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  Olivia lay sprawled across the sofa, watching The Incredibles for the fifth or sixth time that week. It seemed a good time to slip away and at least brush her teeth before Len arrived, so Rachel crept up the stairs to her room, where she paused at the sight of her rumpled bed. Perhaps just a quick rest—no more than five minutes—might do more to restore her spirits than toothpaste and washcloth combined.

  She sunk down into her pillow and closed her eyes.

  What seemed like moments later, she was awakened by a clattering at her door. She watched, dazed, as the knob turned and the door swung inward a few inches. More rattling ensued, followed by the door being bumped open all the way. Olivia lifted something off the floor, then stood in the doorway, sneezing into a tray full of clattering dishes.

  “Bless you,” said Rachel.

  “I brought you some breakfast-in-bed for dinner,” Olivia said, rubbing her nose on her shoulder. Rachel heard some sort of liquid slosh out of a glass and onto the tray. “That’s what my dad does when I’m sick and you kind of look sick.”

  Rachel pulled herself up to a seated position as Olivia tiptoed toward her bed and, with her help, slid the tray onto Rachel’s lap where she could finally see its wares. An apple with a bite taken out of it, a pile of fish-shaped crackers, and milk poured into a chipped measuring cup.

  “Are you thirsty?” Olivia asked.

  Rachel smiled, taking the measuring cup in her hands. “Yes. How did you know?”

  The girl shrugged and tried to stop herself from beaming with obvious pride by squeezing her lips together into a frown. “Sometimes if you get so busy doing something else,” she looked around the dimly lit room, scrunched up her face, and wiped her nose with her sleeve, “like sitting in the almost-dark, you think you’re pretty good. But really you want milk. You just don’t know it till you smell it.”

  Blinking back confusion, Rachel paused, unsure of how to respond. “Well, Olivia, thank you.” She sipped from the cup, watching the child stare. “You’re a very kind girl.”

  Olivia could no longer fight her grin, not even with her front teeth clamped down hard on her lower lip. Her small hands fluttered upward, stopping to allow her fingers to tap the center of her chest. Like she was playing a piano. She stared at Rachel for a moment, as if she were about to say something, then, much more quietly than she arrived, she vanished.

  Rachel wrapped both hands around the wet cup and stared at the empty doorway, overwhelmed by the sweetness of the girl’s gesture.

  She’d never hated herself more.

  Piper was right. After seventeen years of despising her mother for taking away her right to raise her own daughter, Rachel could finally see the truth. Even when faced with “breakfast-in-bed for dinner,” she couldn’t do it. Wasn’t pinned and stitched the same way as people like Len. Extreme parenting called for a someone much more highly evolved than herself.

  That moment—four days into what had to be the most trying week of her life—Rachel knew the truth. All these years, she’d tortured herself with what she should have done when it came to Hannah, when the reality was that she couldn’t have done it—not for a year, a month, not even a week.

  Buckling under a towering basket of clean laundry, Rachel tapped on Janie’s door with her foot. “Janie? Open the door, please. My arms are full.” She’d overstuffed the basket—socks and underwear on top of jeans, on top of a sleeping bag Janie had begged to have washed and specially dried with a scented dryer sheet for Tabitha’s slumber party the following night.

  “Janie?” She kicked the door this time, leaning the basket against the door frame. “Open up!”

  She heard nothing but the warring and dogged beat of The Ramones’ “Teenage Lobotomy.” “JANIE!”

  Swearing under her breath, Rachel let the basket slip slowly, painfully, between her body and the door. She opened Janie’s door.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” asked Rachel.

  Janie looked up from where she sat on her window seat and pointed to the music, smiling sweetly. “No.” She shook a bottle of blackberry-colored nail polish and began painting her toenails.

  Her daughter’s tranquil aplomb was too much to take. No one in the house had the right to feel that good after the week Rachel had just had. “Well, do you think I could trouble you for a little help?”

