On Monday morning Taylor and I go for a bike ride around Sandcastle.
I don’t have a talk today, and I plan to spend the entire day with Taylor and Anna—and only work on Magdalene’s disappearance when they nap or after they go to bed tonight.
There’s a possibility that Susan is going to let Johanna come tonight instead of later in the week, so our entire family will be together again. I can’t wait—even if it means that everything related to my talk preparation and Magdalene’s case will have to.
Taylor is a smart, creative, fun four-year-old, but she is never more delightful than in the mornings.
We talk and play and laugh, and have a wonderful time.
In addition to the small, narrow streets of Sandcastle being conducive to bike riding, there are several bike paths through the undeveloped acres of scrub pine forest surrounding the master-planned community.
For the most part I am fully present with Taylor, completely attentive and focused on her fun, but as we ride through the woods behind Sandcastle, I can’t help but wonder if little Magdalene Dacosta’s remains are buried somewhere out here.
Additionally, I can’t help but think about Anna and what’s going on with her, and how it’s affecting us. It’s always in the back of my mind like a low-grade fever in an otherwise mostly healthy body.
“Daddy, what’s wrong with Mommy?” Taylor asks.
Evidently I’m not the only one who’s concerned about it.
We have stopped at a bench in a small clearing beneath an oak tree along the bicycle path in the woods.
“What do you mean, sweetie?” I ask.
I want to hear what’s on her mind, what she has observed, what she is thinking, and what is concerning her before I say anything.
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
She’s looking down, sipping on the blue popup straw of her water bottle, avoiding eye contact.
When she doesn’t say anything else, I say, “What do you think is wrong with her?”
She shrugs again.
Suddenly, this fun, carefree, wild-at-heart child is sad and heavy.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I know you love Mommy more than anything. It’s okay to say when you think something’s wrong. What makes you think something’s wrong?”
She shrugs again. “She’s . . . actin’ funny.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs yet again. “I don’t know.”
“What do you think it is?” I ask. “It’s okay to tell me anything you want to.”
“Are y’all getting a divorce?”
I shake my head. “No, sweetie, we’re not going to get a divorce. You don’t have to worry about that. Everything is okay. Mommy’s just . . . She’s not feeling real good right now, but she will be again. Very soon she’ll be back to her old self.”
“Is she mad at you?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “She might be. I don’t know. But it’s okay if she is. You know how much you and Johanna love each other and what great sisters and friends y’all are, and how sometimes you still fuss or get upset with each other a little? All friends do that. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you love each other any less or that you’re not friends or sisters anymore.”
She seems reassured, her little head lifting, her eyes actually drifting over to look at me.
“I mean it,” I say. “Your mom and I are good. Our family is good. You and Johanna are safe and so loved and everything is okay.”
She nods.
“Do you want to ride back into town and get Mommy a treat and take it to her?”
“Yes,” she says. “Let’s go get Mommy a treat.”