He hadn’t known shit. The cost of war was here, in this room. It was families being torn apart and babies born without their parent at home and children forgetting their mother’s face. It was soldiers—some of them his age and others young enough to be his sons—who would come home wounded … or not come home at all.
His
wife
was going off to war.
War
. How was it he had missed the most important part of that? She could die.
“Breathe,” Jolene said gently.
Michael stared at her, his eyes bright with tears he was trying to hold back. “How can you do this? Any of you…”
Lulu leaned out of his arms, toward Jolene, her arms outstretched. “Don’t leave me, Mommy. I’ll be good. I won’t be inbisible anymore.”
Jolene pulled her youngest into her arms and held her fiercely. “You are the best girl in the world, Lucy Lou…” She pinned a small golden set of wings on Lulu’s costume. “When you look at these wings, you’ll know I’m thinking of you, Lulu. Okay?”
Michael reached out, took Jolene’s hand. He should have done that before, told her he’d be here for her. She grasped his hand so tightly it hurt. He wanted to wrap his arms around both of them, but he didn’t dare. If he got close enough to kiss her, he might fall apart and be the only man in the room who cried. His kids didn’t need to see that.
Betsy stood back, her arms crossed, one hip flung out, her mouth pulled into a tight frown.
“I’ll send videos and e-mails. I’ll call as much as I can,” Jolene promised them all.
“We’ll be fine,” Mila said to Jolene, hugging her, taking Lulu into her arms. “Don’t you worry about us.”
Jolene moved toward Betsy, caressed her cheek, forced her to look up. “I have my watch set. Do you?”
“Seven o’clock,” Betsy said firmly, looking away.
Jolene bent down, looked Betsy in the eyes. “I love you to the moon and back.” She paused. Michael knew she was waiting. He thought:
say it back to her, Bets,
but the silence just hung there, until Jolene straightened, looking unbearably sad.
Behind them, a voice came through the speakers, telling the soldiers to gather at the buses. The crowd started to move like a wave, swelling toward the doors.
And then they were outside, this crowd of straight-backed soldiers with duffle bags, amid their weeping families and reaching children. A row of buses waited on the tarmac.
“I’ll be good,” Lulu said, crying hard.
Jolene kissed her daughters and held them tightly and then … let them go.
Michael watched her move toward him. For a split second it was just the two of them in his mind—no kids, no soldiers, no crying babies. Everything around them was a blur of sound and fury.
He didn’t know what to do or say. He couldn’t repair a broken marriage with a kiss or a touch, but he was ashamed of what he’d done to get them here, and it was too late to fix it.
“Michael,” she said and he felt the sting of tears. “Take care of yourself.”
It was so little, that good-bye; more evidence of the shoals they’d wrecked on.
“You take care of
yourself
. Come home to…”
“Them?”
“Just make sure you come home.” He took her in his arms at last, holding her tightly. It wasn’t until she walked away that he realized she hadn’t hugged him back.
With one last agonizing look, Jolene disappeared into the crowd of soldiers and boarded the bus.
Betsy cried out, “MOM!” and ran the length of the bus, following her mother’s progress. Her voice was lost in the din.
Michael picked up a sobbing Lulu and tried to soothe her, but she was hysterical.
In the back row of the bus, Jolene put down her window. She gazed down at her family; the smile she gave them faltered as the bus drove away.
And then she was gone.
“I didn’t say ‘I love you,’” Betsy said, bursting into tears.
* * *
In the months before his wife left, Michael had slept on “his side” of the bed. He’d seen the river of rumpled white cotton between them as a no-man’s-land where passion had gone to die. Now, on this morning when he woke up truly alone, he saw how false that had been. In all those nights, he’d had a wife beside him, a partner with whom he’d shared his life. Alone was different from separate, infinitely different. Often last night he’d reached out for her and found only emptiness.
His first thought when he woke: she’s gone.
He sat up in bed. Beside him on the nightstand was her “bible,” the huge three-ring binder that housed the endless list of his new responsibilities. In it, she’d put everything she thought he might need—appliance warranties, recipes, lists of mechanics and housecleaners and babysitters. He reached for it and opened it to the “Daily Planner” section.