  “Sure.” Janie screwed on the cap and leaped up. She knelt down and began picking up the fallen clothes. “Sorry, Mom,” she sang. “You go rest. I’ll put this stuff away.”

  Rachel was too stunned to speak. Never, in fourteen years, had such an offer been uttered in her house. Not by a child, anyway. Could it be that her careful parenting had finally paid off? Should she be telling her readers that if they were patient and waited a decade or so—that their efforts would bear fruit?

  Janie pressed her face to the sleeping bag, inhaled, looked at Rachel and said, “Nice,” then laid it on top of the overnight bag she seemed to have packed a full day early.

  On the wall, just behind Janie’s desk, was a poster Rachel had never seen before. A grinning Jessica Simpson in a red top and Daisy Dukes, looking back over her shoulder. It wasn’t like Janie to display anything other than the most obscene rock posters and it certainly wasn’t like Janie to display vampy photos of tabloid celebrities. “You got a new poster?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah. Dad got it for me on eBay. It’s signed.”

  “By Jessica? Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “Huh.” Rachel walked over to the poster and reaffixed one of the thumbtacks. “Did you even see Dukes of Hazzard?”

  “No, but I might rent it.”

  “Hm.” It reminded Rachel of the Farrah Fawcett poster from the ‘70s, the grinning, feathered Farrah in the red bathing suit that must have been the last thing every boy on the planet stared at before dropping off to sleep.

  Though she couldn’t recall any girls pinning Farrah on their walls.

  “Why did you get it?”

  “I don’t know. I like the way it looks, I guess.”

  “Because you want to look like her?”

  Janie’s cheeks burned red. “Either look like her or, uh, I don’t know. Whatever.”

  “And why are you putting posters on the wall now? I thought we agreed on one place—the ceiling.”

  “There’s no more room on the ceiling.” Janie resumed painting her last toenail, then recapped the bottle and admired her feet before shuffling, toes in the air, to the clothes her mother had set on the bed and picking up a red tank. She pulled it on over her white tank, and looked down at her chest, where the red cotton had been slashed and was now being stretched into a shredded diamond shape. “What the fuck happened to my lucky shirt?”

  “Janie!”

  “Oh my God!” Janie pulled at the hole, getting wider by the second. “I planned my whole sleepover outfit around this shirt! It’s my best tank top!”

  Rachel sighed. “Sorry, sweetie. Olivia was doing a bit of arts and crafts while I was folding on the kitchen table—”

  “Olivia? She did this? I’ll slaughter her!”

  “Janie, calm down! She’s a little girl. And she worships you. I’ll replace the shirt, okay?”

  “But what am I going to wear tomorrow?”

  “The white tank looks fine.” Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you aren’t telling me? Are there going to be boys over there?”

  Janie pulled off the red shirt and kicked it under the bed. “No. Just me and her.”

  “All right. Len’s coming to pick up Olivia. You should probably come down now. So you can be there to say good-bye.”

  Janie huffed. “Gladly.”

  Rachel looked around the room one last time, picked up the empty basket, and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 36

  Wading

  Len pulled the Audi into Rachel’s driveway and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, wondering if he’d be around to hear the raucous drone of the cicadas another season. It had becom
e a sadistic game he played with himself: how many more hot showers, broken shoelaces, worn-out toothbrushes? Suddenly, the prospect of being around long enough to see the elastic waistbands of the underwear in his drawer pucker and fray seemed a personal triumph. He was always careful now to tumble-dry his briefs on high—though outlasting his underwear through heat manipulation was too pathetic to contemplate.

  Four days of treatment and tests had done nothing to change things. Not for the better, anyway. The masses had, apparently, grown somewhat over the past few months. Not enough to worsen his prognosis—were it possible—but enough to make Len realize that not having a plan for Olivia was no longer an option.

