28

Harper

Propped on pillows, sitting up in bed, I take a sip of wine and flip the page in my book on my iPad. I love the weight of a real book in my hand, the feel of the pages as I turn them, but by evening, I find it hard to read a physical book. My eyes are scratchy and tired; I can’t get the lighting right in my room. So last year I surrendered to my advanced age, downloaded a reader on my iPad, and refused to allow a long day to keep me from losing myself in the pages of a good book. Tonight I started a mystery set in Amish country not far from where I grew up in Pennsylvania.

I read another page and check the time on my phone. It’s after nine and Remy’s not home yet. He’s missed dinner with us two nights in a row. He’s missed two nights with the girls and me. He’s got some big project going on at work, but I feel as if that’s not what’s keeping him out late. I think it’s me. Of course, rationally, that makes no sense. We haven’t even had a real argument. But he has seemed distracted for days, seemed emotionally distant. Not just from me but the girls, too. Even from Georgina.

I consider calling him, just to check in. To see how late he’ll be. But I already texted him and he texted back that he’d let me know when he was on his way home. I texted him again to ask if I should save him a plate. He never responded. I made a conscious decision not to be suspicious. I refuse to live that way again.

I hear a tap at my open door and I look up. I’m expecting Jojo. She and I had a bit of a thing earlier. She wanted to know if she could go camping at Fountainebleau State Park with a girl from school. Who goes camping in February, even if they are staying in a cabin? She begged me to call Olivia’s mother and get the details. I said there was no need for me to call because she wasn’t going.

“Georgina,” I say, setting my iPad down. I stifle my immediate impulse to barrage her with questions. How her day was. How the paper on The Great Gatsby is going. If she’s made any new friends. I’m trying to take a step back and not smother her. That was the word Jojo used this evening when Georgina didn’t come down to eat. Jojo said her big sister was hiding from me because I smother her. Of course I’d just told Jojo she wouldn’t be going camping, so I know I should take her comment with a grain of salt.

Georgina stands in the doorway looking unsure of herself. I can’t get over how beautiful she is, or how old she looks. She could easily pass for a Tulane student in Remy’s sweatshirt she’s wearing. Her beauty isn’t cute; it’s a mature beauty that I suspect she’ll carry her entire life. She glances around my room, seeming to take it in. “How was your day at work?” she asks me. “Any adorable puppies come in?”

I doubt she’s come to my room to ask me about puppies, but I’m so happy she’s crossed my threshold that I don’t care what we talk about. I only care that she’s actually initiating a conversation. “Actually I did have a cute puppy. A well check.” I sit up off my pillows, crossing my legs. “It was a Catahoula Leopard. You know what those are?”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t?” I tease. “It’s the Louisiana state dog. Look them up. It’s a type of hound, well, technically a cur. Slender, spotted, with amazing blue eyes. We used to have one. When you were little.”

“We used to have a dog?” She walks into my bedroom.

I pat my bed in invitation. “She was a blue merle. Her name was Sadie.” Georgina’s looking at me oddly and my first thought is that maybe she remembers our dog. That’s something a little girl would remember, isn’t it? I want to blurt out, “Do you remember her?” But Jojo’s accusation whispers in my ear. “Want to see what they look like?” I ask instead.

I grab my iPad, close my book app, and go to an Internet search screen. My impulse is twofold. I want to show her a picture of what a Catahoula looks like, just in case it does nudge a memory, but I also want her to come closer. Even after having her home for weeks, I crave her: touching her, smelling her. I want so badly to hug her. She’s made no indication she wants a hug from me, as of yet. I’ve resisted the urge to hug her anyway, sometimes having to physically force my arms to my sides. I feed my longing with a touch here or there when I hand her something, or by walking behind her and brushing her lightly on the back as I pass. She doesn’t jump anymore, but she certainly hasn’t thrown open her arms to me.

I adjust my reading glasses on my nose and type the dog breed into the search bar. I resist looking up when she sits on the edge of my bed, beside me. I want to take her hand. I want to kiss it. I hit the return key.

