging upside down. He’s nearly gone blind thanks to Maisie’s unending chewing, the plastic brown eyes about to fall from their place, hanging on now by a single brown thread. I pull back the sheets and welcome her in, grateful that someone is here and I don’t have to spend the night alone. Maisie happily obliges, rushing to the bed and hopping inside, right where Nick should be. She sets her head on his pillow, her body failing to fill the space where his body once lay, his warm arms wrapping me in a cocoon while I slept, a leg tossed across mine, growing heavier in time. The air is imbued with the fresh scent of Johnson & Johnson Baby Wash and the sweltering summer air that eases itself uninvited into the open window and again makes us sweat.

It’s the middle of the night when Maisie wakes up screaming.

“The bad man!” she yowls in a piercing voice, and then, straight on the heels of the first desperate declaration, “The bad man is after us!” she shrieks as my heart begins to dash. She’s crying beside me, sitting upright in bed, clutching the bed pillow as if she believes it is Nick. The tears fall from her eyes like the rushing water of Niagara Falls, urgent, the kind that can’t be slowed down.

I lay a shaking hand upon Maisie’s clammy one, and say to her, “Shhh,” but she pushes me away with so much might that I all but tumble from my side, latching on to Felix’s bassinet for support as it lurches precariously on its stand. Felix, rattled from sleep by the sudden shove, begins to cry, a cry that easily trumps Maisie’s and my own cries. Felix’s cry quickly escalates into a caterwaul as Maisie hides her head under the pillow to try to smother the noise or to hide from the bad man who trails her. I don’t know why it is that she hides, though I can imagine because I, too, want to climb under a pillow and hide.

“What bad man?” I ask loudly, over the sound of Felix, as I slip from bed and slide my hands under the weight of him, lifting him from the bassinet. “Shhh. Shhh,” I croon to Felix now, standing beside his bassinet and trying to sway him back to sleep. “What bad man, Maisie?”

“The bad man,” screams Maisie redundantly, her voice muffled by the pillow. As my eyes adjust to the darkness of night, I begin to see Maisie’s legs kicking persistently at the bed before she pulls them into herself and throws the sheets up over her tiny body. I scrabble around inside Felix’s bassinet for his abandoned pacifier, for something, anything, to silence the insistent sound. He’s upset, scared, maybe even a bit pissed off that Maisie and I woke him from sleep.

“What bad man, Maisie? What man? Tell me about the man,” I beg frenetically as I slide my arm from the spaghetti strap of a tank top and place Felix against my chest. It is not quite time for him to eat. By my count, Felix shouldn’t eat for another hour, and yet the pacifier is nowhere; there’s no other way to stop his screaming than to let him suck on me. As his gums latch down, my breasts begin to protest. The nipples are cracked, the skin dry, riddled with a bloody discharge; my breasts are hard and sore and unimaginably clogged. Like water held back by a beaver dam, the milk refuses to flow at the same pace Felix would like—a trickle rather than a surge, and so he slurps and slurps to little avail, making my chest crack and bleed. How has the nursing been going? Dr. Paul had asked in the exam room, and I’d lied, Just fine, before telling her the truth: the pain, the broken skin, the low milk supply. What I expected was a haranguing on breastfeeding, but what I was given instead was a way out. There are other ways, she told me before listing them for me: infant formula, a breast pump, donor milk.

Maisie won’t tell me about the man, and I want to tell her that she’s wrong, because I’ve spoken to the police and I’ve read the newspaper articles. I’ve been at the scene. They all seem to corroborate the same truth, that Nick’s speeding was the cause of the crash.

“Tell me about the man,” I say again, and when she won’t, I ask Maisie to tell me about the car. She’s told me already that the man was in a car, and I picture him racing after Nick on Harvey Road. “Was it a red car?” I suggest when Maisie says nothing. She shakes her head negligibly; it was not a red car. “Was it blue?” I ask, to which she replies with another shake of the head. “Was it a black car, Maisie?” I ask this time. “Was the car black?”

This time she doesn’t shake her head. Her response instead is a long drawn-out cry, a wolf howling at the moon, as she runs from the bed and from the room, calling over and over again for Daddy. She flees the bedroom in search of some other room where she can hide, the bathroom door still removed from its place and lying on the wooden floorboards, which I trip over in an attempt to catch my four-year-old daughter before the click of a lock bisects Maisie and me. In my arms Felix is no longer pressed to my chest, but now trying to imbibe anything he can find: my nightshirt, his hand, my hair. With a handful of my hair in his mouth, he no longer has the ability to scream.

