“I came to talk to you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to camp,” he said. “And I want us to be okay.” He thought of the day Sam was born, of how thrilled he had been, how he had imagined for her the life he had never had. That July day he felt pressure in his chest, as if his heart were expanding, wanting to burst out of his skin. He stepped forward to hug her, but she pulled back.
“Be okay?” she asked with a guttural laugh.
“Sam.”
“Dad,” she had said. “Don’t. Talking will just make it all worse. I have to go; I told Isabel I’d meet her.” And she’d run out the door.
Now, on her mother’s birthday, she stood in Mathilda’s living room, looking at him with sad eyes.
“That scar,” he said, pointing, “looks better.”
“I call it Memory of Moonlight,” she said.
“Maybe it’s better you just forget it.”
“Forgotten Moonlight?” she asked. “Don’t you think that’s impossible, considering what I did?”
“I suppose it would be.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell Mom?”
“Because I wanted to protect you.”
“She would have been mad.”
“You taking the painting off the wall, putting it in the hall closet. Didn’t you think you might trigger her? Make her relive that earlier time? Didn’t you think it would hurt her?”
Sam stared at the small white scar. “I bled on it too. I didn’t mean to do that. I felt horrible. The painting’s so valuable.”
“It was just a tiny smudge on the back of the canvas,” he said. “And the painting’s value is nothing compared to you, Sam. You’re who we love, who matters, not some piece of art.” He swallowed. Had she come in here to confess something else about the painting? He knew the police had found the canvas rolled up in the gallery basement, the back scrawled with a blood heart. “Honey, did you take it this time too?”
“No, I swear,” she said, shaking her head hard.
“Okay, I believe you. But why did you do it before?”
“Because everything was falling apart,” Sam said in a low voice, not meeting Pete’s eyes. “I wanted you to think someone broke into our house, so you’d pay attention. So you’d stay home. We’re a family.”
She walked toward him then, banged right into his chest and let him hold her while she cried, rock her while she said, “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry I hid the painting. I want her back, Dad. I want you to be together—I want us all to be together.”
“I want that too,” he whispered. More than he had meant anything in his life, he meant that, which was why when Sam tilted her head back and asked her question, it cut him like a knife.
“Dad, you have to tell me. Promise me you’ll tell me the truth. Did you kill her? Did you kill Mom?”
56
The sky was white, and snow was intermittent. Scotty’s cheeks stung from the cold, and Kate’s were bright red. She watched Lulu stomping her feet to keep them from freezing. Scotty bundled both Isabel and Julie close to her. Everyone faced the house.
“She must have gone inside,” Lulu said.
“To talk to her father?” Scotty asked, giving an exaggerated shiver. “Let’s get her out of there, away from him, and go warm up somewhere.” She hoped it would be someplace with a full bar. Surely drinks all around would be welcome—they could toast Beth for her birthday.
“I’ll go get Sam,” Isabel said, striding away toward the front door. Julie trailed after her.
“Girls!” Scotty called.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Lulu said, grabbing her arm. “Pete’s not going to do anything, and Sam will be more likely to come with Isabel than a bunch of ancient aunties.”
Scotty instinctively recoiled from Lulu’s touch. It was something about the pointed look in Lulu’s eyes, as if she were staring into Scotty’s soul, trying to put the puzzle pieces together, or possibly wanting to rewrite her own history, wiping out the parts that Scotty knew. She glanced at Kate, who seemed not to notice the interaction.
“What’s your problem?” Scotty asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Lulu said.
“You’ve been acting weird toward me,” Scotty said.
“I was just thinking about how close we all were,” Lulu said. “And then how many secrets we kept from each other.”
“I’ve gotten over the Jed part of it all,” Kate said. “At least I’m trying to. Whether I like it or not, she had her reasons for not telling me. And so did you two.”
Scotty watched as Kate reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I made a copy of this,” Kate said. “I don’t know if Beth ever showed you . . . maybe it’s the one thing between her and me that you don’t know about, haven’t seen yet.” She smoothed out the black-and-white image. Scotty’s knees nearly buckled when she realized what it was.
“A sonogram,” Lulu said.
“Matthew,” Scotty said, reaching for it.
“Who was his father? Pete or Jed? Will we ever know?” Kate asked.
“At this point, I’m not sure it really makes a difference,” Lulu said softly.
“It does,” Scotty said, her voice harsher than she intended.
Both friends turned to look at her.
“Only someone who doesn’t have kids could say it doesn’t,” Scotty said. “Believe me.”
“The baby’s gone,” Kate said. “No one needs to raise him. But he still has us to love him.”
“Still,” Scotty said. “The father deserved to know.”
“And she decided not to tell him,” Lulu said.
“You were behind her in that,” Scotty said. “In that way, you encouraged her worst self.”
“Beth didn’t have a worst self,” Kate said. “Don’t say that.”
Scotty took a step closer to Lulu. “I tried to help her. I really did. I wanted to support her in all she was going through.”
“What are you talking about?” Kate asked.
Scotty stared at the sonogram. It reminded her of the joy she’d felt seeing Isabel’s, then Julie’s, sharing the moment with Nick. He had been as thrilled as she was. He had always been there throughout her pregnancies.
“Why did he have to start running?” she asked.
“What?” Kate asked.
“Nick. Turning into a running fool. Jogging away from us.”
“Come on, Scotty,” Lulu said. “He was just training for the race.”
Scotty shook the cobwebs from her mind. “Pregnancy is one of the greatest times of a couple’s life. The way Nick used to look at me, hold me. I wanted that for Jed.”
“Jed—he’s the father?” Kate asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Scotty said.
“When did she tell you?” Lulu asked.
“That last day,” Scotty said. “I’d gone over to help with her garden—she really wasn’t feeling good. It was so hot out, and I didn’t like thinking of her digging in the dirt, weeding, getting overheated.”