The River Killings (36 page)

“Hey!” I shouted at her, an arm’s length from her door. “You. What do you think you’re—”

She turned to face me, lips parting, stunned. And I froze, gaping. She was young, more girl than woman, really. I knew her face, the strawberry curls, the fair skin, the round eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh, gosh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She reached for the ignition, trying to start the car.

I was speechless, stunned. She was almost gone by the time I shouted, “No …wait.”

She stopped, though. And for a few intense and awkward minutes, she stayed to talk.

H
ER
N
AME
W
AS
R
OSE
.
“I
W
AS
O
NLY
FIFTEEN,”
S
HE
E
XPLAINED
.H
ER
eyes darted away, beginning to fill up. “Too young to keep her.”

She said she hadn’t wanted to bother us, had meant us no harm. She hadn’t realized she’d been seen. She’d only wanted to know that Molly was happy. That she was okay. Rose was about to get married and move to colorado, but she said she hadn’t been able to leave without finding out about Molly, so she’d searched and managed to learn where we lived, intending to come see Molly only once. But then she couldn’t help herself. Once she’d seen her, she had to see her again. And again. She couldn’t stop herself. She drove past the house at odd hours, watched her in the playground at school, at the pool in camp. Now, looking at me through Molly’s eyes, speaking with Molly’s pouty lips, Rose apologized for worrying me, thanked me tearfully for taking good care of Molly. She didn’t call her Molly, though. She called her Katrina, the name she’d given her at birth.

I should have found out more about Rose. I should have invited her for coffee, or at least asked her last name, learned whom she was marrying, who Molly’s birth father was. But the contact began and ended so quickly I had no time to figure out how to handle it, let alone what to say. By the time I’d thought of half the things I wanted to ask her, she was gone, almost as if she’d never been there. Except that she had been. I’d wondered about her for almost six years—who she was, if she’d make an appearance, how I’d react. Now I knew. I’d recognized Rose’s undeniable resemblance to Molly and watched the unmistakable pain in her eyes.

I’d sensed her desperation, her need to glimpse her child, even from afar. Rose was no longer a concept; she was real now, and I worried that, however subtly, my awareness of her would change my relationship with Molly.

But Molly seemed not to notice anything different. She bounced through early summer, sprouting new front teeth, losing others, learning to swim and ride a bike, shooting basketballs, making new friends, growing taller. She was apparently comfortable being Molly, unconcerned with either of her mothers, more interested in playing capture the Flag.

Days passed. And although Rose had stopped following Molly, she was still with us, gradually integrating herself into my thoughts, becoming a constant, even endearing, presence. I hadn’t told anyone about her; I’d kept her to myself, thinking of her occasionally throughout the day at odd times, when Molly’s lips puckered in a certain way, when she shook her curls. Rose seemed to be invisibly, permanently with me, and somehow, amazingly, that felt okay.

T
HE
N
EXT
SUNDAY,
I T
HOUGHT
OF R
OSE
AS I R
EHEARSED
M
Y
little speech, but no matter how I phrased it, the words seemed stiff and inadequate. From the kitchen window that morning, I watched Nick teach Molly to ride a bike, and I heard her shriek and giggle as she wobbled on training wheels. I told myself that we were already a family; we would weather whatever life brought. It didn’t matter what I said or how I said it; the impact would be the same. But I couldn’t bring myself to begin, and the day passed with me saying nothing. When Susan and her family arrived for a Sunday barbecue, I was still mentally juggling sentences, planning and revising what to say.

Susan and I mashed ground beef into patties, sliced veggies to grill, and Susan complained how lazy her girls were, how they were old enough to help but didn’t, never set a table or washed out a sink. I heard the cadence of her voice but wasn’t really listening. I was picturing the future, the way my little world was about to change. Nick was outside, manning the grill, making small talk with Tim, and feet thundered upstairs where Molly and Emily played. Julie and Lisa lay prone in front of the television watching some teenage reality show. And while Susan danced with food, I drifted, thinking about Rose’s wedding, imagining my own. It would be in August, small and intimate, including only half of the police force and dozens of colleagues and close friends. I wondered what I’d wear, what would be appropriate, how much I would show by then.

And there it was again: the truth. There was no escaping; I’d
have to make my little speech. I stood in my house, surrounded by the people I loved most, nervous and tongue-tied, knowing that it was time. I couldn’t wait anymore.

Out back, a gentle breeze blew the wind chimes on my patio. Tim opened a beer for Susan, guffawed at something Nick said. Nick turned as I opened the sliding door, and suddenly I felt woozy. I swayed, steadying myself with Nick’s pale blue gaze.

Then, knowing that I was carrying more than just a tray of burgers, hoping I could keep my dinner down, I headed out back to join the others. I thought about the name Oliver, and wondered whether Molly would get her wish.