“I’ve always wanted a dog,” she says. “Sharon wasn’t into pets.”

“We could—” I catch myself before I offer to run out and buy her one tonight. I’ve made a promise to myself to start treating her more like I treat Jojo. As if she hasn’t left my sight since I gave birth to her. “I’ve been thinking about getting another dog. Our Buttons died last year.”

“Boy or a girl?”

“Boy. He was a Pit-Catahoula mix. A rescue. I brought him home on impulse. Your dad had a fit. Long story, but Buttons turned out to be a good dog. He just didn’t live long.”

“What did he die of?” she asks.

I look up from the iPad, over the rim of my glasses. I feel as if something is going on with her, but I have no idea what. An issue at school? With Jojo? Or is she just missing Sharon and the life she led with her? Which I’m learning certainly had fewer rules.

When Georgina said she wasn’t coming down for dinner tonight, I came up to see if she was sick. She said, through her closed door, that she wasn’t. She said she just wasn’t hungry and she had a lot of homework. I let it go. So I’m thrilled that she’s come to me, now. To me, not Remy. It’s the first time she’s done it since she arrived.

“Buttons died of cancer. I had to euthanize him.” I look down at the screen again, surprised by the emotion bubbling up. It’s hard to believe I can get teary over losing a dog. I’m a veterinarian, for heaven’s sake. And a mother who, for fourteen years, lived day to day with the horror of having had a child abducted.

I suppose humans have an amazing capacity for sadness. But I like to think that’s true of joy, as well. I smile to myself at that thought.

“Do you think we should consider getting a dog?” I ask her. “They’re a lot of responsibility. Not just feeding them, but walking them, playing with them.”

“That would be nice.” She hesitates. “But . . .”

She’s glancing around the room again. My mother’s radar is singing. Why’s she so interested in the room, our dog?

“I don’t know,” Georgina goes on. “I’m going to college in less than two years. I don’t know that I’m the one who should be saying we should get a dog. I won’t be here to take care of it.”

“Good point. I wish some of my clients were as thoughtful as you.” I hand her my iPad. Her fingertips brush mine as I pass it off and I feel a little thrill. “Catahoula Leopard. Catahoula is a native Choctaw word. They’re cattle dogs. Fifty to ninety pounds. They come in all sorts of colors and patterns, but they have a very distinct look. They’re the only known domesticated North American dog.”

She holds the iPad, studying it. I brought up pictures of blue merles.

“Georgina, do you remember Sadie?” I ask quietly.

She’s still staring at the pictures. “I’ve seen these dogs before.” She shakes her head. “But I don’t remember her. Not here in the house.”

But she keeps holding my iPad, staring, as if she wants to say something else. I make myself sit still. Stay quiet. And not touch her.

“Did I—” She closes her eyes. Exhales. “This is silly. I don’t know what to call you.” She suddenly sounds anxious, as if she’s on the verge of tears. “I never call you by name because I don’t know what to call you.”

The pain in her voice chokes me up. I have to take a second before I speak. “I won’t lie to you. I want you to call me Mom. Like Jojo. When you were little you called me ‘mama.’” I give a little laugh. “But, Georgina . . . I understand if you can’t do that. I do.” I take a breath. “What do you want to call me?”

She opens her eyes. Now she’s holding my iPad tightly against her chest, pressing it into the folds of her father’s sweatshirt. “I . . . um . . . in my head, I think of you as . . . Harper Mom.” She steals a glance at me.

“Harper Mom?” I slide my bare feet over the edge of the bed so I can sit beside her. Our thighs touch.

“Yeah, you know like . . . Sharon was my mom and now . . .”

“Ah. Sharon Mom. Harper Mom. I get it.” I think for a moment. “Okay, so call me Harper Mom. Why not?” I shrug. “You called Remy by his first name for weeks.” What I don’t say is that she’s calling him “Dad” now.

“But I never had a dad,” she says softly, “so that’s been easier.”

I turn my head to look at her and she’s looking at me. And I feel this amazing connection that I’ve dreamed of since she came home to us. Since she was born. I feel overwhelmed with happiness, but I keep it to myself, afraid I’ll spook her and end this amazing moment. “Did you need something? When you came in?”

