He slid the door down, said “Thanks” and “So long,” and got back into his truck. It started up and began to pull away from the curb.
And then I heard her. It wasn’t like the other times, where I could imagine what she might say. This time, I could hear her voice.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“I should have known from the beginning,” I said. “But I blamed you. Doubted you.”
“None of that matters. Just take care of our girl.”
“I miss you,” I said.
“Shhh. Look.”
Kelly flew past on the sidewalk, arms outstretched. “No hands!” she squealed. “For real!”
And then she grabbed the handlebars and brought the bike to an abrupt, skidding halt. She put both feet on the sidewalk and stood there, straddling the bike, her back to me, her head all helmet, and watched the truck go to the end of the street and turn the corner. She kept watching for a good ten seconds after it disappeared, hoping, maybe, like her father, that it would come back, that we could change our minds.