The explanations given, the conclusions drawn, might be willfully dishonest, they may be obliviously ignorant, or they could be part of the truth—but rarely are they the whole story. Still, by default, those versions are the only ones that will ever be told.
Consider, for instance, the suicide note. You might think that’s an exception, a victim who does get to have the last word. Yet rarely does it satisfy those left behind. They read between the lines and still they ask: But why? They arrive at their own conclusions. As well they should. Who’s to say if that note is true? It may have been what they thought you wanted to hear. It may have been what they wanted you to believe. It may have been an act of kindness, one easier than the truth.
What if the rest of us had the luxury of foreseeing our premature exit, one way or the other? Would we entrust our own truths to some one else after all? Would we make sure that someone we’ve left behind could speak for us? Or would we merely curse the fact that no one would ever know?
Because some of us were silenced long before we disappeared from view.
8
Family law focuses primarily on protecting marriage and traditional families. Stepfamilies, it seems, are considered more problematic and often underrepresented.
—“Knowing and Understanding Stepparents’ Rights,” DadsDivorce.com
Clara pushed the stroller to a stop against the brick wall and knocked lightly on the locked glass door of the boutique. Rhoda glanced up from the counter, where she was filling the register drawer, and Clara raised her hand in a silent wave. She caught sight of Randi, sprawled in a hemp hammock for sale in the corner with Adele propped up on her lap, and her friend turned the baby and pumped her tiny fists in the air in a greeting.
She was reminding herself not to call the baby Radele, as Benny always jokingly did at home, trilling his r’s whenever he caught sight of them across the yards or down the sidewalk—”Rrrandi! Rrrhoda! Rrradele!”—when Rhoda swung the door open, ringing the whimsical chimes that hung in the doorway. “I was just going to text you,” Rhoda said cheerfully, gesturing for her to come in. “Now there won’t be a written trail of what a gossip I am!”
Clara lifted Maddie from the stroller and slipped inside, taking care not to disturb the CLOSED sign as Rhoda shut and locked the door behind her. She paused for a moment, as she always did upon entering the aptly named Moondance boutique, to breathe in the feeling of being surrounded by beautiful and somewhat frivolous things.
Clara had once had style. Something close to a signature one, actually. A frugal but patient shopper, she’d delighted in her finds as if they were endangered species she’d tracked through miles of wild terrain: the cashmere cowl-neck with a near custom-fit drape, the vintage dress so well preserved it could pass for a reissue, the distressed gray riding boots that hugged her skinny calves just so. Now she looked down at her khakis and plain navy T with a kind of shock and wondered where it had gone.
To the grab-and-go purgatory where you shopped with kids in tow, that’s where.
“I take it you saw?” Clara asked.
“Struck us as quite the performance,” Rhoda said.
“But to be fair, we’ve never really been fans of Dr. Paul,” Randi added. She swung her legs over the side of the hammock and carefully laid the baby in the soft center of an oversized throw pillow on the floor. “What did you make of it?” she asked Clara.
“Same.” She got to her knees on the floor and settled Maddie next to Adele, marveling at how her daughter, still a baby herself, dwarfed the nearly three-month-old. She couldn’t resist running a finger across the tips of Adele’s tiny toes.
“Well, I think we’re in the minority,” Rhoda said. “We ran into Natalie on the way in, and she seemed to think it proved her point from last night. Stay for coffee?” She squeezed Clara’s shoulder and disappeared into the back room without waiting for an answer.
Randi took a basket of small felt toys from the shelf behind her and set them in front of a delighted Maddie, who immediately dumped them onto the floor and started lifting them by their price tags, one by one. Clara bicycled Adele’s pudgy little legs and was rewarded with a gummy smile.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter why she’s gone,” Randi said sadly. “Only that she is.”
Clara shook her head. “About that,” she said. “The police called and asked me to come in. I guess they have more questions.”
Everyone had more questions. Clara hadn’t known what to expect when dropping Thomas off at school, but what she’d found was sort of a reverent hush—nervous nods and meaningful silences conveying the uncertainty that would seem too real if given voice to. The concern was thicker there, where the twins’ cubbies sat with empty coat hooks and crinkly piles of artwork waiting to be taken home. Clara gathered from the teachers’ whispers that the detectives had been there and were still making their rounds talking to the enrolled families.
“Really? Have you remembered anything new since last night?”
“I don’t think so.”
Rhoda reappeared with a tray of cream, agave nectar, and three steaming mugs, and Clara accepted one gratefully. It was one of those sturdy kiln-fired creations that always beckoned her at art shows, until she saw the price tags. “But that’s why I’m here,” she admitted. “I know you have work to do, but is there any chance I could leave Maddie with you, just for a half hour or so, while I stop by the station? I’m not sure who else to ask…”
“Of course,” Rhoda said, sinking cross-legged to the floor next to Clara. “In spite of the circumstances, I have to say it’s nice seeing you so many days in a row. All day Sunday we were saying we should all get together more often, make it a regular thing, get to know Kristin and Izzy more.”
Clara nodded, watching the cream swirl into her coffee. She liked this cozy corner of the store, with piles of artfully arranged pillows on display and quilts strung up on the wall. Soft sunlight streamed through the side windows, creating what felt like a little pocket of warmth and light, though the storefront was still in deep shadow, as was the alcove of more unwieldy sale items in the back.
“Say,” Randi said, “would you like to come to our meditation group tonight, at the Intuitive Healing Studio? We got an email from our instructor this morning that we’ll be focusing this session on sending safe energy and strength to Kristin and the twins. She said we should bring anyone who might want to join and they could sit in for free.”
The idea did sound sort of interesting, though not normally her scene. “You know, I think the kids could use some normalcy tonight—both parents home—but I love that you’ll all be doing that. Maybe Izzy would like to go?” She had no idea if that was true, but Izzy seemed to be longing for something she hadn’t yet found here. Even if it was just friendship.
“Good thought,” Rhoda said. “We’ll invite her.”
“Will anyone be sending energy to Paul too?” Clara couldn’t help asking.
“Conspicuously not mentioned in the email.”
“Benny felt the same as Natalie, about Paul on TV. He buys his story … reluctantly.”
Rhoda pulled a face. “I could never put my finger on why I didn’t like the guy. I don’t know that I’ve spoken with him since … maybe last Christmas? He came in to get gifts for Kristin and the twins. I think things were already on the rocks by then, though.”
They were staring intently at Clara, as if she’d been cast in some reality TV show. “It’s weird looking back, isn’t it?” she said. “But the more I think about it, I guess I’m starting to feel like some things make more sense now.”