Make breakfast
. (Each morning came with its own carefully constructed meal plan.)
Get girls dressed. Make sure they brush their teeth
.
Get Betsy on school bus. Arrival: 8:17
.
Drop Lulu off at preschool. 8:30
. She had provided him with an address, which pissed him off, both because she assumed he would need it and because, in fact, he did.
He threw back the covers and got out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom. After a long, hot shower, he felt ready to start his day. Dressing in navy wool slacks and a crisp white Armani dress shirt, he left the room.
As he walked down the darkened hallway, he knocked on the girls’ doors, yelling for them to get up.
Downstairs, he made a pot of coffee, realizing too late that he’d made enough for two. Then he stood there, waiting impatiently. As soon as it was done, he pulled out the glass carafe and poured himself a cup.
Only it wasn’t done; coffee dripped down, splattering and burning on the warming pad below. He shoved the carafe back into place, ignoring the steaming sizzle, and looked at his list.
Today was “clown” pancake breakfast day.
Ha.
Instead, he rifled through the cupboards, found some cereal, and thumped it down on the table. Tossing some bowls and spoons alongside it, he grabbed the newspaper from the porch and sat down to read it.
The next time he looked up, it was 8:07.
“Shit.” He threw down the paper and ran up the stairs, opening Betsy’s door.
His daughter was still asleep.
“Damn it, Betsy, get up.”
She sat up in bed slowly, blinking, and glanced sleepily at the clock by her bed and then screamed.
“You didn’t wake me up in time!” The horror on her face would have been funny any other time. He knew how precise Betsy was, just like her mom; she hated to be rushed.
“I knocked on your door and yelled at you,” he said, clapping his hands. “Get going.”
“I don’t have time. I don’t have time.” She jumped out of bed and looked in the mirror. “My hair,” she groaned.
“You have five minutes to be at the table for breakfast.”
“No shower?” Again, the horror. “You can’t mean it.”
“Oh. I mean it. You’re twelve. How dirty can you be?
Go
.”
She glared at him.
“Move it.” He strode down the hall to Lulu’s room. As usual, his youngest daughter slept spread-eagle on top of the blankets with a zoo of stuffed animals gathered around her. He threw the toys aside and kissed her cheek, pushing her tangled hair aside. “Lulu, honey, it’s time to wake up.”
“I don’t wanna,” she said, rolling away from him.
“Time to go to preschool.”
“I don’t wanna.”
He turned on the light and went to her dresser. Opening the top drawer, he pulled out some tiny pink-flowered underwear and a pair of small elastic-waisted yellow corduroy pants and a green sweater. “Come on, Lulu, we need to get you dressed.”
“Those are summer clothes, Daddy. And they don’t go together. Get the yellow sweater.”
“This is what you’re wearing.”
“Am not.”
“Are, too.”
“Mommy lets me pick—”
“Come here, Lucy,” he said sternly.
Scrunching her face up, she climbed out of bed and padded toward him. All the time he was dressing her, she was complaining.
“There,” he said when she was dressed. “Pretty as a picture.”
“I look ugly.”
“Hardly.”
She reached up for the pair of wings on the dresser top. “Pin it on me, Daddy. It means she’s thinking of me. Ow! You poked me.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Picking her up, he carried her downstairs and into the kitchen. There, he put her in her chair and poured her a bowl of cereal.
“It’s clown pancake day,” she informed him crisply, looking down at her wings. “Look at the calendar.”
“It’s Captain Crunch day.”
“That’s for special. Is Mommy coming home?”
“Not today.” He poured the milk into her bowl.
Betsy came running into the kitchen and stopped dead. “I can’t go to school like this,” she cried, flinging out her arms dramatically. “Look at my hair.”
She
did
sort of look as if she’d just undergone electric shock therapy. “Put a twisty thing in it.”
Betsy’s eyes widened at the thought, her face paled. “You’re ruining my life already.”
“Mommy’s not coming home yet,” Lulu said and burst into tears.
“Eat,” Michael snapped to Lulu; to Betsy, he said, “Sit down. Now.”
