And then, it began.
She looked over at Paul as the soft voices of the choir registered and the first notes cascaded down around them, as if the beams of sunlight streaming hazily through the trees had themselves burst into waves of sound. His eyes met hers first in confusion, and then in recognition. Somewhere, on the ridge high above the ravine, was a church. He stopped short and looked up through the treetops in wonder, just as she had during that first hike of accidental perfect timing.
Paul blinked at her. “Is that—?”
She nodded. “Every Sunday morning,” she said softly. “Like clockwork.”
It wasn’t a hymn she recognized, nor could she understand the words through the echo—and that made it all the more beautiful, almost ethereal, as if the voice of the universe itself was conveying a nonspecific yet unmistakable message of peace.
She closed her eyes in gratitude for the return of this moment, the sublime convergence of the natural world and the spiritual realm and the tug of her heart. Stumbling upon it that first time had been like a miracle, the pure unexpectedness of it. She’d been trudging along that midsummer morning, regretting everything about the hike—the humidity that made her clothes stick to her even here in the shaded ravine, the loneliness of hiking solo not by choice but by default, the knowledge that her living room was still filled with unpacked boxes and yet here she was, seeking some sort of reprieve from the choices she’d made instead of dealing, instead of following through. And then the harmonies had begun, stopping her short. When the first song had ended, she could have sworn she was a part of the forest, both of them perfectly still, holding their breaths, afraid the magic would disappear with so much as a rustling of the breeze. And then a new hymn had started, like a promise: When you think the spell has been broken, when you think you might have imagined it, don’t give up. If you wait, there can be more.
“Will we still hear it if we walk on?”
“For at least half an hour.”
His eyes glistened. “It sounds like hope,” he said. And it did. And it was.
“Sometimes it’s the only way I know to find it.”
He didn’t ask why she was looking, and for that she was grateful.
13
A safety plan is a personalized, practical plan that includes ways to remain safe while in a relationship, planning to leave, or after you leave … Although some of the things that you outline in your safety plan may seem obvious, it’s important to remember that in moments of crisis your brain doesn’t function the same way as when you are calm.
—National Domestic Violence Hotline Path to Safety
Clara pulled open the dishwasher and sighed—because a clean, wet mess was still a mess. The top rack was a cascade of flimsy plastic medicine dispensers: squat children’s dosing cups, tall pour tubes, and infant syringes in an assortment of measurement scales, none of which ever seemed to have the right push piece. Both kids had ear infections. In both ears.
She’d never fully appreciated, before becoming a parent herself, how even a fairly straightforward childhood illness could shut down a household, taking adults and kids alike out of commission for days in a blur. The understanding had come the first time Thomas was ever truly, miserably, exhaustingly sick, with the wave of trepidation that hit her in realizing that she was wholly responsible for the well-being of this little person who could not yet communicate his needs beyond a pitiful cry. In the days when parenting was a hypothetical, she’d put too much stock in the power of pediatricians. Sure, they could set your mind at ease for a few moments—if you were lucky. But then they passed the buck right back. Call if he seems worse. Look for the subtle signs of dehydration, of oxygen deprivation, of something more serious. Call me if … Yet who was to say you would recognize that if when it came? Those were the watchful days—and, more often, the nights—that laid bare the best and worst parts of this rewarding and terrifying new career.
She thought of Kristin being left on her own with not one but two babies and wondered how she’d ever managed, especially with her own grief. If the sadness didn’t drive you to the brink, the sheer exhaustion would push you over.
There was no telling what—or whom—you might say yes to, just to avoid dealing alone.
She unloaded the damp mess of medicine dispensers into the dish drainer and set about trying to match sippy cups with their lids. Much as Clara never would have wished this nasty run of illness on her children—or herself, for that matter—she had to admit it may have been a blessing in disguise. Thursday night’s wake-up cries, Friday’s trip to the pediatrician, and the subsequent sleepless weekend had kept her busy enough that she’d barely had time to obsess over the implications of Kristin’s computer search history, or Paul’s accusations and denials, or Detective Bryant’s sneer as he’d chased after the repair van, or Hallie’s audacious reporting. At least, she hadn’t had time to concentrate on obsessing. Whereas the revelations on Hallie’s recording might have otherwise rendered her glued to her laptop stalking Paul’s sparsely updated Facebook page, or to her windowsill checking up on his whereabouts, now she could only play it over in her mind, again and again, while she rocked her crying children, coaxed down chalky antibiotics, and waited nervously for Natalie to return.
Benny had been so calm—so careful—when she’d relayed the whole recorded ordeal as best she could from memory. I’m sure there’s an explanation; Paul might seem clueless, but he also seems harmless; and the kicker, we can’t let on about anything that we have no business knowing anyway. Beneath his measured fa?ade, she could see his concern—not for Kristin, but for her.
“Maybe Kristin did what she had to do,” he’d finally conceded last night, when she’d risked bringing it up for the umpteenth time. She knew she was pressing him, but she couldn’t help it: In some backward way, it was nice to be able to talk to Benny about what she’d learned, even if he was reluctant to talk back. Otherwise, she’d have burst by now. “Maybe we should hope she isn’t found,” he’d said, and she’d clung to the reassurance like a stubborn child.