Whisper Me This(57)

“Let’s get out of here,” Mia says, her hand on Elle’s shoulder. “Anybody else for ice cream?”

“There’s nothing open,” Tony protests.

“Safeway,” she says. “A tub for everybody. Four favorite flaves coming up.”

Maybe literally, I think, as my stomach does a little heave. But Elle perks up at the mention of ice cream, and I don’t have to eat mine. As the four of us shove back our chairs and get up, I can’t help one more glance down at Marley.

She looks up at the same moment. Our eyes lock. Neither of us waves.

I turn away first, quickly before my face crumples again. Tony’s hand engulfs mine, and I let his strength flow into me, steady me, get me across the room and out the door. He goes serious, though, and as soon as he deposits me safely in the front passenger seat and shuts the door behind me, he closes in on himself.

In the backseat, Mia launches a full-scale effort to entertain Elle. Left alone to my own devices, I lose myself in a futile search of my memory banks for any sign of remorse or regret from my mother. Any mention of another child. Any hints about what happened. But all I find is another instance of how hard she worked to eradicate Marley from my world.

I’m five, and Mom has caught me with two cookies, instead of the one I’d been given permission for.

“I said only one.”

“I only have one.”

“Maisey, I know perfectly well you know the difference between one and two.”

“Yes. There are two cookies. But only one is for me.” And then my five-year-old brain catches up with my five-year-old tongue, and I stop short. A lie would have been better. I’m not allowed to play Marley games.

“And who is the other one for?” Mom asks. Her voice sounds curious, but it’s a trap.

“No one.”

Mom’s hand, the one that can be so gentle when it brushes my hair at night, clamps around my jaw and tilts my head back so I have to meet her eyes. “Don’t mumble, Maisey. Tell me, who is it for?”

“Marley.” I squinch my eyes shut, prepared for a slap.

It doesn’t come. She releases me. My adult eyes looking back into the memory see that her hands are trembling. That her voice, when she tells me to go to my room, is taut with tears, not anger.

I jolt out of the memory as Tony pulls the car into the Safeway parking lot. “Okay kiddies, go get your ice cream.”

“Wait,” Elle says. “Phone.”

Even from the front seat I can hear that, first, it’s Greg, and second, he’s pissed. I cringe, hearing her explanation that we’ve just been out to a concert with Mia and Tony.

And now Greg is shouting. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is clear.

“He wants to talk to you,” Elle says, holding out her phone.

“Tell him I’ll text him.”

She shrugs and relays the message. “Don’t shoot me, I’m just the messenger,” she says. “Sorry. Fine, I apologize for my rudeness. Yes. I know. I’ll tell her. Night.”

“Whoa,” she says, after she hangs up. “Dad seriously needs to chill. Too bad we can’t send him ice cream. Are you coming in, Mom?”

I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes. The car is safe and warm. All the windows are open, and a cool, lilac-scented breeze wafts in through the windows. All at once I’m too exhausted to even open my eyes, let alone go into the store.

“I’ll wait here. You know what I like.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you instead.”

“You are full of surprises, Elle.” I force my eyelids open and dig in my purse for my stash of bills. “I’m buying. Get one for Tony.”

The car doors slam. One. Two. And Elle and Mia race away across the parking lot.

“Mia is never going to grow up,” Tony says, but there’s the warmth of love in his voice.

“She’s lovely. She’s been wonderful with Elle.” A lump comes up in my throat again. I had a sister for all of about five minutes before I lost her again.

“She loves kids,” Tony says. “My sisters’ kids are always hanging out with her. Mia says it’s perfect because she gets all the fun of kids without the hard work and sleepless nights. Or the husband.”

My phone buzzes and buzzes again with incoming text messages.

“Elle’s father?” Tony asks.

“Yep.” I flick through a series of messages. Greg has been texting all day, each one increasing in intensity. “He is not a fan of our activities.”

“He’s probably worried. Maybe you should call him.”

“Are you kidding? If I catch him up, then he’ll be really worried.”

“You don’t talk much, then?” Tony’s voice is neutral, his face in shadow. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s making polite conversation or really cares about the answer.

“Generally only about Elle.”

Relationship or no relationship, the idea of calling Greg while I’m sitting here with Tony feels wrong in my belly. I’m staring at his questions on the text screen, thinking about how to word a summary that won’t send him into a meltdown, when the phone starts buzzing again. This time the screen lights up with a call.

Accepting the inevitable, I answer.