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  What did Olivia care about an ice cream parfait three hours in the future? She heard she could keep the boots, pulled a jacket over her tennis outfit, and hopped into the backseat.

  As they backed out of the driveway, Henry opened his window and called back, “We’ll have her back by three.” Len waved and looked at his watch.

  It was barely eleven thirty when they pulled back into the driveway.

  Not only had Olivia lost her dessert by snubbing the regulation footwear, but during practice, she refused to hit balloons to her partner, thumping them against the ground with her racket until they popped. The cost of the balloons was absorbed by the club. The cost of the club’s racket was charged to Henry’s account. Then Olivia spun in circles with her eyes shut, striking her partner—the eight-year-old grandson of the golf club president—in the cheekbone.

  Len’s mother had walked Olivia to the front door, pushed the hair off her granddaughter’s forehead, and kissed her good-bye, then, without meeting Len’s gaze, she said, “Don’t forget Marta on Tuesday. She prefers Pledge to Endust,” and headed back to the car.

  She never mentioned Sunday morning tennis again.

  Now, before padding down the hall to check on his daughter, Len stopped to pick up the phone in the kitchen and listen to his voice mail.

  “You have two messages,” his phone informed him. He heard a woman’s voice. “This message is for Leonard Bean. It’s Marlene from Dr. Tanzer’s office. I’m calling to remind you about your physical Monday morning at ten. Just remember you’ll be fasting—nothing to eat or drink after dinner the night before except water.” He deleted the message. He’d forgotten all about his appointment.

  The next message was from his client’s infamously flirtatious receptionist, Shannon. How on God’s earth did she get his home number? “Hi Leonard. I just wanted to tell you I’ve pulled all the files you needed.” There was a short pause, followed by the sound of her drinking something. “I, um, just wondered if you wanted anything else included in the package. If you think of anything…anything at all, my home number is 902-555-1171. Just in case.”

  So Fay was right.

  His head throbbed. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, thinking he’d like nothing better than to crawl into bed, alone. Well, maybe he’d have preferred a certain apologetic magazine publisher to crawl in with him, but, barring that, he’d love to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before Olivia woke up in the morning.

  As he got closer to his daughter’s room, he heard thumping sounds coming from behind the closed door, and his heart sank. Olivia was still up. Sure enough, when Len peeked inside, he found her bouncing on her bed in her long flannel nightgown, milk bottle full of clattering pebbles in her hands, atop a tangle of blankets and a squashed package of Oreos. “Sticks and Stones” by Olivia’s favorite band, Aly & AJ, played in the background.

  Len turned off the CD player. “Olivia. It’s after midnight. Get into bed.”

  She squealed and giggled, backing against the wall. Birthday Wishes Barbie’s alarmed face poked out from beneath Olivia’s bare feet. “I’m already into bed!”

  Sighing, Len took the bottle of stones—which seemed to be heavier than the last time he’d held it—from her hands and pulled from the bookshelf her favorite book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. The child was far too old for the story, but still demanded it night after night. Len could recite the entire text in his sleep. “Okay, settle down. It’s story time.”

  Olivia stopped jumping long enough to chirp, “That being said, I don’t want to read a book. I actually want to bounce all night!” Then she leaped up again.

  “Olivia!” A sharp pain shot across Len’s left temple. He didn’t have the energy to correct the child’s use of way-too-adult terms. “Daddy is not in the mood for this.”

  She stopped again. She’d never been able to coordinate the mechanics of simultaneous walking—or bouncing—and talking. “Actually, I am in the mood for this!”

  Len took a deep breath and noticed the smell of dead animal still hadn’t left the room. Now, what had Dr. Kate said about getting Olivia to behave? Try to echo her feelings. Get into her shoes. Len looked at his daughter. “Bouncing is fun, isn’t it? Actually?”

  She bounced higher.

  Clearly, that didn’t work. Len tried again, rubbing the pain in his head. “And why would you want to stop jumping? You’re having too much fun.”

  She stopped and nearly lost her balance. “Yeah.” Then bounced.

  “It must suck when your mean old grump of a dad tells you to stop having fun.” Len watched Olivia’s hair flap up and down against her face. He thought the pain in his head was now throbbing in time with the thumping bed.

