really want to.” He whistled as Dee tried for three points. The ball missed, but he still gave her a thumbs-up when she glanced his way.
Lydia was tempted to tell him that Dee wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about his approval if they lived together, but decided to save it for the next time they were yelling at each other.
Rick sighed as the opposing team got the ball. “Oh Lord, here we go.”
The dinner-plate girl was blocking Dee. She didn’t even have the decency to raise her arms.
Rick sat back against the bleachers. His boots rested on the seat in front of him. There were oil stains on the cracked brown leather. His jeans had grease spots. He smelled faintly of engine exhaust. He had kind eyes. He loved her daughter. He loved animals. Even squirrels. He had read every book Danielle Steele had ever written because he got hooked in rehab. He didn’t mind that most of Lydia’s clothes were covered in dog hair or that her only regret about their sex life was that she couldn’t do it wearing a burqa.
She asked, “What do I need to do?”
“Tell me what’s going on in that crazy head of yours.”
“I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”
He thought it over for a moment. “All right. Just don’t mess up my face.”
Lydia stared at the scoreboard. 10–0. She blinked. 12–0. “I just …” She didn’t know how to say what she needed to say. “It’s just history coming back on me.”
“That sounds like a country music song.” He looked her in the eye. “Anna Kilpatrick.”
Lydia chewed her lip. He wasn’t asking a question. He was giving an answer. He’d seen all the clippings she’d kept on Anna Kilpatrick’s disappearance, the way Lydia’s eyes filled with tears whenever the girl’s parents were on the news.
He said, “I heard the police found a new clue.”
“All they can do now is hope they find the body.”
“She might be alive.”
“Optimism is a sliver of glass in your heart.”
“That from another song?”
“From my father.”
He smiled at her. She loved the way the lines around his eyes crinkled. “Babe, I know I asked you to stay away from the news, but I think you should know something.”
Rick wasn’t smiling anymore. She felt her heart lurch in her chest.
“Is she dead?” Lydia put her hand to her throat. “Did they find Anna?”
“No, I would’ve told you right off. You know that.”
She did know that, but her heart was still racing.
“I saw it in the crime blotter this morning.” Rick was visibly reluctant, but he pushed on. “It happened three days ago. Paul Scott, architect, married to Claire Scott. They were downtown. Got robbed. Paul took the wrong end of a knife. Died before they got him to the hospital. Funeral’s tomorrow.”
The Mothers erupted into another round of cheering and clapping. Dee had somehow managed to get the ball again. Lydia watched her daughter sprint down the court. Dinner-Plate Hands snatched away the ball. Dee didn’t give up. She chased after the girl. She was fearless. She was fearless in every aspect of her life. And why wouldn’t she be? No one had ever slapped her down. Life hadn’t had a chance to hurt her. She had never lost anyone. She had never known the sorrow of having someone taken away.
Rick asked, “You gonna say something?”
Lydia had a lot to say, but she wasn’t going to let Rick see that side of her; that angry, brutal side that she’d anesthetized with coke and when the coke was too much, pushed down with food.
“Liddie?”
She shook her head. Tears streamed down her face. “I just hope he suffered.”
II
It’s your birthday today, the fourth birthday that has passed without you. As usual, I set aside some time to go through our family photos and let all of the memories wash over me. I only allow myself this pleasure once a year, because doling out these precious memories is what gets me through the countless, endless days without you.
My favorite photograph is from your first birthday. Your mother and I were far more excited than you were, though you were generally a happy baby. To you, this birthday was just another day. Nothing remarkable except the cake, which you immediately destroyed with your fists. There were only two of us on the guest list. Your mother said it was silly to publicly mark an event that you would never remember. I readily agreed, because I was selfish, and because I was