It was a black car. A man in a black car. If what Maisie says is true.

I drop to the floor before Nick’s office door and ask three times for Maisie to come out. “Please, come out.” On the other side of the wooden pane I hear her cry, and imagine Maisie’s tiny body splayed across Nick’s ikat rug, her tears getting absorbed by the weft threads, the frosty grays with the citron stripes. Or maybe she’s hurled herself over the arm of Nick’s club chair, hugging the tufted back, pretending that it’s Nick.

When she doesn’t come, I make my way out to the garage in search of a nail and a hammer.

I’m becoming an old pro at this.

NICK

BEFORE

Her name was Melinda Grey, and I should have known right away, when she walked into my office some six months ago, that she was a problem patient. We’d talked about them in dental school somewhere in between local anesthesia and oral pathology. Problem patients. You wouldn’t have known it to look at her, for her small size seemed to contradict the barracuda she was. She was a pleasant-looking woman, approaching middle age, with soft brown hair and benign eyes, the kind that made great contact when she talked.

Ms. Grey presented as a phobic patient. She blamed it on an extensive dental history complete with emergency everything—root canals, abscesses, a fractured tooth—and a habit of choosing dentists with a lousy bedside manner because they tended to be cheaper, their appointment openings more readily available than someone like me, who had a calendar full of patients, until I met Ms. Grey, at least, and then suddenly I had time in my day to spare.

Her dental insurance was lousy, which she admitted to me, another red flag. I should have ended our appointment there and had Stacy look into coverage before I did any work, but Ms. Grey was the last appointment of the day, an emergency walk-in, and she was in a great deal of pain. The tooth was decayed; that I could clearly see. It would most likely need to come out. I offered a root canal as an alternative to extraction—a root canal, which would cost her three grand or more with the crown—but she shook her head and said that was more than she could afford. The tooth was a molar anyway, and she didn’t care to save it. By comparison, an extraction wouldn’t surpass a couple hundred dollars at best, and, seeing as Ms. Grey had no plans for an implant and intended to leave a hole in the back of her mouth that no one would see, the procedure would be relatively cheap.

It was a simple extraction. The tooth was completely above the gum line and required only a local anesthetic. I used nitrous oxide to help calm Ms. Grey’s rattled nerves. I lifted and pulled the tooth with my elevator and forceps; I packed the wound. I sent her home with pain relievers, though I made the decision not to prescribe antibiotics because, in my professional opinion, they were overprescribed, a problem that led to antibiotic resistance and a whole host of other bad things. I was strictly opposed to the use of blanket antibiotics. Ms. Grey was forty years old and completely healthy. She didn’t need antibiotics. Still, as always, I told her to keep an eye out for signs of infection: puss or other discharge, the formation of an abscess, fever or excessive pain. I said it out loud, maintaining eye contact so I was sure she heard. “There’s always some degree of pain following a tooth extraction,” I remember saying, perched there beside Melinda Grey on my burgundy stool, unpinning the bib clip from around her neck, wiping the last of the bloody saliva from her lip with a napkin. “What you want to keep an eye out for is excessive pain. Severe pain or swelling in two or three days from now. If you feel like something’s not quite right or if you have any questions—any at all—please, don’t hesitate to call.” And she nodded her head as if she heard.

I told the hygienist to make sure Ms. Grey had my business card before she left, one that listed the office number as well as my cell phone, which I always gave out so that I could be available to my patients twenty-four hours a day. It seemed like the ethical thing to do. I never wanted my patients to feel they were lacking for care. I also told my hygienist to schedule a follow-up appointment for Ms. Grey in one week, so I could be sure the wound was healing as it should be.

Ms. Grey never called. She never returned for her follow-up appointment.

What I failed to realize was that one of my hygienists was out for the day, home sick with a strep throat infection that had already blitzed half our staff, and the other was up to her neck in patients, taking on the workload of two. In the middle of all that chaos she had apparently forgotten to have Ms. Grey give informed consent, signing a simple form that indicated she knew the risks associated with the procedure.

I also didn’t realize it was the beginning of the end for me.

CLARA

A new air-conditioning unit costs upward of five thousand dollars, installed. To have the existing unit repaired—assuming repair is even possible—would cost in the vicinity of one hundred to nine hundred dollars, depending on what needs to be fixed.

