Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(28)

I say nothing.

“I want to rip the dress,” she continues. “I want to get scissors and cut it up. Cut, cut, cut. Or maybe I could drip paint all over it. Drip, drip, drip. Then I wouldn’t have to wear it.” She looks up again. “Mommy, am I turning into Evan?”

My heart twists. I take her hand. There are so many things I’d like to say to her. That she’s special, unique, beautiful. That I have loved her since the moment she was born. That none of this is her fault, not her brother’s illness and certainly not the Sophie’s Choice made by her mother every day.

“You’re not your brother, Chelsea. Evan … Evan has things in his head no one else has. His brain works differently. That’s why he gets so mad he can’t control himself. You’re not like that. Your brain isn’t his brain. You are you. And it’s okay if you get mad. Sometimes, we all get mad.”

“I don’t like Melinda,” Chelsea says, more plaintive now. “Daddy’s always at work. He’s no fun anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Weddings are stupid. Stepmoms are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why can’t Evan go away? Daddy says that if Evan would just go away …”

I don’t answer. This is where Michael and I diverge. He wants his children to be fixable, whereas I’ve come to accept that our son has an illness no doctor can currently cure. Evan’s still our child, however, and just because he’s troubled is no reason to throw him away.

The waitress arrives with our food. She slides two oval plates onto the table. I rearrange my salad. Chelsea pokes at her french fries.

“Evan misses you,” I say after a moment. “He wishes you could both go to the park.”

Chelsea nods. There were times she and Evan were close. When he was calmer, in his sweet, charming mode. He would play dress-up with Chelsea, even let her do his hair. They’d play hide-and-seek, or form a rock band using all the kitchen pans. Those times, he was amazing and I imagine she misses that big brother. I also imagine there are plenty of other incidents she wishes to forget.

Chelsea is why Michael left me. He claimed my inability to institutionalize Evan was putting our daughter’s life at risk. Is he right? Am I right? How will we ever know? The world doesn’t give us perfect choices, and I couldn’t figure out how to sacrifice my son, not even for my daughter.

So here I am and here she is, and I love her so much my chest hurts and I can’t swallow my food. I just sit here, across from this quiet little girl, and I try to will my love into her. If I force my love across the table, form it in a tight little ball, and hit her with it again and again, maybe she will feel it. Maybe, for one instant, she will know I love her more than Evan, which is why I had to let her go.

She’ll be okay. Evan, however, needs me.

We draw some more. I ignore my salad. She eats french fries. She tells me she got to try the violin at music camp. And Sarah and her got into a fight, because Sarah said Hannah Montana was better than The Cheetah Girls, but then they both agreed that High School Musical is the best ever and now they’re friends again. Dance starts in two weeks. She is nervous for the first day at school. She wants to know if we can go shopping together for school clothes. I tell her I will try. I can tell from the look on her face she already knows it won’t happen.

The waitress clears our plates. Chelsea perks up at the thought of ice cream. She goes with the junior sundae. I decline, though ice cream would be good for me. I could use some weight on my frame. Maybe I should go on an ice cream diet. I will eat a gallon a day and balloon out to three hundred pounds. It’s not like anyone would care.

Self-pity gets me nowhere, so I reach across the table and hold my daughter’s hand again. Tonight, she lets me. Next week, I’ll have to wait and see.

She’s going to have a second mother. Some woman I’ve never met. I try to picture her, and my brain locks on some twenty-something blonde. Younger, prettier, perkier than me. She’ll help Chelsea pick out clothes for school, maybe braid her hair. She’ll be the first to hear of Chelsea’s school dramas, perhaps give her advice for handling her equally dramatic friends. They will bond. Maybe there’ll come a week when Chelsea won’t want to come to Friendly’s anymore.

I want to be bitter, but what would be the point? Chelsea’s job is to grow up, move forward. My job is to let her go. I just didn’t think it would be happening at the age of six.

Michael appears in the dining room. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there. Chelsea and I take the hint. I place money on the table for the check, then gather my things. By the time I slide out of the booth, Michael is already at the front doors, Chelsea lagging somewhere in between, trying to split the difference between her father ahead, her mother behind.

I catch up with her and we push out through the glass doors, where the storm has finally broken and cooling rain comes down in sheets. We hesitate under the awning, gathering ourselves for the sprint to the cars. Michael uses the moment to say, “I’m sure Chelsea mentioned the wedding to you.”

“Congratulations,” I say. Then ruin the moment by adding, “When would you like Evan to get fitted for a tux?”

The look he shoots me would’ve killed a lesser woman. I deliver it right back. I dare him to deny our firstborn child, who still asks when his father will be coming home.