is a bold move in Hannah’s eyes; it is her personal opinion that it’s best to wear vintage when you yourself are not. But she has to hand it to her still-gorgeous mother: Daisy pulls off the looks of yesteryear with aplomb. Today she’s fully committed to the seventies: fitted plaid polyester pants that come up high on her waist and a silky blouse with a large bow tied at the neck. She looks like a well-preserved Charlie’s Angel.
“Some good finds?” Hannah says, nodding at her bag.
“Oh. Yes. Goodwill has such wonderful surprises. I got three shirts, a dress, and a slip for four dollars. And look what I
found for you.”
“What?”
“Trousers!” her mother says triumphantly, handing her a bag. “What?”
“Slacks!”
“But—”
“That’s what I realized you needed. I got you some nice slightly used linen things. You’re still in your bathrobe?”
“I’m injured.”
“It’s been days, Hannah. Anyway, you’ve got to put some clothes on. Mitchell is here to see about the rotten sections of the roof.”
“I know. We had lunch together on the porch.”
“In your robe? Did anyone see you?”
“Yes, I flashed some boob and made out with him to give the neighbors something to gossip about.”
“Lord, Hannah,” her mother says. “When did you become so . . .”
“Troublesome?”
“‘Stunted’ was the word I was going to use.”
“Ha.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Well, why don’t you play tennis with me?”
“Bad at tennis.”
“Or get a massage.”
“Too sore.”
“Or walk.”
“Nah.”
“Well, Will needs some help with—”
“OK, I’ll walk.”
“And tonight?”
“Palmer asked me to dinner. Tom’s cooking.”
“Excellent.” Her mother drums her fingers together in a manner that Hannah can only call Machiavellian.
“OK, then,” Hannah says, abandoning Mitchell’s promised coffee. “I’m going out.”
“All right,” Daisy says. “I’ll be at tennis. Are you certain you don’t want to come? We have a very nice beginner’s ladder.
You probably wouldn’t lose too badly. It’s mostly the heavier people. Oh, and poor Monica, with her missing toe.”
“I’ll think about it,” Hannah says.
Nice, she thinks as she leaves the kitchen. It’s only a month. I. Can. Be. Nice.
She jogs up the stairs, cringing at the pain in her side, then strips off her robe and pulls on jeans and a frayed old shirt.
She pauses in front of the mirror. How could she have believed that she looked good just a week ago? Her eyes are bloodshot from the painkillers and lack of sleep; her forehead is marked with a slightly graying butterfly Band-Aid. She peels it off hopefully, but the puncture wound is too wince-worthy for public display, so she finds a new bandage and covers it back up again. She brushes her hair, glosses her lips, dusts her cheeks. At last, she’s ready for morning. It’s three in the afternoon.
6
The Last Time She Saw Him
T HE MORNING BEFORE Palmer’s soccer game. Monday. Hannah opened her eyes. Her father standing at her door, wearing a tuxedo.
“On a Monday?” the police officer asked later. He sat with her on the sofa, a notepad in his hand. “A tux? Sweetie, think hard. Are you sure?”
Hannah!
Her father was wearing normal office clothes now.
Dad!
How many muscles in the body?
About six hundred.
Largest bone?
The femur.
Smallest?
The stirrup of the inner ear.
Good girl. Very good girl.
They all left at the same time that morning, flying in different directions. As if shot loose from a locked, pressured chamber.
There was something about a soccer game. Tucker scratched his bleedy ears and then leapt up to follow her father. Fast—it was all so fast.
Have a good day, Doc, he said to her at the door.
She remembers running two steps after him. Nothing was ever certain. One had to nail him down on the specifics.
See you at the game, then?
What?
Palmer’s
“Some good finds?” Hannah says, nodding at her bag.
“Oh. Yes. Goodwill has such wonderful surprises. I got three shirts, a dress, and a slip for four dollars. And look what I
found for you.”
“What?”
“Trousers!” her mother says triumphantly, handing her a bag. “What?”
“Slacks!”
“But—”
“That’s what I realized you needed. I got you some nice slightly used linen things. You’re still in your bathrobe?”
“I’m injured.”
“It’s been days, Hannah. Anyway, you’ve got to put some clothes on. Mitchell is here to see about the rotten sections of the roof.”
“I know. We had lunch together on the porch.”
“In your robe? Did anyone see you?”
“Yes, I flashed some boob and made out with him to give the neighbors something to gossip about.”
“Lord, Hannah,” her mother says. “When did you become so . . .”
“Troublesome?”
“‘Stunted’ was the word I was going to use.”
“Ha.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Well, why don’t you play tennis with me?”
“Bad at tennis.”
“Or get a massage.”
“Too sore.”
“Or walk.”
“Nah.”
“Well, Will needs some help with—”
“OK, I’ll walk.”
“And tonight?”
“Palmer asked me to dinner. Tom’s cooking.”
“Excellent.” Her mother drums her fingers together in a manner that Hannah can only call Machiavellian.
“OK, then,” Hannah says, abandoning Mitchell’s promised coffee. “I’m going out.”
“All right,” Daisy says. “I’ll be at tennis. Are you certain you don’t want to come? We have a very nice beginner’s ladder.
You probably wouldn’t lose too badly. It’s mostly the heavier people. Oh, and poor Monica, with her missing toe.”
“I’ll think about it,” Hannah says.
Nice, she thinks as she leaves the kitchen. It’s only a month. I. Can. Be. Nice.
She jogs up the stairs, cringing at the pain in her side, then strips off her robe and pulls on jeans and a frayed old shirt.
She pauses in front of the mirror. How could she have believed that she looked good just a week ago? Her eyes are bloodshot from the painkillers and lack of sleep; her forehead is marked with a slightly graying butterfly Band-Aid. She peels it off hopefully, but the puncture wound is too wince-worthy for public display, so she finds a new bandage and covers it back up again. She brushes her hair, glosses her lips, dusts her cheeks. At last, she’s ready for morning. It’s three in the afternoon.
6
The Last Time She Saw Him
T HE MORNING BEFORE Palmer’s soccer game. Monday. Hannah opened her eyes. Her father standing at her door, wearing a tuxedo.
“On a Monday?” the police officer asked later. He sat with her on the sofa, a notepad in his hand. “A tux? Sweetie, think hard. Are you sure?”
Hannah!
Her father was wearing normal office clothes now.
Dad!
How many muscles in the body?
About six hundred.
Largest bone?
The femur.
Smallest?
The stirrup of the inner ear.
Good girl. Very good girl.
They all left at the same time that morning, flying in different directions. As if shot loose from a locked, pressured chamber.
There was something about a soccer game. Tucker scratched his bleedy ears and then leapt up to follow her father. Fast—it was all so fast.
Have a good day, Doc, he said to her at the door.
She remembers running two steps after him. Nothing was ever certain. One had to nail him down on the specifics.
See you at the game, then?
What?
Palmer’s
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