Page 70 of Unforgivable

“Stop it. You know that’s not true.”

“I really thought you wanted him back, you know.”

“I know. You told me. That’s because you’re an idiot.”

I snort a laugh, pull my sleeve over my knuckles and wipe my nose. “At least I got a haircut out of it. Is it a nice haircut?”

“It’s lovely.” She rearranges a few strands here and there. “Go and have a look.”

I walk over to the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy from crying. “Thank you. It’s a very nice haircut,” I say, and she laughs.

THIRTY-THREE

That night I find an Ambien in the bathroom cabinet and swallow it without water. I fall into a deep sleep. I dream of Charlie. She’s screaming because she’s trapped, suffocating in layers of purple tulle and I’m desperately trying to free her, hacking at the dress with nail scissors, but the tulle just keeps growing back and I can’t reach her. And when I open my eyes, I think the nightmare is real because she’s here, her hands shaking me, her little face etched with worry.

“Mama!”

“What? What’s happened?” I sit up, my head woolly, my tongue thick and furry.

“I can’t find my soccer things,” she whines.

“Soccer things?”

“I’ve got soccer practice!”

Oh God. Soccer practice. I realize that she’s wearing her soccer uniform: blue tee with the club logo and shorts. But they won’t let the kids play without their shin guards.

I swing my legs out of the bed. The room spins. “What time is it?”

She hands me my phone from the bedside table. Nine am. Jesus. It’s Saturday. She’s got soccer practice at ten and I completely forgot. “Where’s Daddy?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Mommy?”

“She’s downstairs. She doesn’t know where they are.”

Her mouth turns down, and her little chin wobbles.

“It’s all right, Charlie. They’re in the garage.” I run my hands over my face. “Why are you so upset?”

“I don’t want to be late!”

“You’re not going to be late. We’ve got a whole hour.”

“You’re coming now?”

“I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll get your shin guards.”

“You have to come now!”

“Charlie, that’s enough,” I say. “We’ve got loads of time. I’ll be right there.”

This is the first soccer training session since she’s gone back to school, which is why her shin guards are still in the cardboard box where I stored them at the end of the last season.

Our garage has a wall of metal shelves full of boxes, milk crates, Jack’s old electronic measurement instruments, broken radios, sports things.

Charlie stands next to the step ladder, jumping on one foot, then the other. I keep talking to her to calm her down, but for a moment I don’t remember where I put her soccer gear and every time I open the wrong box she gets more upset. I tell her again to calm down, return to my task, but I can hear her breathe behind me. “It’s okay, Charlie, really.” I spot the box with the Christmas decorations—that one is helpfully labeled, now why didn’t I think of that?—and push it back, but it snags on something, and I realize there’s something behind it. I stand on my toes, push the box aside.

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