That is, of course, assuming that it was my mother who had deleted them.
Before I left the bedroom, I stared for a long moment at the lock on the bedroom door, and then tried to see if I could lock it by accident. In the end, I decided it was possible. But it wasn’t likely.
FOR A WHILE, I researched what great minds said about sleep. I learned that both Gandhi and Poe equated sleeping with dying.
Then I collected amazing stories about sleep—about the incredible things people did in their sleep. It made me feel less alone. Less crazy. Less strange.
I only stopped when I realized I was better off alone.
CHAPTER TEN
I WAS FOLDING laundry on the living room floor Monday morning, listening to music as I worked, when I heard the doorbell. I saw it was the minister and ushered the woman into the house. I was relieved—no, I was downright proud—that the kitchen was clean: I had loaded the dishwasher and sponged off the counters after I had gotten Paige off to the school bus and our father had left for the college. Katherine Edwards had been the pastor at the church for at least twenty-five years, a little longer than my parents had lived in Bartlett. She was wearing khakis and a navy cardigan sweater, but her wire-rim eyeglasses still suggested “attorney” to me. The woman’s hair looked a little more gray than some days, but her eyes had their usual sparkle. She was smiling, but all that did was remind me that I had been hungover in Gavin Rikert’s bed yesterday morning when this woman was preaching at the church maybe a third of a mile away from where we were standing right now. I punched the stop button on the CD player.
“I just thought I would see how you’re doing,” she asked me. “Your dad home?”
“No, he’s already off to Middlebury. Do you want some coffee or tea? I think we even have apple cider.”
“I’m fine. I just came from a breakfast meeting. Your dad called the other day, and I said I’d drop by.”
I was almost incredulous at the idea of my father phoning the minister, but kept my surprise to myself. “What about?” I asked simply.
“Your mother—of course.”
“Of course.” I motioned at the front hall behind me. “Want to come in? I was just finishing the laundry. My very exciting life.”
“I will, thank you.” She started to slip off her pumps, but I told her that wasn’t necessary. The pastor took one of the barstools around the kitchen island, and I took another.
“You’re a good egg,” Katherine said. “You’re taking wonderful care of Paige and your dad, I can tell.”
“I guess. Who knew I was such a nurturer?”
“I gather there’s no news about your mom. That was the impression I got from your dad.”
“Can you tell me more about why he called? I mean, was it something specific about my mom?”
“Oh, it was a very brief conversation.”
“I’m sure.”
“You have a magic show next weekend, don’t you?” she asked, instead of answering the question.
I nodded. “Eliza Bowen’s birthday party. Thank you again for that lead.”
“Do you know her?”
“Not really. She’s three years younger than Paige.”
“Well, be warned. She’s a hellion in Sunday school, I hear. Her teacher dreads class some mornings. So…don’t thank me for the lead just yet.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The woman gazed at me a little more intensely. “Tell me honestly: What do you need? What can I do? What can the church do?”
I looked away; I couldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“I must admit, I feel the deacons haven’t done enough, I feel I haven’t done enough. My husband definitely doesn’t feel any of us have done enough.” Her husband was a therapist, but I wasn’t sure where his practice was. They had twin sons a few years older than me. One, I knew, was in grad school. The other? I had no idea.
“I’m being totally serious: I don’t know what I need. I don’t know what we need. I just don’t. I mean, we don’t even go to church. I’m surprised my dad called you.”
The minister shrugged. “Is that it?”
“No. But I feel bad.”
“This isn’t about that. No quid pro quo, I promise.”
“Do you think there’s any chance she’s still alive? Is it crazy to hope?”
“You’re talking to someone who spends her Sundays telling people to have faith…”
“I hear a but coming.”
“But I don’t think it’s likely. I’m sorry, Lianna.”
I looked at the stack I had made of my sister’s folded shirts. “So she’s in heaven,” I murmured.
“Yes. Absolutely. No buts there.”
“Even though we don’t really go to church.”
“Again: no quid pro quo.”