Chapter 30
You watch the girl with the curly hair as she laughs with her friend.
Your face stretches happily to show your teeth.
The girls are laughing, and that makes you feel warm and squishy inside, like your insides are made of caramel.
And you like caramel. You know that. Caramel is delicious and sticky and a treat.
You’re not sure why they’re laughing—they’re on those boards that hang from the tree by ropes, going back and forth, back and forth.
The curly-haired one . . . she’s yours in some way.
You realize that you watch her often. You always have.
She is fascinating and vibrant, and you think she is so beautiful.
You love her. She might be your little sister or your cousin.
She is young and tall. Are you her aunt?
It doesn’t matter. You know for sure that you and she belong to each other. Her laughter is a song.
You get up from where you’re sitting—on steps, you realize. Porch steps. You walk across the lawn. The grass is white from the stuff that comes in the night and freezes it. Not snow, but sort of. Your breath clouds in front of you. Thousands of branches lace the sky in this place you love.
The girls slow on the boards as you get closer. “Hi, Mrs. Porter,” says the one who’s not yours.
“Hello,” you say to the one who is.
“Do you need something?” your girl says, but her voice is curious, not hostile (you are proud to remember this word), and you’re glad about that. She has been hostile before, but not right now, and right now is the only time that matters.
“You’re beautiful,” you tell her. “You’re beautiful, and I love your laugh. I love you.”
“Aw,” says the one who’s not yours, and you glance at her and smile, then turn your gaze back to the girl you adore. Her eyes are full of the world, the universe, the stars.
“I love you,” you say again.
“Okay. Um . . . thanks,” she says.
The rush of feeling is so strong, it almost knocks you over. You wrap your arms around her, and the smell of her hair is so familiar and lovely, her cheek against yours is so firm and smooth.
“I love you, my baby,” you say. That’s who she is. Your baby. Your daughter. Such a beautiful word, daughter. You pull back to look at her lovely, wonderful face. Something flickers across her face—confusion, maybe. Sadness? You can’t tell.
And then, in what you know is not a common move, she hugs you back. “I love you, too, Audrey.”
You hold her close. You’ve been waiting to hear this. Waiting for a long, long time. But a part of you already knew. Yes. You’ve known for a long, long time. The words aren’t even necessary.