Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,90

done so much wrong. She had done her best. She silently promised that she would do everything so well, would put her entire heart and soul into making things okay for Marie and Kayla, if only Marie would be around the next corner, walking toward them wholly unharmed after a day of peaceful wandering. Laura would stop being distracted from her children by her pointless, fruitless hobby of dicking around with music, if that sacrifice was what the universe required in order to make Marie turn out to be okay.

The woods’ silence was broken only by their footsteps, trees creaking in the wind and the dog’s snuffles. “Are you thinking about how this is your fault?” Kayla asked.

“It is my fault,” said Laura. “Who else’s fault would it be?”

“I don’t know, mine?”

“How would it be yours?”

Kayla shrugged, and Laura dropped her pace slightly in order to walk next to her; she had been rushing ahead, letting the dog pull her forward in a half run. “I should have known something was up with her. I should have told you she was gone sooner.” She was trying to keep her face expressionless and cool, but tears were streaking down her baby-fat cheeks.

Laura stopped, though she wanted to keep rushing forward. She put her arms around Kayla. “It’s not about whose fault it is. It’s not about fault. And it’s going to be fine. We’ll find her and it’ll be fine.”

She let Kayla burrow into her shoulder and sniff tears and snot onto the waterproof fabric of her coat. It had been forever since either of the girls had cried on her shoulder; it reminded her of when they used to cry daily about some tiny disappointment or delay. A snatched toy or a sad cartoon could dissolve them. And then at some point they’d learned to control their tears, or keep them to themselves. She had forgotten this feeling: a child’s full weight leaning on you, depending on you, needing to collapse into your body for comfort. She loved Kayla, of course, but suddenly she craved having Marie in her arms like this. The other night in the bathroom, as Marie had bitched about their lack of closeness—why had Laura not just gone to her and enfolded her and let her be a child again for a moment? She wouldn’t have let me, Laura thought, and almost started crying along with Kayla but bit back her tears and steeled herself. The dog was going crazy at the end of her leash; they started walking again, redoubling their pace. Through the trees, she could see that there was a pond up ahead.

19

They carried Marie into the living room and put her on the couch while they waited for the paramedics to come, Laura crouching over her while Kayla sat on the floor nearby, googling on her phone what to do about frostbite and hypothermia. Daisy leaned against the kitchen island, staring into space and swaying slightly; she was drunk, Laura realized. Marie’s eyes were shut, but she was breathing regularly. Her hands, though, were so cold that it terrified Laura. They felt like the hands of a doll or a mannequin: dead hands. She held them pressed between her own warm hands, willing the warmth to pass between them. If Kayla hadn’t been there, she probably would have been crying or screaming at Daisy. But as it was, she felt an obligation to seem like she was in control of the situation. “She’ll be okay,” she murmured, and Kayla widened her eyes at her. Kayla liked to be the one who decided how much to worry.

“She was out there for a long time. I don’t know why the ambulance isn’t here yet.”

“I should have gone out and looked for her sooner. I meant to, after you called,” Daisy called weakly from the kitchen. When no one bothered to respond to her, she shuffled off down the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“Go sleep it off, you witch,” Kayla muttered, and Laura couldn’t summon the energy to chastise her. But a few minutes later Daisy returned with a pile of blankets and heating pads. They all busied themselves draping them over Marie’s prone body on the couch, working together in silence except when Kayla asked Daisy a question about the settings on the heating pad. They were still rearranging and draping the pile of quilts and afghans when they heard the siren, followed immediately by a sharp rap at the door.

“Oh, come in,