Chapter 7: What Courtney Carried
We met at a coffee shop twenty minutes from her house, far enough from Patricia's neighborhood that neither of us would have to explain the car in the parking lot.
Courtney arrived before me.
She was sitting at a corner table with both hands around a mug she hadn't touched.
She looked like she hadn't slept either.
I sat down across from her.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
"How's Mia?" she asked.
"She slept through the night.
She seems okay." I paused.
"Kids are resilient until they're not."
Courtney nodded.
She looked at her mug.
"I've been trying to figure out how to start this for the last two hours," she said.
"Start anywhere."
She looked up.
"The garage wasn't the first time."
I kept my face still.
"Last Easter," she said.
"We all went to the park.
Mom had all the grandkids for the egg hunt.
Mia was there.
At some point, Mom gathered everyone up to take a photo by the fountain.
I was helping Jake with his basket." She stopped.
"When I looked up, Mia wasn't in the photo.
Mom had positioned everyone else and just — not included her.
Mia was standing about ten feet away watching."
"Did you say anything?"
"I said her name.
I said, come on, Mia, get in the photo.
And Mom said, oh, we already took it, and moved everyone toward the picnic tables." She set down her mug.
"I told myself it was an accident."
"Was it?"
"No." The word came out flat.
Certain.
"I've watched it for two years.
It's never an accident.
It's always just small enough that you can tell yourself it's nothing.
But it's not nothing.
It's a pattern."
"Why Mia?" I asked.
"Why not the other grandchildren?"
Courtney looked at me for a long moment.
"Mom never thought you were right for Daniel," she said.
"I'm not saying that to hurt you.
I'm saying it because it's the reason.
She decided before you were even married that you didn't fit.
And Mia is yours.
So Mia gets — less."
The coffee shop was filling up around us.
Someone's child laughed at another table.
"She's Daniel's daughter too," I said.
"I know that."
"Does your mother?"
Courtney didn't answer.
That was its own answer.
"The woman from work," I said.
"Jess.
Did you know?"
She hesitated.
Then: "Daniel told me in March.
He said it was over.
He asked me not to say anything."
"And you didn't."
"No." She looked at her hands.
"I should have.
I kept thinking it was his thing to tell you.
But that's — I know that's not good enough."
"It's not," I said.
Not unkindly.
Just clearly.
"I know."
I looked at her across the table.
She had the same jaw as Daniel, the same way of going still when something was difficult.
But she was here.
She had come.
"Will you tell me everything?" I asked.
"All of it.
Every incident you can remember.
Dates, places, what was said."
"Yes."
"And will you say it again, to someone else, if I need you to?"
She met my eyes.
"Yes," she said.
"I will."
Outside, a bus went by.
The morning light was flat and gray and ordinary.
I reached across the table and turned her mug so the handle faced her properly.
May you like
"Drink your coffee," I said.
"Then start from the beginning."