She looks straight ahead, still holding on to the iPad for dear life. “Yeah. I wanted to ask you . . . This is going to sound dumb, but . . . did I have a Madeline doll? From the books about the French girl. Floppy like a Raggedy Ann?”

I freeze. For a moment all I can do is stare at her. She remembers something? Of us? Of who she was before we went to that parade? I check myself. Will myself to stay calm and not burst into tears. Because lots of little girls have Madeline dolls. “You did,” I say, watching her.

“And you read me the books?”

Tears spring into my eyes, but I don’t cry. “I did.” I press my lips together, feeling a little shaky. “ ‘In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines,’” I recite, “‘lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.’”

“ ‘And the smallest one was Madeline,’” Georgina finishes.

We’re both quiet and then I say, “Do you remember me reading the book to you?”

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, still not looking at me. “Because Sharon read it to me, too, but . . .” She slowly turns to me. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I think I remember the couch.”

“The couch?”

“The leather couch in the parlor. Dad said it was old. Did . . . did you read to me there?”

I grin. We used to read in there all the time. “You remember the parlor?”

She shakes her head slowly as if to rattle the memories loose. “I don’t know . . . Not the parlor, exactly, but . . . I remember the smell of the couch. The leather, I guess. And it was slippery.”

I cover my mouth with my hand.

“And a bunny blanket.” She shifts her gaze. She looks out into the room, but I don’t think she’s seeing the chifforobe in front of us. “Did I have a blanket with bunnies on it?”

I take a shuddering breath behind my hand. “You did,” I say. “You’d had it since you were a newborn. It was just a little cotton blanket like . . . flannel. You wanted to bring it with you that day. To the parade.” I stop. “Do you . . . do you want to hear this? Because . . . I don’t have to tell you. I don’t want to hurt you, Georgina. I don’t want to bring up bad memories.”

“I don’t have any bad memories. I don’t remember the parade. I didn’t think I remembered you. I thought I only remembered Sharon.” She looks at me again. “You said I wanted to take the blanket? That day?”

I nod. “I said no. I was afraid you were going to lose it. You’d lost it in a grocery store the week before. Your dad had to go back for it; luckily it was in the lost and found. Anyway, that day. The day of the parade, you threw a fit about the blanket, wanting to take it with us. I still remember standing by the back door with you in the stroller. You were already cranky and we hadn’t left yet. Your dad offered to stay home with you and let me go to the parade, but it was supposed to be a family outing. I gave in and went back into the house for your blanket. I was usually pretty good about not giving in to you, but I was beat that day. Jojo was a fussy baby. She still wasn’t sleeping at night. I just wanted you to stop fussing.” I laugh though I’m fighting tears. “You were such a stubborn toddler, Georgina. You knew what you wanted and you weren’t easily distracted or appeased.”

“So I took my blanket to the parade?” She lowers my iPad to her lap.

“You sure did. And when . . . when Sharon took you, she left your blanket.” I whisper the last words, the pain still so sharp that I can almost see the blood it draws. “That first night, all I could think of was that you wouldn’t be able to sleep without your bunnies. The police used it to get a scent. They tried to use dogs to try to track where you’d been taken, but it didn’t work.” Now we’re both staring at the chifforobe. Neither of us seeing it.

“Did the police keep it?”

“No. I have it. In a box in the attic.” I think about offering to get it for her, to show her, but my instinct tells me not to offer. Not to put her in that position. It’s too much for her, right now. When she asks, if she asks, that’s when I’ll find it for her. In the attic where there are boxes of her baby things. Next to boxes from her life with Sharon that Remy had delivered and carried upstairs.

We both sit there, side by side. Neither of us speaks for what seems like a very long time. Then she says very softly, “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

When I turn to meet her gaze again, I see that her eyes are full of tears. I sniff. I want to put my arm around her, but I’m afraid to. Instead, I lower my head to her shoulder, just for a moment. And for now, it’s enough. “I’m sorry it happened to us both,” I whisper.