  Before being admitted to the hospital, he hadn’t really felt the part. He’d had the headaches, nausea, the odd bout of dizziness, but the diagnosis hadn’t really felt a part of him. This week, however, had stripped him of who he was. He’d taken to sleeping much of the day, walking unsteadily. He’d begun losing his words. Three times during his stay, his mind blanked while he was speaking to his nurse. Well, not blanked exactly, his mind raced in circles trying to find the words “juice,” “blanket,” and “bedpan.” These three simple nouns dangled, heartlessly, just out of mental reach.

  He glanced out the window and watched a black squirrel bounce its way across a wooden fence. It was time to talk to Rachel, Len thought. Not about Olivia. The last thing he would ever do was beg and cajole someone into loving and caring for his daughter. Olivia deserved better.

  A damp chill drifted into the car and settled over his skin. It was the death before the death. The end of one of the most satisfying relationships Len had ever known. In his eyes at least, he and Rachel were perfect for each other. How impossibly cruel was life—benching Len what seemed like moments after he found her? And the truth was, no matter how she reacted, whether she chose to stick around or not, the flirtatious simplicity of the relationship would be no more. Every glance, every joke, every touch would be tainted with mortality. Until now, he’d only been “sick” to his parents, doctors, partners. The fucking disease had no heart. Tonight, it would metastasize to the one adult relationship he never wanted to hurt.

  As he reached out to open the car door, he caught sight of his hospital wristband, grabbed hold of it, and attempted to pull it from his arm. It wouldn’t tear. He preferred to think that the blue Tyvek band was too strong—not that he himself was too weak.

  His cell phone rang. “Len here.”

  At first there was no sound. Then crackling.

  “Hello?” said Len. “Hello?”

  “Len? Philip Peyton.” The phone crackled again. “Listen, Tammy and I have been doing some thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’d like to meet her after all.”

  Len barely dared to ask. “Who?”

  “Olivia. The girl you told us about the other day.”

  Len said nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut and let the phone drop onto the seat between his legs. As Philip’s tinny voice repeated Len’s name over and over, Len let his head drop against his headrest. Tears blurred his vision.

  They wanted Olivia. This model couple, these consummate parents, ideal right down to their shoes, who understood NLD even, were willing to consider his daughter. Relief was so strong it was nearly liquid, bucketing over his body with precisely the same strength as the panic that slithered up his spine.

  Olivia was in a deep sleep on Rachel’s sofa when Len entered. He watched the girl’s eyelids twitch, her chest rise and fall. He kissed her on the forehead, but didn’t try to rouse her. Accidental naps too close to bedtime never ended well and Len wasn’t entirely sure he could handle any tears but his own. The plan was to carry Olivia into the car and pray she slept straight through the night.

  He paused to pull the extra quilt off his daughter, then looked at Rachel quizzically. She couldn’t know it, but double-blanketing the child was something Virginia had been famous for. Two comforters in Olivia’s crib. Two blankets in the stroller on crisp days. Instinct, Virginia had said when teased.

  “What?” asked Rachel, blushing from his stare.

  “Nothing.” He walked across the room to where she stood, kissed her hard, and pulled away. “I just missed you, that’s all.”

  “Me too.”

  It was Rachel’s idea to drag two Adirondack chairs to the land’s edge and talk in the fading light. Clearly, she’d had a rough four days. Her hair was unwashed and dark smudges ringed her eyes. Len had seen Olivia do that to babysitters after a few hours, and insisted Rachel rest while he brewed a pot of coffee. She didn’t argue, just fell into the chair and laid her head back, closing her eyes.

  By the time he stepped onto the back porch, the day’s warmth had given way to a biting chill. In a matter of minutes, the evening had turned crisp, shifting from summer to autumn as an evening in late August can. Len watched the steam from the mugs scrabble skyward as he waded through the overgrown grass to Rachel, asleep, dark chocolate curls skittering across her face in the breeze.

  As soon as Len sat, Rachel opened her eyes and blinked, pulling her sweater tighter around her body. “Sorry. I dozed off.”

  He reached down for her mug, placing it in her hands, and debated whether it was better to tell your girlfriend you were dying before or after she reached full consciousness.

