Heather(87)

She can hear them all in the back bedroom, the cacophony of some tinny, musical song from one of Opal’s toys, Opal pleading for something—Mom, Mom, Mom—Jane trying to tell Damien that they need peanut butter from the store.

“Hello!” she calls, and Opal comes running, followed by Damien. She stares at him openly. Studies his pupils. Cuts her eyes to the mess in the kitchen.

“Sorry it’s a wreck,” he mumbles. “I gotta run.”

He slides by her and Opal tugs on her arm. Her dress is stained all over. In the hall there’s a heap of dirty clothes in front of the washer.

Jane steps out of the bedroom. Callie wastes no time asking her what’s going on.

“He’s super busy at work, between our stuff and working for Luke. And I’m up more but just … the headaches have been bad this week.”

Callie doesn’t bother calling the lie. That Christmas is over and the nursery is dead quiet. That no one is going on many hikes in January. “Call me next time, okay? That’s why I’m here.”

Usually Jane would roll her eyes, come back with something snarky, but she only nods. He’s wearing you out, Callie wants to say, feels the anger in the tightening of her jaw. “Go lie down. I’ve got this.”

Jane doesn’t argue, just lays a head on Callie’s shoulder before retreating down the hall again, her fingertips grazing the walls for balance, her left foot dragging.

Callie does her best to make a game of it. She and Opal conquer Laundry Mountain, vanquish the Evil Dish Pile, and scrub the floor by sliding paper towels with their toes, dance with the Swiffer sweeper. She has to go over all of Opal’s work but it keeps her busy, tires her out, and by 2:00 P.M. she’s down for nap after a single bedtime story. Callie tiptoes out, shuts the door as quietly as she can. She’s brought her backpack in with her, slides Sabrina’s notebook onto her lap.



* * *



More than a writer, Sabrina is a doodler. She’s drawn the shores of a lake. A raccoon. The doorknocker from the Riley house. The star in its circle takes up half a page.

Some pages are drawings only, without any kind of text, and she can still feel the way the pen pressed hard into the paper. Sabrina filling the white space so urgently, the indents still there thirty years later. Near the end of the notebook she finds a list, written in what must have been Sabrina’s best handwriting. Not as neat as Annabelle’s, but deliberate and clear.

Gentle pressure near perineum to help head pass

Push slowly

Guide shoulders

Clean airways (nose and mouth)

Slip cord over neck if wrapped around

Wrap baby in clean towel or blanket

Put baby on skin for warmth

Deliver placenta

Cut cord

Massage belly below navel (mothers)

If not breathing, rub back or tap feet. If still not breathing do mouth to mouth (*look up mouth to mouth instructions!!!)



Callie looks up to the ceiling, feels a lump in her throat.

Kids. They were lonely, neglected kids. Kids who couldn’t google anything. She thinks of that panicky feeling she gets when she passes through the densest parts of the woods and her cell service disappears. That was their lives. It would have been the exception to be able to call for help, not the rule. And here was Sabrina, dutiful, trying to help Annabelle the best she could. She had so wanted to do this one thing right. Maybe she thought it would redeem her. Maybe she thought the baby’s love, her sister’s love, were the only kinds she might be able to count on.

She turns the page and finds another picture of a shoreline—the same one from the second page, the crook of a tree branch reaching toward the water from the right-hand side. Once in an entry from October and another from December. Did it mean something to her? There was no water for miles from the Riley property—she checks the map to be sure. Maybe Callie could text Annabelle a picture of the drawing and ask her if she knew what it meant.

“What’s that?” She had been so absorbed she hadn’t heard Jane’s door open, hadn’t heard her creep down the hall.

“It’s Sabrina Riley’s notebook.”

“Holy shit. How did you get that?”

“I found Annabelle.”

“You weren’t going to tell me that?” Jane leans over to get a closer look at the pages. “Can’t I see?”

Callie doesn’t feel right letting Jane see the notebook, wonders if it is a breach of Annabelle’s trust. An active investigation. But, she does need to soften Jane for what she needs to say to her before she goes. Opal asleep, Damien gone. They might not have a chance to have this conversation for a long time, if she doesn’t do it now.

She hands the notebook to Jane, who flips through the pages, frowns once, flips back between the two images of the shoreline.

“Not quite the confession you might hope for, huh?”

“No, not really. Annabelle had been the one who was pregnant. She is sure Sabrina was murdered. That she was supposed to be there when Annabelle gave birth but disappeared before it happened. Apparently she was off to threaten the guy. Demand he give her money. She said he was with other young girls. Teenagers. That he used to talk about them to Sabrina, taunt her.”

“She sure could pick ’em,” Jane says. She gets to the page with the picture of the star, traces her fingers around the points.