The silence of finally understanding who wasn’t coming.
I carried Wren upstairs.
Placed her carefully in the bassinet.
Then I packed.
Diapers.
Formula.
Clothes for her.
Clothes for me.
The breast pump.
A toothbrush.
And one pale yellow blanket with tiny white ducks around the edge.
It was the first blanket Wren had ever been wrapped in.
Before Beverly took her.
Before anyone else held her.
I had hidden it in a drawer after Beverly announced that Wren would use her old family blanket instead.
I packed it.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my contacts.
There was one name I hadn’t called in almost two years.
Dad.
My finger hovered over it.
I remembered Chicago.
The briefcase.
The white roses.
The silver tea set.
I’m sorry. I’m in London.
I remembered Raymond holding me in the hospice corridor.
Then I remembered one message from six days earlier.
Is she healthy?
Are you?
I pressed call.
It rang once.
“Simone?”
My father’s voice sounded cautious.
Almost afraid I might disappear.
“Dad,” I said.
My voice was strangely steady.
“Come get me.”
He asked no questions.
Not why.
Not where Roland was.
