TWENTY-SEVEN
Jessie waited with a group of other mothers at the Independent Day School for the morning kindergarten class to come running through the doors. By now, she’d gotten used to the ladies of Sayer’s Brook keeping their distance from her. They stood aside, in little groups, offering barely a nod of acknowledgment in Jessie’s direction. Some of these women she’d known all her life. There was Terry Carmichael, who’d been her best friend in first and second grades, and Georgina Paxton, with whom Jessie had shared pancake and rouge in their high school musicals. There was Yvette Osborn, who came from the town’s very first black family, and whom Jessie had befriended right away in tenth grade even as the other girls viewed her as a kind of exotic oddity. But now all of them, driving up in their Mercedes and BMWs and wearing their Manolo Blahnik shoes, kept their distance from Jessie. Two weeks ago, they might have been willing to forgive and forget Emil Deetz. But Inga’s death had made them suspicious of Jessie all over again.
Jessie leaned against a pole, looking at her watch. She didn’t care that they cold-shouldered her. But it was unforgivable that they’d told their kids to steer clear of Abby.
From inside the building came the muffled sound of a bell ringing. Suddenly the school seemed to shudder with activity, and within moments the doors flew open. A couple of teachers’ assistants guided the flock of kindergartners out to their parents. Jessie searched the throng for Abby.
“Mommy!”
Her little girl came running to her, her backpack flopping. Abby was clutching a large piece of construction paper.
“Look, Mommy!” Abby exclaimed.
Jessie examined the paper. It was another drawing, two stick figures, one drawn in red crayon, with yellow hair, and the other drawn in black crayon, with no hair at all.
“Oh, this is beautiful, Abs!”
Abby beamed and hurried ahead of her mother to the car.
Jessie buckled her into the passenger seat of the Volvo. “So you had a good day at school?” she asked.
“It was the best day ever!”
Jessie smiled. “Why is that, sweetie?”
“Because my friend and I colored together.”
Jessie’s heart soared. “You and a friend? Oh, that’s wonderful, Abs.”
She gently closed the passenger-side door and hurried around to slide in behind the wheel. Other mothers were behind her. Yvette Osborn had tooted from her Mercedes SL 550 to get Jessie moving.
Jessie started up the ignition and steered the Volvo out of the lot. Abby was still gazing at the picture she’d drawn.
“This is me and my friend,” she told Jessie. “I mean, my friend and I.”
“How come she doesn’t have any hair?” her mother wanted to know.
Abby looked at her. “Because it’s not a girl, Mommy. It’s a boy. Can’t you see?” She held the drawing up so Jessie could see it again.
“Oh, sorry, honey.”
“Today was his first day in school,” Abby said.
“Really? Why did he start late?”
Abby was silent for a moment, as if considering the question. “I don’t know,” she said finally.
They had stopped at a red light. “So,” Jessie asked, “what’s your friend’s name?”
“Aaron,” Abby said.
A kind of red flash seemed to obscure Jessie’s vision for a moment.
Red.
Blood.
Blood everywhere.
Her hands were covered in it. Blood was running down her legs.
Jessie couldn’t speak. She just kept staring at Abby.
“What—?” she finally managed to say.
“Aaron,” Abby said again.
Jessie took a deep breath.
There are lots of little boys named Aaron, she told herself.
Of course there were.
But it was also a fact that when Jessie had first learned she was pregnant with twins, she’d decided the girl Abigail—and the boy Aaron.
She couldn’t stop staring at Abby.
From behind her, Yvette Osborn tooted again. The light had turned green.
Jessie refocused her eyes on the road and drove on.