Francie Noble stood in the kitchen in the early morning quiet and stared at the calendar on the refrigerator. The world outside the windows was pitch dark, as dark as midnight. Five thirty a.m. and she was the only one awake, her husband and children sleeping soundly upstairs. She felt as if she were the only one awake on her street, in her town, in the entire world.
Francie touched her finger to the last square on the last page of the calendar. December 31st, 2001. The final day of a year she would sooner forget. She sighed, removed the calendar from the fridge, and stuck it in the recycling box in the corner. Then she looked at the 2002 calendar that Georgia had given her for Christmas. Page after page of kittens. She left the calendar lying on the table and tiptoed upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom.
Georgia always slept on her back, and under at least one blanket, no matter what the temperature.
Francie gazed at her. This girl. Her daughter. Her daughter. This little girl living in the room that had been her own when she’d been Georgia’s age.
Francie’s eyes roamed to the window by Georgia’s bed. In a flash, twenty-two years fell away, and Francie was nine again, a fourth grader in Mr. Apwell’s class. A panicked, bewildered girl checking the street below for a black station wagon, checking obsessively, over and over. Is it there? Is it there now? How about now? Is it safe to go outside?
Francie backed out of Georgia’s room, leaned against the hallway wall, and slid to the floor. She sat there, forehead resting on her knees. She had never forgotten the man in the station wagon and she had never told her parents what had happened. She hadn’t forgotten Erin Mulligan either, the girl who had been taken by the man in the station wagon just days after he had tried to lure Francie into his car. Erin, the girl Francie could have become, the girl who had captured Princeton’s attention and then, when the search for her finally ended, had faded away.
How was a mother supposed to keep her children safe?
Francie tiptoed back downstairs and looked across the side yard at the Jordans’ house. A light was on in their living room. So Francie wasn’t the only one awake after all. Right next door, someone was already up. Probably Emilie, who was packing up the house, preparing to move, even though everyone had told her not to make any rash decisions until a year after her husband’s death. But she couldn’t stand to live in the house on Vandeventer without him. She had said so on the night of September 11th.
Francie returned to the kitchen and fastened Georgia’s kitten calendar to the refrigerator.
* * *
“Mom, when will we be old enough to go to a New Year’s Eve party?” Georgia asked that evening. Then she added, “You look pretty.”
“Thank you,” said Francie, who turned around to examine herself in the bathroom mirror. “Do you think these earrings are too big?”
“No, they’re just right. But when can we go to a party?”
“You’re going to have a party tonight. With Betsy.”
Betsy was the seventeen-year-old babysitter who had a pierced nose. Even Richard liked her.
And Francie trusted her. Mostly. She had set up a Nanny Cam the first four times Betsy had babysat for Richard, Francie, and Henry. She had scrutinized the footage to make sure Betsy was following all of Francie’s safety procedures, and that she wasn’t secretly allowing strange men in the house.
“Honestly, honey, Betsy’s references are great,” George had said when Francie had first suggested the Nanny Cam to her husband. “She’s sat for the Jordans and the Mayhews. Everybody loves her.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Francie had replied.
Now Georgia began to jump up and down. “Really? We really get to have a party?”
“Absolutely,” said Francie.
“Can we stay up until midnight?”
“You and Richard may, if you can stay awake.”
“Yes!” cried Georgia, before hugging her mother around the waist.
* * *
The party at the McCloskeys’ house was just the sort that Francie enjoyed. Some people were dressed up and some weren’t. Some were standing in tight perfumy groups holding fancy cocktails, and some were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. Dinner was buffet style. A few people ate seated at the dining room table, but most ate in the living room, balancing plates on their laps.
Francie and her husband sat next to each other on a white couch, trying not to spill.
“Either the McCloskeys have extremely tidy, coordinated children,” said George, “or their kids aren’t allowed in the living room. Imagine a white couch in our house.”
“It would have been splooched with chocolate and grape juice five minutes after we brought it home,” replied Francie, smiling.
George laughed.
Francie looked at her watch.
George refilled their plates and announced that the McCloskeys planned to serve dessert after midnight. “White chocolate mousse. In fancy little individual parfait cups.”
Francie looked at her watch again.
“What?” said George. He checked his own watch. “It’s only nine thirty. Betsy doesn’t have to be home until two.”
Francie set her plate aside, crossed her legs, and then crossed them in the other direction. “I know. It’s just that …” She looked sideways at George.
“Oh no. What? It’s just that what?”
“It’s just that … Don’t you think tonight would be a good time for another terrorist attack? Midnight on New Year’s Eve?”
George frowned at her. “Everyone thought there would be an attack last year, for Y2K, and nothing happened.”
“That was before September eleventh, before the anthrax attacks, too. Things are different now.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I want to go home?”
“Right now?”
“Well, before midnight. So we can be with the kids, just in case.”
George set his wineglass on the end table with a bit too much force. A tiny Christmas tree that was propped in front of a lamp toppled dangerously, and one miniature glass ornament rolled to the floor. George glanced down at it, then turned back to Francie.
“This is the first time we’ve been out, just us, in weeks,” he said. “And you want to go home early on a night when we have Betsy lined up until two, so we can be with the kids in case terrorists drop a bomb on Vandeventer Avenue?”
Francie looked squarely into George’s eyes. “Yes.”
* * *
At 11:00 when Francie and George had paid Betsy for seven hours of sitting, even though she had gone home three hours early, they sat on their own living room couch, which was protected from chocolate and grape juice with an arrangement of washable towels, and looked at Georgia and Richard, who had fallen asleep on the floor.
“This is so much fun!” said George.
“Don’t be sarcastic. It feels safe,” replied Francie. She switched on CNN for news of attacks but found nothing except coverage of New Year’s celebrations around the world.
George sighed. “Should we put the kids to bed?”
“No. They’d be disappointed. Let’s wake them just before midnight.”
“Do you think we’ll be alive then?”
Francie turned hurt eyes on her husband. “I can’t help it!” she cried. “I’m just trying to protect them.”
“I’m sorry.” George’s face softened. He took Francie’s hands in his. “Really. I’m sorry. I know you’re doing what you think is right.”
“All I want is for them to have a nice, peaceful life without so many dangers.”
“But, honey.” George released Francie’s hands. “There’s no place without any dangers.”
“I can think of one place with a lot fewer dangers.”
“You can?”
Francie nodded. “Lewisport.”
“Maine,” said George. “The beach cottage.”
Francie turned to him, suddenly earnest. “I want us to move there.”
George laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m totally serious.”
“Move to the beach cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Move there?”
“Yes.”
“You really are serious.”
“I really am.”
“But what about my job? And the cottage is so small. And … and we haven’t discussed this. It’s coming out of the blue. You always do this, Francie. You throw things at me —” Across the room, Richard stirred. George lowered his voice. “Do you know what this would mean? What are the job possibilities for me if we move there?”
“You can teach anywhere.”
“Lewisport doesn’t even have a school.”
“There are schools in other towns.”
George stood up. He was shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
“I don’t see what the problem is.”
“The problem is that we have a perfectly nice life here. Our families are nearby. I love my job. We love this house. The kids love their school. They have friends here. And you’re asking us to give all that up because we live too close to Manhattan?”
“Kind of.” Francie smiled.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.” Francie stood up, crossed the room to Georgia and Richard, and stooped down to touch their cheeks. Then she stood and faced George again. “I can’t live here anymore,” she told him.