to see my own clients fry. I see what they’ve done to their victims and I can barely sit in a room to interview them. How am I supposed to argue for their defense?”
I didn’t know. I reached over and squeezed her arm.
“Zoe, you realize you’re the only one I can talk to about this.”
Molly and Emily stared at her, twin wide-eyed expressions. One of the men behind Susan took our lull in conversation as an opportunity to turn around and gape. I met his eyes; he turned back and hunkered into his seat.
“Susan,” I said softly, “maybe you’re burned out. Maybe you need a break. A sabbatical. Look at all the pressure on you. I mean, forget about the nanny situation. In normal circumstances, you’ve got three kids, a house, a traveling husband, unreliable child care, a job that people’s lives depend on. One minute you’re helping a kid with long division and the next you’re trying to save a guy from lethal injection. Most people make mistakes at work and so what? They have to retype a page or they lose a sale. But if you make a mistake, somebody goes to jail for years—or gets the needle. That’s pressure.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Her voice was a subdued wail.
“Maybe the dreams are your mind’s way of telling you to take a break and think about your own needs for a change.” I sounded confident and assured. It was easy to give advice, but my advice was pure fluff. Susan’s crisis had not been brought on by overwork or pressure; it had started specifically with Claudia’s disappearance. And it wasn’t going to stop just because she took some time off work or got a weekly massage.
“Lisa wants to quit piano. And Julie’s begun to lie. About the stupidest things, like whether or not she’s been to Disney World. Does she think I don’t know the truth?”
“Yeah, Julie lies to me, too,” Emily chimed in, suddenly part of our conversation. Molly looked up attentively.
“She does?” Susan’s voice was unimpressed.
“Yesterday, she said there was a dead bird in the backyard, but there wasn’t. And she ate the last pudding pop and said she didn’t.” Emily continued coloring while listing offenses. “And know what? She said somebody’s stealing all the babysitters. Julie’s such a liar.”
Susan became even more gray.
“How can someone steal a babysitter?” Emily shook her head, as if the concept were ridiculous.
“What, Mom? What did Emily say?” Molly tugged at my arm. “What did she mean, ‘somebody’s stealing babysitters’?”
“It’s just a lie,” Emily declared.
Susan fumbled for an answer.
“Mom? Billy said Tamara went away. Did she get stealed?” “Stolen,” I said.
“Did she? Will the stealer steal Angela?” “No, of course not—”
Plates slammed the table. Gladys had saved me. “Tuna on rye, onion rings, hot tea, one diet, two vanilla shakes, two barley soups, BLT with, veggie burger with, two kids’ grilled cheese, two minestrones, half cantaloupe, side of slaw, side house salad, extra pickles. Anything else?” The check landed in a puddle of coleslaw dressing, and Gladys wheeled the cart away.
Gladys didn’t believe in courses. Food was food. Soups, desserts, salads, entrees—they were all served in a simultaneous jumble. Molly grabbed the ketchup and a fistful of onion rings and attacked her dinner. The girls ate and chattered, distracted and happy again in their world and leaving us to ours. Despite what we’d ordered, neither Susan nor I had much appetite. Susan sat playing with her soupspoon and I fiddled with some pickle slices, and we yammered on about the Christmas Pollyannas at the Institute, the futility of New Year’s resolutions, the madness of pre-Christmas sales, and the drudgery of gift-wrapping— anything except what was really on our minds.
NINE
WHEN WE GOT HOME, MOLLY GOT INTO HER PAJAMAS AND snuggled under her covers. We read Amelia Bedelia, her favorite book, until she fell asleep. Exhausted, I got into bed and sank immediately into a deep, healing sleep. In the morning, I awoke refreshed. I’d slept so soundly that it took a while to remember that Tamara was missing, that Susan was a mess, that, as Charlie had warned, evil lurked close by. I had the sense that somehow dreams and reality had traded places, that daylight carried nightmares from which, by sleeping, I had temporarily escaped.
But Angela arrived carrying warm fresh scones from the Pink Rose, complaining that some construction worker had gawked at her all the way up the street. It had to be a guy from Jake’s crew. Or Jake