Chapter 7: The Word She Finally Said
It was a Tuesday.
Three weeks after the coffee shop.
Sally called me at 7:40 in the morning.
Emmy was at preschool.
Greg was at the office.
She didn't say hello.
She said: "He went through my phone last night.
He found the call log.
He saw Renee's number and he wanted to know why I'd called a doctor without telling him."
"What did you say?"
"I said it was a prescription refill.
He didn't believe me." Her voice was flat.
Controlled.
The voice of someone who has been keeping themselves very calm for a very long time.
"He took my car keys this morning before he left."
I didn't move.
"Sally."
"He said I could have them back when I explained the call properly.
He said he wasn't angry.
He said he just needed to understand." A pause.
"Mom, he was smiling when he said it."
"Where are you right now?"
"Kitchen."
"Is the front door unlocked?"
"Yes."
"I'm twenty minutes away.
Pack one bag.
Emmy's things and yours.
Documents if you can get to them — passports, her birth certificate, anything in a drawer you can reach quickly.
If you can't get to them, leave them.
We'll deal with it later."
Silence.
"Sally."
"Okay," she said.
Very quietly.
"Okay."
I was already standing, already reaching for my keys.
I called my husband on the way.
He said four words: "I'll call Patricia now."
I drove faster than I should have.
Sally was on the front step when I pulled up, one bag over her shoulder, Emmy's small backpack in her hand.
She'd managed the passports.
She'd managed Emmy's bear.
She'd left the car keys on the kitchen counter exactly where Greg had put them.
She got in without a word.
I pulled away from the curb.
We were three streets away when her phone rang.
Greg's name.
She looked at me.
"You don't have to answer," I said.
She let it ring.
It rang again immediately.
Then a third time.
Then a text: *Where are you.*
Not a question.
A statement.
She turned her phone over in her lap and looked out the window.
"Mom," she said.
"Yes."
"I should have called you in February."
I kept my eyes on the road.
"You called me now," I said.
"That's what matters."
She didn't say anything else.
But somewhere around the fourth traffic light, she reached across and put her hand over mine on the gearshift.
May you like
I turned my hand over and held hers.
We drove the rest of the way like that.
