“We took a recess.”
I hesitated, then figured I had nothing to lose. “How’s it going in there?”
Piper opened her mouth, as if she were going to reply, and then shut it. “I’ll let you get back to your phone call,” she murmured, her hand on the doorknob.
“It’s dead,” I said, and she turned around. “My phone.”
She folded her arms. “Remember when there were no cell phones? When we didn’t have to listen to everyone’s conversations?”
“Some things are better left private,” I said.
Piper met my gaze. “It’s awful in there,” she admitted. “The last witness was an actuary who gave estimates on the out-of-pocket cost for Willow’s care, and the grand total, based on her life expectancy.”
“What did he say?”
“Thirty thousand annually.”
“No,” I said. “I meant, how long will she live?”
Piper hesitated. “I don’t like thinking of Willow in terms of numbers. Like she’s already a statistic.”
“Piper.”
“There’s no reason she won’t have a normal life expectancy,” Piper said.
“But not a normal life,” I finished.
Piper leaned against the wall. I had not turned the lights on-I didn’t want anyone to know I was in here, after all-and in the shadows her face looked lined and tired. “Last night I dreamed about the first time we had you over for dinner-to meet Charlotte.”
I could recall that night like it was yesterday. I had gotten lost on the way to Piper’s house because I was so nervous. For obvious reasons, I’d never before been invited to someone’s house after giving her a speeding ticket; and I wouldn’t have gone at all, but the day before pulling Piper’s car over for doing fifty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, I’d gone to the house of my best friend-another cop-and found my girlfriend in his bed. I had nothing to lose when Piper called the department a week later and asked; it was impulsive and stupid and desperate.
When I got to Piper’s, and was introduced to Charlotte, she’d held out her hand for me to shake and a spark had caught between our palms, shocking us both. The two little girls had eaten in the living room while the adults sat at the table; Piper had just served me a slice of caramel-pecan torte that Charlotte had made. “What do you think?” Charlotte had asked.
The filling was still warm and sweet; crust dissolved on my tongue like a memory. “I think we should get married,” I said, and everyone laughed, but I was not entirely kidding.
We had been talking about our first kisses. Piper told a story about a boy who’d enticed her into the woods behind the jungle gym on the pretext that there was a unicorn behind an ash tree; Rob talked about being paid five bucks by a seventh-grade girl for a practice run. Charlotte hadn’t been kissed, it turned out, till she was eighteen. “I can’t believe that,” I said.
“What about you, Sean?” Rob asked.
“I can’t remember.” By then, I had lost sense of everything but Charlotte. I could have told you how many inches away from my leg hers was beneath the table. I could have told you how the curls of her hair caught the candlelight and held on to it. I could not remember my first kiss, but I could have told you Charlotte would be my last.
“Remember how we had Amelia and Emma in the living room,” Piper said now. “We were having such a good time no one thought to check on them?”
Suddenly I could see it-all of us crowded into the tiny downstairs bathroom, Rob yelling at his daughter, who had commandeered Amelia into helping her dump dry dog food into the toilet bowl.
Piper started to laugh. “Emma kept saying it was only a cupful.”
But it had soaked up the water and swollen to fill the bowl. It was amazing, in fact, how quickly it had gotten out of control.
Beside me, Piper’s laughter had turned the corner, and in that way emotion has of hopping boundaries, she was suddenly crying. “God, Sean. How did we get here?”
I stood awkwardly, and then after a moment I slipped an arm around her. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Piper sobbed, and she buried her face against my shoulder. “I have never, ever in my life been the bad guy. But every time I walk into that courtroom, that’s exactly what I am.”
I had hugged Piper Reece before. It was what married couples did-you went to someone’s house and you handed over the obligatory bottle of wine and kissed the hostess on the cheek. Maybe distantly I was aware that Piper was taller than Charlotte, that she smelled of an unfamiliar perfume instead of Charlotte’s pear soap and vanilla extract. At any rate, the embrace was triangular: you connected at the cheek, and then your bodies angled away from each other.
But right now Piper was pressed against me, her tears hot against my neck. I could feel the curve and weight of her body. And I could tell the exact moment she became aware of mine.
And then she was kissing me, or maybe I was kissing her, and she tasted of cherries, and my eyes closed, and the moment they did, all I could see was Charlotte.
We both pushed away from each other, our eyes averted. Piper pressed her hands to her cheeks. I have never, ever in my life been the bad guy, she had said.
There is a first time for everything.
“I’m sorry,” I said, at the same time Piper began to speak.
“I shouldn’t have-”
“It didn’t happen,” I interrupted. “Let’s just say it didn’t happen, all right?”
Piper looked up at me sadly. “Just because you don’t want to see something, Sean, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”
I didn’t know if we were talking about this moment, or this lawsuit, or both. There were a thousand things I wanted to say to Piper, all of which began and ended with an apology, but what tumbled off my lips instead was this: “I love Charlotte,” I said. “I love my wife.”
“I know,” Piper whispered, “I did, too.”
Charlotte
The movie that had been filmed to show a day in your life was the last bit of evidence that Marin would offer to the jury. It was the emotional counterpart to the cold, hard facts the actuary had given, about what it costs in this country to have a disabled child. It felt like ages since the video crew had followed you around school, and to be honest, I had worried about the outcome. What if the jury looked at our daily routine and didn’t find it remarkably different from anyone else’s?
Marin had told me that it was her job to make sure the presentation came off in our favor, and as soon as the first images projected onto the courtroom screen, I realized I should not have worried. Editing is a marvelous thing.
It began with an image of your face, reflected in the windowpane you were peering through. You weren’t speaking, but you didn’t have to. There was a lifetime of longing in your eyes.
The view panned out the window, then, to watch your sister skating on the pond.
Then came the first few strains of a song as I knelt down to strap on your braces before school, because you could not reach them yourself. After a moment I recognized it: “I Hope You Dance.”
In the pocket of my jacket, my cell phone began to vibrate.
We were not allowed to have cell phones on in court, but I’d told Marin that I had to be reachable, just in case-and we’d compromised with this. I slipped my hand into my pocket and looked at the screen to see who was calling.
HOME, it read.
On the projector screen, you were in class, and kids were funneling around you like a school of fish, doing some kind of spider dance at circle time, while you sat immobile in your wheelchair.
“Marin,” I whispered.
“Not now.”
“Marin, my phone’s ringing-”