  Rachel wrapped her fingers around her coffee and sipped, staring at the scruffy bushes teetering at the bluff’s edge. Some of the leaves were already streaked with yellow and brown. “Summer’s going fast, isn’t it? The leaves are losing their luster.”

  Len couldn’t help but grin sadly. He was beginning to lose luster himself.

  “Is Olivia still asleep?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I tried to keep her awake…”

  “It’s fine. She’ll sleep right through.”

  “Did you accomplish whatever it was you were working on?”

  “I did.” He smiled. “You make little squeaking sounds when you sleep.”

  She blushed. “I squeak? God, how embarrassing. Sorry.”

  “That’s my girl.” He rubbed her arm. “As apologetic as ever.”

  “Yeah, well, some things never—”

  “I bumped into Dustin and his cast in the house,” Len said, shaking his head. “Tripped over the chain from a parking barrier. I guess neither of us saw that coming.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “And he’d been there how long?”

  “Five minutes. Maybe four.”

  “My client must feel just terrible.”

  Rachel shut her eyes. “I’ve been meaning to call them. I might have been a bit rude when I picked Dusty up.”

  “Olivia wore you out, didn’t she?”

  She laughed. “She did her best. She’s one stubborn little being.”

  “Mm. Can’t argue that.”

  “I was thinking, it probably wouldn’t hurt Olivia to follow a few rules. Kids are actually more secure when they know the boundaries never change. Parents don’t always realize this.”

  “I know,” Len said. “I used to read the magazine, remember?”

  Rachel smiled.

  “She has boundaries about some things. But I’ve learned to be flexible about others, in the interest of getting through the day without tantrums and tears.”

  “It might work now, when she’s a child, but what about when she’s older? When she doesn’t have you around all the time to make sure everything is to her liking?”

  Len looked back toward the house. A gust of wind rattled a shutter against the stucco wall. “That scares me so much I can hardly see straight.” He placed his hand over hers and leaned forward. “Rachel, sweetheart, I’m dying.”

  “Oh come on, things aren’t that bad.”

  “I’m being serious. I have a year or two. Or less. The doctors aren’t sure…”

  She said nothing. Just listened while he told her about his headaches, the hospital, the tests, the doctors, his options—or lack
of them. He still couldn’t say the dreaded C-word out loud, not even to himself. Calling his problem “it” instead.

  Rachel looked out at the muddy waters of the Hudson and shook her head, shocked. “But there must be something you can do. There must be other doctors who have fixed this before. This is the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake. Someone must have an answer.”

  Shivering, Len pulled on the sweatshirt he’d brought from the car. “Maybe if I’d been diagnosed earlier, but not now. I’m beyond fixing.”

  “But you’re so young. So strong. Maybe it’s stupid to believe in miracles, but people have overcome things like this before, right? If anyone can handle this, beat this, it’s got to be you.”

  It was natural for her to wish it away. He’d have done the same thing. You can’t just sit there and listen to a person revealing their death sentence without grasping at any branch within reach. It was how she was comforting herself. What wasn’t comforting to Len was that the best he had to hope for was an event so unlikely it was lumped under the same heading as walking on water.

  CHAPTER 37

  Despicable

  You can’t be everything to everyone.

  —RACHEL BERMAN, Perfect Parent magazine

  All the papers she’d seen scattered on his kitchen table a few weeks back—the will, the insurance policy, the file marked “urgent”—as was her instinct, Rachel had assumed the worst. Which was the safest thing to do. If your mind had already covered the gravest of scenarios, you were all but guaranteed to glide past them unscathed. It was how she kept terrible happenings from touching her family. But, this time, this one time, she’d veered away from her system.

  The one time she was right. It was too morbid for irony.

  Rachel watched Len disappear inside the house to collect Olivia’s things. Olivia. How was he going to leave that child? How was he going to care for the girl as his health worsened? Suddenly her weekend with Olivia seemed nearly pleasurable. A few strewn blankets, a couple of bowls of marshmallow cereal—had it really been so bad?