  Olivia dropped to her knees. “I don’t have a mean old grump for a dad. I have a man for a dad.” Just as Len smiled and leaned forward to kiss his daughter, Olivia grabbed the book from his hands and accidentally whacked him in the chin, drawing blood. Completely oblivious, she thumbed through the book, humming.

  The child had no buffer zone, no spatial sense of where her body ended and someone else’s might begin. Olivia had once explained that if you cut off a rat’s whiskers and set him loose in a dark room, he’d bump into tables, walls, and cupboards. In a way, it summed up her own bodily awareness—Olivia was simply born without whiskers.

  The upside was that the child still watched TV sprawled across her father’s lap, allowing Len to revel in the delicious un-self-consciousness of childhood a little longer than other parents. The downside, of course, was constantly running out of Band-Aids.

  “So, what happened with Wendy tonight?” Len asked, holding a tissue to his chin. “She seemed to be upset about—”

  “She told me to make a treasure box. For all my treasures.” Olivia sprung across Len’s lap, jabbing her elbow into her father’s thigh, and ran to her desk. There, she picked up a small, glittercovered cardboard box and held it up for Len to see.

  “Lovely. What’s in it?”

  “A tooth I lost that time the tooth fairy forgot to actually come is in it,” she said. “And a picture of Mommy so if she ever comes back I’ll recognize her.”

  Len said nothing.

  Olivia walked across the room, carrying the box. “Wendy said I should put in things I love most. So that’s what I did.”

  “Show me.”

  She ripped off the lid. “Oh yeah, Georgie Boy!”

  The room filled with a stink far worse than the four-day-old stink. From the mud-encrusted, partially decomposed gerbil, now some twelve days dead and exhumed from the mossy earth, emanated a stench so bad Len choked back vomit. He grabbed the box and rushed toward the back door. “Where was Wendy when you were digging him up?”

  “In the bathroom. And she went right back in after she saw him.”

  By the time both Georgie Boy and Olivia were settled back in their respective beds, Len lay beside his daughter, reeling from a heady mix of exhaustion, alcohol, and damp night air.

  “Daddy?”

  “Mm?”

  “Did you find a home for any little kids today at work?”

  Len shifted closer to Olivia’s warm body so as not to fall off the side of the twin bed. “As a matter of fact, yes. I did up papers for a new couple who own a furniture store. They’re adopting a boy, a twelve-year-old.”

  She yawned. “Is tomorrow my birthday? Are any kids coming?”

  “Tomorrow is not your birthday. But we’re going to have a great day. I’ll make you pancakes for brunch, then—”

  “Jeremy Knight got Brian and Trevor and Dakota Goodman in trouble today for stealing my pencils.”

  Len lifted his head from the pillow and glanced at his daughter, impossibly fragile-looking as she stared up at the ceiling and blinked. “I should hope so. Did he send them to the office?”

  Olivia nodded. “You’re my special person at home and he’s my special person at school. So that’s pretty good.”

  “I’d say you’re very well covered.”
r />   “I used to have three.”

  “Three?”

  “Three heroes.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Yes, you did.”

  Olivia held her fingers over her head and stared up at them. “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The lady you went on a date with tonight.”

  “Rachel.”

  “Is she nice?”

  Len thought about the way Rachel always apologized. Then apologized for apologizing. “She’s very nice.”

  “Does she have kids?”

  “She has two. A boy and a girl.”

  The child’s eyelids drifted shut, then flew open again. “Daddy?” she whispered.

  “Yes?” Len’s headache hadn’t subsided, in spite of the two extrastrength Tylenols he’d popped. He tightened his hold on Olivia and closed his eyes.

  “Do you think Rachel wishes she had three kids? Like another girl who knows lots of stuff and doesn’t actually have a mother?”

  It was a question his daughter asked each time a new woman came into their lives—anyone from nannies to teachers to those rarest of creatures, Len’s dates. Mothers, in Olivia’s young eyes, were the most special people of all. “I don’t know, princess.” Len smiled sadly, pulled the covers up and over her shoulder, and tucked them under her chin. “But I don’t see how she couldn’t.”

