Across town, in the little house on Winslow, Bebe was crying at Mia’s kitchen table. As soon as the verdict had been announced, she’d heard a terrible keening, so sharp she’d clamped her hands over her ears and collapsed into a ball. Only when the bailiff took her arm to escort her out of the room did she realize that the wail was coming from her own mouth. The bailiff, who had a daughter about Bebe’s age, took her to an anteroom and pressed a cup of lukewarm coffee into her hands. Bebe had swallowed it, mouthful by watery mouthful, digging her teeth into the Styrofoam rim every time she felt a scream rising in her throat again, and by the time the coffee was gone, the cup had been shredded almost to pieces. She did not even have words, only a feeling, a terrible hollow feeling, as if everything inside her had been scooped out raw.
When she had finished the coffee and calmed down, the bailiff gently pried the shards of foam from her hands and threw them away. Then he led her out a back entrance, where a cab was waiting. “Take her wherever she wants,” he told the driver, passing him two twenties from his own wallet. To Bebe he said, “You gonna be okay, honey. You gonna be fine. God works in mysterious ways. You keep your chin up.” He shut the cab door and headed back inside, shaking his head. In this way Bebe was able to avoid all the news cameras and crews that had lined up at the front entrance, the news conference that the McCulloughs were preparing for that afternoon, the reporters who had hoped to ask her whether, in the light of this decision, she would try to have another child. Instead, Ed Lim deflected their questions, and the cab sped away up Stokes Boulevard toward Shaker Heights, and Bebe, slumped against the window with her head in her hands, also missed a last glimpse of her daughter, carried down the hallway from the waiting room by a DCF social worker and placed into Mrs. McCullough’s waiting arms.
Forty-five minutes later—there had been traffic—the cab pulled up in front of the little house on Winslow. Mia was still home, trying to finish a piece she’d been working on, and she took one look at Bebe and understood what had happened. She would get the details later—some from Bebe herself, when she’d calmed down; others from the news stories that would air that night and the newspaper articles that would print the next morning. Full custody to the state, with a recommendation that the adoption by the McCulloughs be expedited. Termination of visitation rights. A court order prohibiting further contact between Bebe and her daughter without the McCulloughs’ unlikely consent. For now, she simply folded Bebe in her arms and took her into the kitchen, set a cup of hot tea before her, and let her cry.
The news was just beginning to spread at the high school as the last bell rang. Monique Lim got a page from her father, Sara Hendricks—whose father worked at Channel 5—got another from hers, and word traveled from there. Izzy, however, knew nothing of this until she arrived at Mia’s after school, let herself in through the unlocked side door as usual, and came upstairs to see Bebe crumpled at the kitchen table.
“What happened?” she whispered, though she already knew. She had never seen an adult cry like that, with such an animal sound. Recklessly. As if there were nothing more to be lost. For years afterward, she would sometimes wake in the night, heart thumping, thinking she’d heard that agonized cry again.
Mia jumped up and shepherded Izzy back out onto the stairs, shutting the kitchen door behind her. “Is she—dying?” Izzy whispered. It was a ridiculous question, but in that moment she was honestly terrified this might be true. If a soul could leave a body, she thought, this is the sound it would make: like the screech of a nail being pulled from old wood. Instinctively, she huddled against Mia and buried her face against her.
“She’s not dying,” Mia said. She put her arms around Izzy and held her close.
“But is she going to be okay?”
“She’s going to survive, if that’s what you mean.” Mia stroked Izzy’s hair, which billowed out from beneath her fingers like plumes of smoke. It was like Pearl’s, like her own had been as a little girl: the more you tried to smooth it, the more it insisted on springing free. “She’s going to get through this. Because she has to.”
“But how?” Izzy could not believe that someone could endure this kind of pain and survive.
“I don’t know, honestly. But she will. Sometimes, just when you think everything’s gone, you find a way.” Mia racked her mind for an explanation. “Like after a prairie fire. I saw one, years ago, when we were in Nebraska. It seems like the end of the world. The earth is all scorched and black and everything green is gone. But after the burning the soil is richer, and new things can grow.” She held Izzy at arm’s length, wiped her cheek with a fingertip, smoothed her hair one last time. “People are like that, too, you know. They start over. They find a way.”
Izzy nodded and turned to go, then turned back. “Tell her I’m so sorry,” she said.
Mia nodded. “See you tomorrow, okay?”
Lexie and Moody, meanwhile, came home to a message on the answering machine telling them the case was over. Order some pizza, their mother’s staticky voice said. There’s cash in the drawer under the phone book. I’ll be home after I file my piece. Dad won’t be home until late—he’s tying up paperwork after the hearing. Did Pearl know yet, Moody wondered, but they’d barely spoken since their falling out, and he retreated to his room and did his best not to wonder what Pearl was doing. As he’d guessed, Pearl was out with Trip that afternoon, and learned the news only when she came home some hours later to find Bebe—quiet now—still at the kitchen table.
“It’s over,” Mia told her quietly, and that was all that needed to be said.
“I’m really sorry, Bebe,” Pearl said. “I’m—I’m so sorry.” Bebe didn’t even look up, and Pearl disappeared into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.
Mia and Bebe sat in silence for some time, until it had grown quite dark and Bebe finally rose to go.
“She will always be your child,” Mia said to Bebe, taking her hand. “You will always be her mother. Nothing will ever change that.” She kissed Bebe on the cheek and let her go. Bebe said nothing, just as she had said nothing all this time, and Mia wondered if she should ask what she was thinking, if she should push her to stay, if Bebe would be all right. In her place, she thought, she’d rather not be forced to talk, and tact won out. Later she would realize that Bebe must have heard this differently. That she must have heard, in these words, a permission granted. She would wonder if Bebe might have told her what she was planning if she’d pushed harder, and whether she would have tried to stop Bebe, or if she’d have helped, if she’d known. Even years later, she would never be able to answer this question to her own satisfaction.
The press conference ran longer than expected—nearly every news outfit had questions for the McCulloughs, and the McCulloughs, dazzled by their good fortune, stayed to answer them all. Were they relieved to have the ordeal over? Yes, of course they were. What were their plans for the next few days? They would take some time to themselves, now that Mirabelle was home to stay. They were looking forward to their life together as a family. What were they going to make for Mirabelle’s first meal back home? Mrs. McCullough answered: macaroni and cheese, her favorite. When would the adoption process be finalized? Very soon, they hoped.