Before I Let You Go(90)

What do we do with Daisy?

“It’s going to be okay,” Sam says, and I know his intentions are good, but the throwaway phrase irritates me.

“Really? How?”

“She’ll turn up, Lexie.”

“Sure, Sam. Sure she’ll turn up. In a fucking body bag or a jail cell.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath and I know that he’s hurt by my sharp tone, and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to bring my emotions back under control. Everything feels so confused. Sam is my refuge, but Sam is irritating me. Annie is the cause of all of this pain, but she’s the one I’m most concerned for.

And then there’s Daisy. Beautiful, innocent Daisy. She’s safe and well, but she’s actually the victim here.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and my eyes are still closed but Sam’s hand lands gently on my knee.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I just wish there was something more I could say. But there isn’t.”

“No,” I whisper. “There really isn’t.”

I finally open my eyes so that I can stare out at the road as Sam steers the car toward home. There’s a cacophony of questions bouncing around in my mind—endless “what-ifs” and “why didn’t I’s?” and even a few “if only she . . .” But it’s just so hopeless, and now I’m thinking back on my optimism over the last few weeks and realizing just how much harder this hurts because I finally let myself hope that Annie might be getting better.

There is nothing to do but wait. Other than Daisy’s still-regular hospital visits, my days now revolve around which of two terrible phone calls is going to come.

Will it be the police letting me know she’s been picked up?

Or will it be Annie—inevitably high and in a panic about what she’s done?

Several days crawl past me. I phone Mom, just in case Annie reaches out to her.

“She left,” I say.

“But . . . didn’t she have to stay? For the judge?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they let her leave?”

“It wasn’t a prison, Mom. Annie had to stay to avoid being charged, but she could leave anytime she wanted.”

“But . . . you said it was going well.” Mom is confused and disappointed, and I completely understand.

“Mom, you know what she’s like.”

“I don’t know what she’s like anymore. Until you called me and told me she’d had the baby, I thought she was thriving.”

“Well, maybe if you left your cult every now and again to come and be with us you’d know our lives a bit better.”

“Alexis, that is so unfair.”

Everything about this situation feels unfair, but I know I shouldn’t have said that to Mom. I sigh and look down at Daisy, who is resting on my thighs, watching me.

“I’m sorry, Mom. She’s in so much trouble this time, I don’t think there’s anything we can do for her.”

“Robert says that she will come back to the Lord in time,” Mom whispers, but even she doesn’t sound convinced anymore.

There’s a knock at the door four days after Annie walked out of rehab, and when I answer it, Mary Walters is standing there. Her hair is in a bun, and she’s wearing the same cheap suit. She holds her clipboard up against her body like it’s part of her uniform.

I’m wearing pajamas and I can’t remember the last time I brushed my hair, and I flush because I know this is not a friendly visit—it’s surely an unannounced welfare check. Maybe she’s even here to gloat, because I’m sure that this woman has been anticipating this moment since the first time we met.

“Dr. Vidler,” Mary says brightly. I hesitate before I meet her gaze. If I see triumph there, I’m not sure how I’ll contain myself. I take a deep breath and force myself to look into her eyes.

All I see is sadness, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.

“Hi,” I say, and I feel completely humbled. Mary’s smile is kind, and I remember thinking that perhaps I might have liked her, had we met under other circumstances. Looking at her now, I have no doubt her intentions are good.

“Just wanted to visit and see how you’re doing. And to check in on beautiful little Daisy, of course,” Mary says warmly.

I let her in, and this time there is no opportunity to hide the piles of laundry or clear the tables, and the little stain near the sink is the least of my worries. I make cups of tea, and we sit on the sofa, and Mary holds Daisy and comments at how well she looks and then she asks me a series of questions about our routine and Daisy’s health. And when the tea is gone, and Daisy really needs to go down for a nap, Mary stands to leave and finally addresses the elephant in the room.

“I really hoped I was wrong, you know,” she says quietly. “About your sister. I sure am sorry that things have gone the way they have.”

“Me, too,” I say as my throat constricts.

“I just want to say one thing to you, Dr. Vidler. I’m sure that right now this situation feels as dire as can be, but even with your sister in a whole world of trouble, your situation is still one of the easier ones I’ll deal with this year.” As I gape at her incredulously, she shrugs. “I don’t have any other substance-abuse cases on my books where the children have slotted right into a well-established, caring home that can afford to provide for all of their needs. The vast majority of my drug cases end with the momma in prison and the babies in foster care, and I don’t need to tell you that arrangement rarely leads to positive outcomes for anyone.”