  Monday morning, Doctor Tanzer pulled his glasses from the top of his head and scribbled something in Len’s file. “And if you can’t escape the stress of being a single father, you’ll just have to find other ways to unwind. Buy yourself a yoga DVD and do it before your daughter wakes up in the morning. Or go on a news fast.” The doctor looked across the examining room at Len, who was standing directly beneath an air vent and trying to keep his paper gown from blowing open.

  The tiny room was positively glacial. The air gusting down from the ceiling onto his bare back had to be fifty degrees. “May I get dressed now?” Len asked.

  “Go ahead. I’m going to order a few tests.” Dr. Tanzer perched himself on a wheelie stool. “These are all routine for a man your age.” He slid his glasses further down his nose and peered at Len over the top. “How are those headaches of yours?”

  Len looked up from pulling on his socks. “I still get them. Actually had one so bad the other day, I had to lie down.”

  “Have you felt any sluggishness? Changes in energy level?”

  “Of course. But I hear three hours of sleep a night will do that to you.”

  “Nausea?”

  Len had one foot in his trousers. “Once. Maybe twice.”

  Dr. Tanzer stood up. “Hop back up on the table, Len. I’d like to have another look.”

  Len hobbled to the table while pulling up his pants and jumped up without buttoning. Dr. Tanzer peered into Len’s right eye, then his left. “Your eyes look fine, but I’d like to add a couple more tests to your list. Nothing to concern yourself with. Strictly precautionary.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Green Fingers”

  —SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES

  Wearing a Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt over torn jeans, Janie slid her tray along the steel rails to the shortest lunch lady, who scooped massive helpings of lasagna, Thursday’s special, onto her plate from beneath the glass sneeze guard. Out of the corner of her eye, Janie caught sight of Olivia Bean walking by, holding one arm in the air and shaking it like she was jangling a wristful of bracelets. Which she wasn’t. Janie wondered for the zillionth time why Olivia’s father didn’t take a brush to all that rusty hair. Better yet, a pair of hedge clippers.

  Beatrice Stein pulled up a tray behind her. “Whoa, you’re brave,” said Beatrice, staring at the enormous pile of pasta on Janie’s plate. “That would go straight to my ass.”

  Janie shrugged. “On me, it’ll just go to my boobs.”

  Beatrice chanced a quick look at Janie’s chest. Her eyes widened and she laughed. As she walked away, Janie called out, “I’m planning to leave my body to science. Just to confuse future generations!” But Beatrice was out of earshot. Then Janie felt Tabitha Carlisle’s golden presence behind her. She quickly pushed her tray further along the rails.

  “Caesar salad,” said Tabitha. “Oh, and no dressing. Please and thank you.”

  Janie slid her green canvas bag onto her tray, blocking Tabitha’s view of her gluttony. She bent down and pretended to tie her boot, forcing Tabitha to move around her.

  Janie’s appetite was gone. She checked that no one was looking, then abandoned her tray, pulling an apple out of a glass-fronted fridge and sidling up behind Dustin, who hadn’t noticed her.

  “Is there any milk in that mushroom soup?” he asked the staff.

  Janie bit into her apple. “Are you kidding? You, the guy who ate a hot dog right out of the garbage can, are suddenly concerned about dairy consumption?”

  “We’re recording the food groups for health, Insanie. Writing down everything we eat.” He tapped his head with an index finger. “Always working. Twenty-four hours a day.”

  “That would explain the grunting and groaning sounds coming out of your bedroom every night.” Janie slipped past him, grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the cooler, and stopped when she saw Tabitha in line for fries. Janie smiled. No dressing on the salad, a bottle of water, and potatoes swimming in grease. It wasn’t feast or famine for this goddess, it was feast and famine. Janie could respect that.

  She lined up behind Tabitha. The two girls stepped up to the french fry station just as the hair-netted lunch lady pulled a fresh vat out of the oil. After peering more closely into the basket, the woman fished out something long and brown and knobby, and hurled it into a garbage can.

  Janie looked at Tabitha. Tabitha stared back, lifting her eyebrows. They walked away together, abandoning their meals. “I’m so gonna heave,” Tabitha laughed. “That had to be human.”