“How old’s the unit?” asks the HVAC guy on the other end of my phone line, and I say that I don’t know. He walks me through a number of estimates before I thank him for his time and set the phone down, tallying up the prices in my mind, though not those for the air conditioner. Nick’s wooden casket cost two thousand dollars; embalming, which oddly enough wasn’t required by law, was an additional eight hundred. These are the figures I add up in my mind. The funeral home charged us for near everything, from the preparations of the body—combing through Nick’s blood-tinged hair, dressing him in his Sunday best, a refrigeration fee of fifty dollars a day and more—to a service fee for the funeral director, who was quickly making a killing off my loss. I sprang for the prayer cards, forty bucks for a hundred, with Nick’s handsome face printed on the front in black and white. I thought it looked classy, stately, but Nick’s mother said I should have used color; the black and white made them dated, she said; they made Nick look old, though Nick would never grow old.

The cemetery, too, charged an arm and a leg for the cost of the plot, the cost to dig the plot, the cost of a headstone and the graveside service, for all of us to stand around the uncovered hole and cry. But that wasn’t all. There was still the cost of a hearse to carry Nick’s body from the morgue to the funeral home to the cemetery, the cost of flowers that I didn’t want or need, but were tradition, as the funeral director told me, and so I ordered those, too, sprays of white that filled the church.

The credit card has been maxed out.

I can’t afford to fix the air conditioner or have it replaced. For now we will have to sweat. My father wants to help, he’s told me, with the funeral fees. “Please, no,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. My parents aren’t lacking for money, and yet retirement put them on a fixed income, which my mother’s never-ending medical expenses chip quickly away at. It will be years still until social security and Medicare kick in. But there is money, my father has said, though I’ve told him no. “Please, no,” I said, wanting him to save that money for his and my mother’s needs, remembering the bounced check from my mother’s internist and trying to decide if it was for lack of money, or a simple mix-up with the bank.

Nick’s mother and father have money, but never once have they offered to help.

* * *

In the afternoon Maisie, Felix and I drive to the store. It took great cajoling for Maisie to climb in the car. There were many things she wanted to do apart from grocery shop. A new episode of Max & Ruby was about to begin, she was thirsty, Maisie—who never likes to pee—needed to pee. Three times. And then once inside the car, coaxing her into the car seat and beneath the smothering straps of a five-point harness was another matter, a feat only accomplished after handing over my smartphone with its Candy Crush app. Oh, how Maisie loves her Candy Crush, matching her pieces of candy and swiping them from the screen. With the phone in hand, she almost forgot she was confined to a chair, in the type of contraption that only days ago collapsed under the burliness of a white oak tree.

But for me, the fear was still there.

Maisie’s hand goes to the harness, and I snap at her, “Don’t touch it. Leave it be,” hoping she won’t see the swelling or redness of my eyes. Undoing her own harness has become Maisie’s latest pursuit. She’s discovered that pressing the buttons will undo the whole darn thing and set her free, though her fingers are too small, her fine motor skills too gauche to do it herself. And yet she tries, quite an undertaking for a four-year-old, but something she’ll figure out soon enough. “Play your game, Maisie,” I say so that her mind will go elsewhere and forget about the car seat straps. And it does.

We drive. As we make our way down our street of older historic houses, past the park and the small shops of an upscale suburban downtown and through newer, cookie-cutter homes, the momentum of the car lulls Felix to sleep. Known as one of Chicago’s five collar counties, ours flanks the city to the south and west, one of the fastest-growing counties, an area that added almost two hundred thousand people over the course of just ten years. A Cooper’s hawk sits perched at the top of a utility pole, eyes appraising the fields for its next meal. Maisie sees this and points a finger out the window. “Birdie, Mommy,” she tells me, and then to Felix, who’s sound asleep. “See the birdie, Felix?” I tell her that I see. Felix says nothing.

Suburban sprawl they call this, when the expanding population spills into rural America, making Chicagoland home to over ten million people. Our suburb is often outclassed by some of the more sought-after towns around, and yet the new construction in our area is second to none; for half the money you get twice the house, a promise that lures people in droves. The schools are top-notch, the demographics just what Nick and I were looking for when we purchased our home: a white-collar community with a median age of thirty-two. There would be plenty of kids for ours to play with. Good kids. Good kids whose college-educated parents made over a hundred thousand a year. Crime in the community was limited to theft mainly; violent crimes almost didn’t exist.

As we drive through the cornfields, past newer subdivisions that flaunt their energy-efficient and custom-made homes, Maisie idly kicks the back of the passenger’s seat and chants, “Faster, Mommy, faster.” Maisie likes to do things quickly. But I will not speed despite Maisie’s request; I know better than to speed.