Outside, he heard the grinding of gears, the rattling of an old engine. He looked through the kitchen window and saw the yellow blur of a school bus pull up at the end of his driveway.
“I’m
late,
” Betsy howled. “See?”
Michael ran to the back door and flung it open, yelling, “Wait—”
But it was too late. The bus was pulling away.
He slammed the door shut. “When does school start?
That
wasn’t on her damn list.”
Betsy stared at him. “You don’t even know?”
“Eat. Then go brush your teeth. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
“I’m not going to first period,” Betsy said. “Ooooh no I’m not. Zoe’s in that class. And Sienna. When they see my hair—”
“You’re going to school. I have a ferry to catch.” Michael looked at the wall clock and grimaced. He was going to miss his ferry, which meant he was going to miss his first meeting of the day.
Betsy crossed her arms. “I’m on a hunger strike.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Be hungry.” He grabbed the dishes and put them in the sink, cereal and milk and all. In the mudroom, he found Lulu’s pink rubber boots and picked them up.
In the kitchen, Betsy hadn’t moved. She sat in the chair, looking mutinous, with her chin jutted out and her eyes narrowed.
“I’m not going in late. Everyone will stare at me,” she said.
“Who do you think you are, Madonna? A bad hair day doesn’t stop school. Get your backpack.”
“No.”
He looked at her. “Get your backpack and get ready, Betsy, or I’ll walk you in to first period, holding your hand.”
She opened her mouth in horror, then clamped it shut. “Whatever. I’m going.”
He looked through the kitchen to the family room, where Lulu lay curled on the couch, with her blanket and a stuffed orca, watching the video of Jolene reading her a story. “Lulu, come let me put your boots on you. Lulu. Come here.”
“She’s wearing the headband,” Betsy said primly.
Michael marched into the family room and picked Lulu up. At the movement, the headband slid off her head.
“I’m inbisible!” she screamed.
He carried her screaming and squealing out to the car and strapped her into her car seat. Betsy, silent and glowering, climbed in beside her.
Lulu burst into tears. “I want my mommy!”
“Yeah,” Michael said, starting the car. “Don’t we all?”
* * *
The first week without Jolene almost drove Michael into the ground. He’d had no idea how much there was to do around the house and with the kids. If his mother hadn’t had such boundless energy, he would have had to hire full-time help. She’d been a lifesaver, no doubt about it. Jolene had enrolled Lulu in after-preschool day care, which lasted until four o’clock. That meant his mother could work until almost four, and then pick Lulu up from day care, and get to Michael’s house in time to meet Betsy so that she never came home to an empty house—one of Jolene’s strictest rules. By the time Michael got home at six, his mom had usually started dinner and done some laundry. She was shouldering a big part of his burden.
Even so, he wasn’t doing well. Betsy was a whirling dervish; he never seemed to be able to anticipate her reaction to the simplest of things. She could burst into tears over nothing and then be mad as a hornet five seconds later. And Lulu wasn’t much easier to handle. She had taken to wearing her ratty gray cat ears almost all the time. She swore she was going to stay “inbisible” until Jolene came home, and when Michael ignored the game and picked her up anyway, she screamed like a banshee and sobbed that she missed her mommy.
And then there was the Keller case, which was showing all the signs of becoming a disaster. Keith still hadn’t spoken to anyone, not even his court-appointed psychiatrist. Michael had waived his client’s right to a speedy trial, but at the moment competency to stand trial was a legitimate concern.
His intercom buzzed. “Michael? Mr. Keller is here to see you.”
“Send him in.” Michael closed up the file and opened a pad of paper.
Edward Keller walked into the office slowly, looking nervous. He was a big man with close-shaved black hair and a bushy black Tom Selleck mustache. He was pale and sweaty-looking in his plaid shirt and Wrangler jeans.
Michael stood up, extended his hand. “Hello, Ed. I’m Michael. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Ed shook his hand. “My wife wouldn’t come. She tried … she just can’t talk about it yet. Emily was like a daughter to us. It’s hard…”
“I understand,” Michael said, and he did. He lived in a world of crime and victims; he’d seen time and again how terrible a grief came with the realization that a loved one had committed a heinous crime. Ed and his wife were the forgotten victims in a case like this.