‘What are you thinking about?’
She blinks distractedly, and then stares up at me with eyes so dark and fathomless that I’m sure I’ll never know all the mysteries behind them. Even if I can’t follow her when she withdraws inside herself like this, I want her to know that I’ll always be there to pull her back to solid ground before she goes under. That I won’t let go.
‘I don’t want to say goodbye,’ she says, her eyes shining.
‘Then don’t say it,’ I say, ignoring the subtle premonition in her words. Ignoring the fact that she’s not asked a single question about River, or Brooke, or the adoption. Ignoring my own hunger to hear her tell me, just once, that she loves me.
RIVER
Wendy told me I might get a new mama. That I might go live with her.
The social lady came to talk to me about it – her name is Kris. She comes to talk to me sometimes. About Mama. Or about Wendy. Or about how I feel or what I think when I hide food. She said that I was just going to talk to the lady who might want to be my mama (except Kris said mother, not mama). Then she said, ‘Can you draw me a picture about that?’
That’s what they always want me to do. Draw a picture.
I don’t want a new mama. I want to stay here with Wendy, and I wish Sean would find a new mama instead. But I don’t know how to draw that.
21
BROOKE
‘So, what you’re telling me is – we’re making a scrapbook.’ Reid lifts an eyebrow and gives me a look of undisguised bafflement. Photos and scrapbooking supplies – borrowed from my stepmother – are spread across the huge, scarred farm table in Kathryn’s kitchen where we sit side by side on a bench seat.
‘My caseworker, Sheldon, calls it a Life Book. But yeah, basically, it’s a scrapbook.’
‘And we have to do this because …?’
I heave a sigh. I can’t blame him – crafts are something neither of us does without a damned good reason, if ever. ‘River’s caseworker will give it to him, to show him who we are and where we live. Where he will live. Hopefully, his foster mother will read what we write to him. Sheldon says some kids are thrilled shitless to leave their foster homes, and some aren’t – so this helps.’
Reid laughs. ‘Sheldon the social worker said thrilled shitless?’
I shrug and laugh too. ‘Sheldon’s pretty laid back.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m just trying to imagine Dori ever saying that to a client.’ One corner of his mouth turns up. ‘Nope. Nothing doing.’
Not for the first time, I wonder about this girl who’s so unexpectedly significant to Reid. He pulls his phone from his front pocket and checks it for the third time in the past half-hour. Whatever he’s looking for, it isn’t there.
‘While you’ve got that out, let’s go hook it up to my computer so we can print out the photos you took.’ I get up and he follows me down the hallway to my bedroom.
As I’m booting my laptop, he examines my room. There’s not a lot to it, frankly. I’m a minimalist everywhere I go. I stripped my apartment in LA of glass tables and white upholstery before I moved, but I don’t do cosy – not naturally, which worries me where River is concerned. What if cosy is required for a child his age? I’ve never painted walls anything other than some neutral tone. There were no photos out, anywhere in the apartment. My living-room furniture has never encouraged a spontaneous nap. I’ve never had a pet, not even fish. I kill plants.
‘You’re different here,’ Reid says.
I glance back at him as he’s scooting on to my bed, one long leg off the side, foot on the floor, the other angling so the sole of his boot doesn’t soil my white quilt. Reclining against the mound of pillows, he folds his hands behind his head, forearms flexed below the haphazardly rolled-up sleeves of his light blue button-down. His head tips to the side as he inspects the room, and me, and I turn back to the computer to keep from squirming.
I know what he means, I think – I’m just not sure whether I care for his spontaneous appraisal. I like being looked at when I know I’ve taken pains to look hot. Such is not the case at the moment. Ignoring both my blow-dryer and flat-iron, I haven’t bothered to tame my naturally messy waves into the sleek, blonde waterfall mane I’m famous for. I’m wearing a long-sleeved thermal T-shirt in a plain heather grey over worn boot-cut jeans and my favourite leather-tooled Ariat boots. Nothing about me says LA right now – or Hollywood.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, feigning unconcern as I pull up the photo folder labelled Life Book.
He considers before he speaks – which is either thoughtful or shrewd. ‘It’s more than just how you’re dressed, or the lack of make-up – though that’s noteworthy. Your body language and expressions are – I don’t know – more relaxed? And your accent is more prominent. You’re less …’
I turn around and fix him with a sardonic look. ‘Less stylish? Less sophisticated?’
‘I was going to say – less counterfeit. I know what you think of your mother, and how much you don’t want to be like her. But you aren’t like her. You were never like her. Your stepmother? She’s the one you sound like, by the way. I know that now that I’ve met her. Though your time in LA has probably weakened your accent permanently.’ He looks at me through dark, thick lashes some blonds would commit homicide for. ‘Which I’ve always believed to be a regrettable loss.’
‘What do you mean, counterfeit?’