We work our way to the main hub of town. I park in the grocery store lot, sliding in between a minivan and a pickup truck, and heft Felix and his baby carrier from the car, urging Maisie to follow suit. But Maisie doesn’t follow suit.

“Come on, Maisie,” I beckon. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can go home.”

But Maisie just kicks her feet against the back of the passenger’s seat, refusing to come. She grips my phone in her hands, the annoying Candy Crush theme music making my head ache. “Come on, Maisie,” I try again, changing tack. I say this time, “You can play the game inside.”

But Maisie doesn’t come.

I gather a shopping cart from the rack outside and set Felix and his carrier inside, moving to Maisie’s side of the car. Snatching the phone from her hands, I listen to Maisie squeal. She fights me as I unfasten the harness and try to force her arms and legs to the other side of the woven strap. “No!” she says as she kicks her hot-pink Crocs at me.

“Get out of the car right now,” I insist, and it takes every ounce of patience I have not to snap. Fatigue and grief are a lethal combination, though I can’t give in to despair. I might have lost my husband, but Maisie has lost her father. Though she doesn’t quite know it yet, she, too, has been hurt. I stroke her hair and ask nicely for her to come.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she bleats as I wrench her small body now—all thirty-seven pounds of her—out of the car and onto the concrete, holding her hand too tightly so that Maisie cries out in pain. By now Felix, too, has begun to cry, awoken by the glaring afternoon sun, which blares in his half-open eyes. The car has stopped moving, the undulating motion that lulled him to sleep gone. He whimpers first, and then he screams, and I grope at my pockets for something to plug the leak. I find his pacifier and stuff it into his mouth, less gently than I would have liked to, and begin to push the cart with one hand while dragging Maisie with the other across the lot.

All that I want is infant formula. Infant formula and baby bottles.

“We’ll be in and out in three minutes,” I promise Maisie, but three minutes is a lifetime to a child. The warmth of the day engulfs us the second we step from the air-conditioned car, heat rising up from the blackened asphalt beneath our feet. The store seems suddenly so far away as Maisie schleps along with tiny, baby-sized steps, her hand trying to wiggle free of mine. I make promises; I offer rewards. “We’ll get popcorn when we’re through,” I say, telling her how we can swing by the food court on the way out. “A Slurpee, too,” I say, hoping that the promise of a frosty soda drink will make Maisie pick up the pace. But Maisie doesn’t pick up the pace. If anything, her feet slow, her hand pulling back on my hand so that there’s the sensation of swimming upstream. The single word—no—continues on repeat as I push Felix and tow Maisie through the parking lot while passing mothers turn with steely eyes to stare, and I see in their eyes the judgment, the condemnation, the disapprobation. Oh, how easy it is to judge when we don’t know. Maisie’s feet drag along the concrete, her objections becoming more and more shrill as she quietly—and then forcefully—screams, “No!”

It’s then that Felix’s pacifier manages to fall from his mouth and onto the blistering tar; in one fell swoop, I pick it up and stuff it back into his mouth before he has a chance to notice its absence, not caring what dirt or germs now live on the end of that plastic device but needing him quiet. His idle sucking resumes, though Maisie is now completely inert, standing in the middle of the parking lot, pointing. Pointing and crying. Pointing at a car, a black car, though from the distance I can’t see its make or model. All I know is that it is black and dusty, the cause of Maisie’s sudden and inexplicable tantrum.

Her body has begun to shake uncontrollably; urine creeps from below the hem of a knitted dress and down the inside of her wobbly leg, collecting in the sole of her hot-pink Crocs. Maisie, who has already peed three times before we could leave. One wouldn’t think there was any more urine left to pee. But there it is, the amber liquid trickling to the asphalt as Maisie manages to wrench her hand free of mine and makes an attempt to run. I blame the sweat for this, the slippery moisture slathered between our hands, as she sprints across the parking lot without looking for cars, so that another driver must slam on the brakes to keep from hitting Maisie, issuing me a dirty look as she does.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I mouth as I steer the cart across the lot to try to reclaim the little girl who now darts pell-mell through the rows of parked cars. I am faster than Maisie, this much I know, and yet with Felix and the shopping cart in tow, I’m not as sprightly as she. I can’t squeeze through the rows of cars like Maisie can, going this way and that like the steel ball of a pinball machine. My heart races, waiting for the blare of a car horn, the squeal of brakes, a little girl’s agonizing cry.