  Janie almost sank to the floor, laughing. “No. It looked like E.T.’s finger. It was otherworldly. I practically saw it flip us off.”

  Tabitha crinkled her nose in disgust. “Well, I’m never eating anything in this place, ever again.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I saw you at hockey practice,” said Tabitha, after a group of girls passed by. “Was that your first time playing?”

  So Tabitha had noticed her shitty skating. “No. But my ankle was sort of sprained, so, you know, I sucked. Plus my skates were too tight.”

  “Drag.”

  “My dad promised me new skates next time I see him.”

  “Cool. Are your parents split?” asked Tabitha.

  Janie held her breath as Inside Out Girl made her way toward a nearby trash can with a banana in her hands. Olivia stopped, finished peeling, and stared at Janie as she bit into it. Ugh, Janie thought. Go be weird somewhere else. The kid chewed for a moment, then turned around, and followed a bunch of fifth-graders out of the caf.

  “Are your parents divorced?” repeated Tabitha.

  Janie looked up. “Oh, sorry. Yup.”

  “Me too. My dad just moved out for the second, and probably final, time. It sucks for the kid—the whole going-back-and-forth thing.”

  “Yup.” Lame answer—Yup. Tabitha looked around the room in an obvious quest for friends. She was losing interest. Janie tried to think of something to say. Nice weather? No. Too middle-aged. How do you like your new house? Too neighbor-lady-spying-through-the-curtains.

  The Goddess-snaring article was full of come-hither advice she’d kill for right now. A lot of good it did, folded up and hidden in the side pocket of her army bag. Faced with Tabitha’s sunburned nose and throaty giggle, Janie couldn’t remember a thing it said.

  Tabitha took a step backward, clearly trying to disentangle herself from what had rapidly become a dull conversation. Without the horror of a dismembered and overcooked finger to amuse them, Janie Berman and Tabitha Carlisle had very little in common.

  Think fast, Janie thought. Her mind raced, searching the noo
ks and crannies of her life for something captivating to say. She had nothing.

  Although…

  If her mother’s voodoo worked on kids, got them to listen and stop despising their parents, wouldn’t it be possible for it to work on other people, too? Especially the “get onside with your child” theory. “We kids are just pawns,” Janie blurted out.

  Tabitha, who was waving at her friend Charlotte, looked back, confused. “What?”

  “Pawns of divorce. We’re forced to live our lives here or there, depending on what some asshole judge says.”

  Tabitha nodded. “I know! Forget having your own plans on a Saturday night. If it’s ‘Daddy’s weekend,’ you miss every awesome party, every sleepover. It totally sucks.”

  Not exactly Janie’s experience. What awesome parties? The parenting voodoo, however, was working like magic. Just stay on Tabitha’s side. “I hate that,” Janie said. “I miss everything, too!”

  “Like that party at Nadia’s two weeks ago—the one where Avril Lavigne was supposed to show up…”

  “Avril Lavigne was supposed to show up?” Avril was beyond hot. She was scorching. Blistering. Third degree.

  “Yeah, didn’t you hear? Avril is Nadia’s third cousin or something. Or maybe Nadia’s stepsister is Avril’s second cousin. It said on the invitation, remember?”

  Janie was so many tiers down from the school’s A-list she’d never even heard about the party. “Yeah, I kind of remember seeing it. Did everyone hang out with her?”

  “No. Avril didn’t show.”

  There was one piece of advice from the Goddess article Janie did remember: Leave her wanting more. And it would take everything Janie had to follow it. She stood up and swung her purse over her shoulder, her stomach rumbling with hunger. “Typical,” she said, like a jaded Hollywood warhorse. “Gotta go. People are waiting for me.” And, exactly like the magazine article said, she sashayed out the door without so much as a backward glance.

  CHAPTER 11

  He’s Come Undone

  Sorry I’m late,” breathed Rachel as she rushed across the lobby of the York Street Cinema. She reached up to kiss Len on the cheek. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a sleeveless beige turtleneck with a gold chain strung around her waist, mahogany hair streaming down her shoulders, she didn’t look much older than the herd of Friday night teenagers pouring through the doors to see the latest slasher flick, Bloodbath. The only real giveaway was the laugh lines around her eyes.