“Plus, you know I need something to keep me busy.”
“Then why not put the effort toward your own book?”
“I can’t write a memoir. I’m not nearly interesting enough, and anyway, I’m just starting over.”
“I could argue that this is the second volume in the epic legend of your life.” Maggie spoke with her mouth full.
“That would be a losing argument. Ward’s life, on the other hand…”
“Have you ever eaten a vegetable sausage?”
“No.”
“Don’t.” She rested her utensils on her plate and pushed it away. “Disgusting. Give me a piece of that.” She pointed at my croissant, and I handed it to her.
“Don’t you remember how kind she was to me when we met her at the book signing?”
“You mean when you cried in her face and then badgered me about how bad it really was for the next three weeks?”
“Shut up.”
“Listen, if this is what you think will make you happy, then I’m supportive.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but…’ ”
“But you have to be careful that you’re not looking to immerse yourself in someone else’s world as a means of avoiding your own growth. You wouldn’t be the first person to do that. It’s a slippery slope.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“Finding something that inspires you and occupies your time in the short run is very healthy. Unless that something hinders you from moving forward in the long run. Then it’s a big no-no. It’s a fine line.”
“I thought it was a slippery slope,” I teased.
“It’s both.” She stuck her tongue out.
“Well, right now I’m willing to slip on the slope and straddle the fine line. I need a little excitement in my life. You know, that adrenaline that comes with doing something out of your comfort zone.”
“What about your Fairfield Chronicle articles?”
“Daniel just assigned me another one. It’s on the nutritional value of school lunches. The first one was on that new kids club that opened on the Post Road. Not exactly hard-hitting journalism.”
“Don’t do that.” Maggie wagged her finger.
“Do what?”
“Self-deprecate. I’m really proud of you.”
“Don’t do that.” I parroted Maggie.
“Do what?”
“Patronize me.” I smiled.
“Touché.” She took another bite of veggie sausage and scrunched her nose. “So wait, how are you going to write Ward’s story if she’s disappeared?”
“That’s the piece I haven’t figured out yet. I’m thinking of pitching it to Daniel as sort of a local-celebrity-profile-meets-true-crime-series for the Chronicle to start, and then, if the stars align, I could use that as a launching point for a book.”
“That’s genius.” Maggie nodded. “People eat that shit up.”
“I agree. America’s Most Wanted used to be my favorite show.”
“Mine too! Daniel would be crazy not to love the idea.”
“I hope so, but I need to do some research before I go in guns blazing. He made it very clear that it takes time to gain his trust and become part of the team.”
“You just do your thing, and the rest will fall into place.”
“You think so?”
“Is a frog’s ass watertight?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah, neither do I.”
9 WARD
I held the small patch of baby blanket up to my nose as I swayed back and forth in my father’s antique rocking chair. It still smelled of my daughter.
When Stevie was born, she was fragile at only six pounds, one ounce. Despite her chicken-bone lungs, which would bloat with fury until a riotous cry escaped from her rosebud mouth, she continued to feel breakable, at least to me. As a rookie mother, I’d never burped a baby or changed a diaper. I had no idea that dressing her in polyester would cause her eczema to flare or that her acid reflux was the result of a yearlong allergy to cow milk, the main ingredient in her formula. The idea of breastfeeding never appealed to me. It wasn’t a viable option anyway, given that she made her appearance a week before the book tour for my second novel and I didn’t have the luxury of being with her every minute, as I’d wanted to. Also, there were no nursing pods in airports back then, and public feeding was not as acceptable, nor was it in my nature.
I stood up and walked toward the window. The sun was shining, as it has so many days since that night. It rises and sets, no matter what. Seems obvious, I know. But once the world as you know it has become bandaged in darkness, the smallest amount of light can be affronting. It took me two months just to lift the shades, and the glare still unnerves me.
Out of nowhere, a sinewy orange cat scuttled across the porch. As I watched it vault onto the railing and stride atop elegantly, I wondered, what are the cat’s concerns? Food, water, a cozy place to rest. She’s a girl cat. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me: hopeful but circumspect.
I moved toward the back door and opened it halfway. I made a clicking sound with my tongue to draw her closer. I won’t hurt you. Click, click. You’re safe. She eyed me with the cautiousness of a woman in a dark alley. Stay there. I went to the kitchen, retrieved a small bowl from the cabinet, filled it with milk, and set it down a few inches beyond the precipice of my insulated cocoon. She approached slowly, still wary, then a little faster, until she’d reached the bowl. She squinted at me before submerging her face in the milk and lapping it up, at which point I realized that water probably would have been a better option. I remember reading something that most cats are lactose intolerant. Oh well. She’ll live.
I knelt down to stroke her fur, which was matted, even knotted in spots. She purred softly, so I let her inside, refilled the bowl with water, and placed it on the kitchen floor. Surely she belonged to someone, but she had no tags. Nothing to identify her.
Kind of like Stevie that night. Yet they found her anyway.
“She put up a hell of a fight.” That’s what Canfield had said to me when I arrived at the hospital, as if that was what mattered most.
“She’s one tough cookie.” McNeil had echoed his sentiment.
I said nothing in return. All I wanted was to see my baby girl. The same baby girl who’d clutched her blanket to her chest until she was four years old, when it had become so ragged that I finally had to convince her to let me snip off a small square to carry forever.
Forever. That was what I’d said to her at the time.
I lowered myself into the rocking chair again, and the cat coiled herself at my feet. I noticed she was holding on to something. Stevie’s patch of baby blanket, which had fallen off the seat. My instinct was to rip it from her paws. That’s mine, I wanted to say in a scolding tone. But she looked so content, like she’d come in search of it. Still, I surveyed her carefully.
We remained there for what felt like hours, just studying each other. Eventually I closed my eyes and thought back to the night Stevie went missing. It’s something I do often. It keeps me honest. I like to experience the grief, to let it overcome me. I have to see through every loose end, same as when I’m writing a book. Otherwise I’ll feel haunted.