“Maisie!” I call to her over the still summer air. “Maisie!” I scream, so that half the town’s population, it seems, turns to see what the fracas is all about, pointing in lukewarm concern at the little girl running recklessly through the parking lot, two matted pigtails streaming down her back. Felix again loses his hold on his pacifier, but I can’t be slowed down. Over the sound of my own screaming, Felix, too, begins to scream. I grab Felix from the shopping cart and begin to run, though the weight of his infant carrier slows me down, my legs like lead.

Others in the parking lot turn to look at Maisie, but none do a single thing to stop her. Instead their eyes travel to me, wondering what kind of mother I am that I let my daughter run like this through a crowded parking lot. Don’t I know how dangerous this is?

“Clara?” I hear a voice then, kind, concerned. I turn. Emily, my neighbor and friend. She stands too closely and places a hand on my arm, and I see her little four-year-old, Teddy, obediently standing by her feet, without the need to hold hands. “What’s happened, Clara?” she asks, her desperate voice mimicking my own. “What’s wrong?”

“Maisie,” I say, and before I can tell her or even point to Maisie off in the distance, streaming through the rows of cars that gleam in the afternoon sun, Emily tells Teddy to stay with me and then takes off in a sprint. Emily is a fast runner, much faster than Maisie is, without the baggage that slows me down. I watch as Emily’s own long black hair billows behind her, her legs sailing through the parking lot with ease, closing the gap on Maisie, and collecting my little girl into her arms just like a good mother would do.

But not me. No, not me.

Rather, I stand idly by while some other woman saves my child.

“No, no, no, no, no,” says Maisie as she is returned to me, tears streaming from her eyes. She’s sweaty, her hair glued to the hairline. She kicks in Emily’s arms, wanting to be free. But Maisie doesn’t look at either of us, not Emily nor me, but rather at that black car, now parked two and a half rows behind us so that it’s near impossible to see. But I follow the route of Maisie’s terrified eyes to where the car should be and am absolutely certain that’s where she looks because she’s told me already, or rather implied it, that it was a black car that took Nick’s life, puzzle pieces I’ve gathered from Maisie’s cagey innuendos and placed together with care.

“Stop this, Maisie,” I say about her outburst, though I cling to her, my heart still pounding, knowing I was one distracted driver away from losing a child. How easy it would have been for a car to hit her, just one driver checking an incoming text message in the parking lot or peering over a shoulder to reprimand a child. That’s all it would have taken, one split second of distraction as Maisie tore across the parking lot and into their path. “Do you know what could have happened to you? You have to be more careful, Maisie. You have to hold an adult’s hand in the parking lot. Always,” I say, and then again, more forcefully, “always.”

“Thank you, Emily,” I say to the woman who stands before me, watching but not judging. “Thank you, thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if...” But I don’t finish the sentence; I can’t bear to say the words out loud. My hair, too, clings to my sweaty face; the sweat pools beneath my arms and in the crooks of my knees. Everywhere there is sweat.

“It’s all right,” she says, and, “No bother,” though her eyes inquire about Maisie’s outburst, and I palliate the truth by saying, “She doesn’t want to go grocery shopping. She’d rather stay home and play,” though I make no mention of the black car, which has her instantly terrorized, or the fact that my four-year-old has some latent belief that my husband was killed.

“Grocery shopping is so hard with the children,” Emily bemoans with a dramatic eye roll, though her little Teddy stands obediently beside her, carrying the plastic shopping bag. “Would you like to come home with Teddy and me?” asks Emily then, as she squats at the knees and leans in close to Maisie, her voice subdued in a way meant for kids’ ears. “Give Mommy a break for a while?” And as Maisie nods her slow approval, Emily rises up and says to me, “If it’s okay with you, Clara. Maisie can play with Teddy for a while. Let Felix and you shop. It would give me a break, too—they can entertain each other,” she says, assuaging my immediate concern with, “Theo is gone this week. An auto show in Massachusetts. He won’t be home for a few days,” and at this I nod my head numbly. I say okay, though still I have reservations about sending Maisie off with someone else, and yet there are other things on my mind, which trump these reservations.

“She’s had an accident,” I say apologetically, and Emily tells me it’s no bother. She can borrow something of Teddy’s while the clothes dry. “If you’re sure,” I say, and Emily says she’s sure. “Just let me move her car seat,” I say, but Emily says not to bother. She has an extra booster seat Maisie can use, and so instead I press my lips to Maisie’s forehead in a simple adieu.

I have only two things on my mind.

Infant formula.

Black car.

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