I looked at her in surprise, wondering what sort of self-punishment that must be. Sophie had told me that the doll had been verified as a rare Edison doll and returned to the house. I hoped it was busy reacquainting itself with Jayne.
“Was that her choice?” I asked.
Nola shrugged. “It’s her house, and it was a little awkward with her staying with us without the babies.”
I’d had visions of her moving into my bedroom, so at least that was one thing I could stop torturing myself with.
“The dogs miss you.”
I gave her a half smile. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, since my official stance is that I’m not a dog lover, but I miss them, too. Maybe you can walk them by the house sometime and knock on the door?”
“I guess.” She looked down at her cuticles, and I noticed she’d begun biting her nails, too. “I miss you, too, Melanie. I really want you to come back.”
I heard the tears in her voice, and I felt my heart break into one more piece. It must have resembled pulverized glass at that point, each shard representing every disappointment and loss since the night of the launch party.
I lifted my hand to stroke her hair, thick and dark like her father’s. “I can’t. I don’t think I can live with your father after . . .”
“After what? Nobody will tell me anything! How are we supposed to move forward if nobody’s talking about what happened?”
“Exactly,” my mother said through tight lips. “It’s refreshing to hear something mature for a change.” She stooped to pick up the babies. “I’m going to settle them down for a nap and come back with a nice after-school snack for Nola. Be back in a few.”
Eager to change the subject, I reached for the bag and unzipped it. “What did you bring me? I hope you brought my slippers—my feet have been freezing.”
“I did. And your favorite sweater with the deep pockets to hide food.”
I looked up at her in surprise, and she grinned. “I’m not blind, Melanie. And the crumbs on your chin are usually a clue.”
For the first time in days, I felt both sides of my mouth lift in a smile. I dug through the contents of the bag, amazed at how thorough and accurate her selections were, down to the thick ski socks I liked to sleep in. I was about to zip up the bag when my fingers hit something hard. Pulling it out, I found the framed photo of Button and her brother, Sumter. I held it up, turning it to face Nola. “Why’d you bring this?”
Nola stilled. “I didn’t. Last time I saw it, it was on my dad’s desk. And I certainly didn’t pack it. Maybe it was in your drawer and I just didn’t notice when I reached in and grabbed something?”
I shook my head slowly, my focus drawn to the hand linked through Sumter’s, the only part visible of the woman cut out of the photo, part of her arm and her hand. It was the hand that drew my attention. It was long and slender, with narrow tapered nails that looked a lot like my own. But what really caught my gaze was the long oval ring on the middle finger that looked like onyx, with a small sparkling diamond in the middle.
“That’s the ring you wore to the party,” Nola said.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
She took the frame from me and read the date from the front of the photograph. “March seventeenth, 1984. Were you alive back then?”
I knew she was joking, but I was too fixated on watching her flip it onto its back and open the clips that held the picture to the frame. “Look, Melanie—the photograph wasn’t cut to fit the frame. It was folded over.” She flattened the picture on her knee and looked at it for a long moment, before slowly turning back to me. “I think that’s Ginette.”
I took the photo and studied the original picture of three people, a stark white demarcation line where it had been folded and tucked inside a frame for three decades. I stared at the newly revealed image of the woman next to Sumter, watching it fade in and out of focus until I blinked. My mother’s face, a younger version than the one I knew now, stared out at me from the photograph, her hand now seeming possessive where it rested in the crook of Sumter’s arm. But it wasn’t just the fuller face, or softer cheeks, or even the absence of gloves that riveted me and made my suddenly dry tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. It was the obvious fact that my mother was very pregnant in this picture, taken almost a full decade after I was born.
A thud sounded behind us, and we twisted to see a small ball rolling on the rug before coming to a stop by my foot. It was the saltshaker from Lake Jasper, the printed date, May 30, 1984, faceup. My eyes met Nola’s. “I didn’t pack that, either,” she said, her voice shaky.
I picked it up and held it in the palm of my hand, the ceramic icy cold to the touch. “I didn’t think you did,” I said just as all the clocks in my mother’s house began to chime four o’clock.
CHAPTER 30