“Good,” he said, then got up and went into the den.
Oh, no! Would she have to get pregnant?
She certainly couldn’t go to medical school. She didn’t want a job. She could be a yoga teacher, maybe . . . she’d done enough of it. A therapist, because that didn’t involve anything besides listening to people, right? And she could have a swanky office, not dark and crowded like the one in Couples Therapy or In Treatment, but one with a view of Central Park, maybe. Now that would be cool.
Unfortunately, becoming a legitimate therapist would require quite a bit of school, Google told her. Dang it.
And then, as always, the universe intervened.
One night when Melissa was sitting in the bath, neck-deep in bubbles and drinking a glass of Antoine Jobard Meursault, pretending to be sore from her fictional gynecological exam, her phone rang.
Unknown number. She let it go to voice mail, then listened. “Hey, Missy, it’s Kaitlyn. I need a favor. Call me back, ’kay?”
Her sister. Melissa had never told her parents she was married. They weren’t the type to use the internet to track her down, but if they did, they’d want money, and she would die, having them invade her pristine, carefully curated life. She doubted they remembered her changed name, and if they did, it was a common enough name, Melissa Spencer. There were plenty of doctors, CEOs, authors, professors, real estate agents with the same name . . . they’d never be able to find her.
The only time Melissa reached out was to send cute outfits and gifts to Harminee （the name still made her wince） on the kid’s birthday and at Christmas, wanting her to have something nice in her life. She never listed the return address . . . that was what Amazon was for, wasn’t it?
But Melissa had given Katie her cell phone number. Her county had one of the highest per capita overdose deaths in the nation. If her sister died, Melissa would want to know. Kaitlyn may have been addicted to drugs and was a petty criminal, but once upon a time, the two of them had been close. More than close. They’d been best friends.
She got out of the tub, wrapped herself in her white bathrobe and peeked in on Dennis. He was watching a Yankees game, and the score was tied, which meant he’d be glued to the set till the last second of the game. Good. She couldn’t risk him overhearing her. Back down the hallway she went, into the guest room and into the vast closet there where she kept her shoes, and called her sister back.
“Whaddup?”
“Kaitlyn? Is that you?”
“Yeah, hey, Missy-Jo. Listen. I’ll get straight to the point,” Kaitlyn said. “I’m heading to jail again, and I need some help.”
“What?”
“Angela had a stroke, so they can’t watch Harminee anymore.”
“Angela . . . the one who’s raising her? Her grandmother?”
“Can you give me a fuckin’ break? Yeah, raisin’ her, watchin’ her, whatever. Mama and Daddy said no because of Daddy’s back, but you and me know that’s bullshit.”
The grammar made her cringe. Was that how she’d once sounded? Awful. “Who’ll take care of Harminee, then?”
“Well, shit, Missy-Jo, I thought you were smart. Dintcha go to college?” There was a pause, and Melissa could hear her take a drag on a cigarette. “I want you to take her, dumbass.”
“What?” She shook her head to clear it. Surely she hadn’t heard right. “Can’t . . . I mean, can’t someone else watch her until you get out? Someone closer? What about Aunt Rena?” Melissa could hear the white trash creeping back into her voice. Whubout Ant Rena?
“Aunt Rena ain’t right in the head, Missy. The social worker said immediate family’s best. Look. I can’t keep her. I gotta be clean for somethin’ like two years before I can git her again, and I’m lookin’ at five to ten. You’re my sister. It should be you.”
“I can’t . . . That’s crazy. I can’t take her.” She looked at her rows of shoes, so organized, so beautiful. A kid? No, thank you.
“She’s seven,” Kaitlyn said. “She’s your niece, Missy Jolene Cumbo.”
There was a threat in that sentence. While her parents were computer illiterate, Melissa was sure Kaitlyn could find her in about ten minutes. She’d always been cunning that way.
“Just let me think a minute,” she said to her sister.
Her niece. Seven wasn’t a baby. Seven was all-day school and lessons and maybe a nanny. She and Dennis were wealthy, after all. She could save Harminee and give the kid an escape from her all-too-certain future. Hadn’t she prayed for the very same thing as a child? A rich aunt or godmother who’d swoop in and change everything?