Chapter Fourteen
FOURTEEN
I survey the plastic ziplock bags that litter the surface of our dining room table. Each one contains a single piece of jewelry—dainty earrings, vintage brooches, tarnished silver bracelets—and is affixed with a label in my handwriting.
“It’s gone,” I say, the words catching in my throat, my voice brittle. “Someone must’ve taken it. It all makes sense now. Someone was in the house and put the wine bottle in the trash and took the bracelet.”
Miguel looks up from where he is rummaging through a different box. His expression is calm. “Okay, slow down. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Who’s jumping? I’m not jumping.” My hand shoots out, gesturing wildly to the stacked plastic storage bins lining the wall. “Look at my system. It’s airtight. Eleven years, Miguel. Eleven years and I’ve never lost anything.”
“I know,” he says carefully, like I am a skittish animal. “It’s a good system. You’re very organized.”
I freeze, spine stiffening. That tone. It is the therapy voice, the one we both tried to use with Rachel after I read about it in a book on how to talk to teenagers.
Validate feelings, even if you think they’re ridiculous.
Nod supportively. Don’t escalate. Use your calm voice so your child might use theirs.
We both used it on Rachel for years. And now he is using it on me.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
He blinks. “Do what?”
“You’re patronizing me.”
“I’m not—Caren, I swear—I’m not patronizing you. Your system is amazing.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m—” I stop myself before I say Rachel. “Don’t validate me.”
“You want me to invalidate you instead?” A smile edges at his lips. He’s trying to lighten things up. But I don’t feel like lightening up. I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to scream. But my head has begun to pound, and I can barely keep up with my thoughts.
“It’s all connected,” I say, barely able to hear myself. “The wine bottle I didn’t drink. The takeout I didn’t order. And now the bracelet that’s missing. Don’t you see? It’s not just one thing. It’s everything.”
But Miguel’s face is a blank slate. He has that dumbfounded, logical look he wears when he can’t—or won’t—follow the thread I am desperately pulling.
“I need a drink,” I murmur, already stepping toward the kitchen.
He catches me by my wrist before I’ve taken my second step. Firm. “No alcohol for two weeks. It’s in the handout the doctor gave us.”
I yank my arm out of his grip. “I hate this stupid concussion,” I snap. “I hate everything about it.”
“I know, honey.” He pulls me into a hug. He does this—reaches for closeness when words fail. For a moment, I let myself collapse into his warm body. Safe. He smells like Old Spice deodorant, the same brand he used when I met him twenty-five years ago. But even wrapped in his arms, I feel exposed.
“Someone took it,” I whisper against his chest. “Why can’t you see what I see? They were in the house. They took the bracelet. You don’t think … Kenya?”
He pulls back, his brow pinched. But he doesn’t speak.
Instead, he guides me to the couch in the living room, and we both sit.
A photo book sits open on the coffee table.
I can’t see it, but I know the year is etched in gold along the spine.
A full-page photo of the four of us smiling up at me.
It was taken last summer on the Rehoboth boardwalk, during a rare alignment of schedules, on our final vacation before we got Kugel.
“Don’t get mad,” Miguel says carefully. “But if you don’t remember anything from Saturday night…”
I open my mouth to object, but he holds up a hand.
“Just hear me out. Isn’t it possible—just possible—that you misplaced the bracelet?”
I look down at the album again. These annual photo books have chronicled our daily lives over the years: scraped knees, Halloween costumes, first days of school, awkward braces, and terrible haircuts.
I documented it all. That was how I made sense of life: systems, structure, order.
What would I even put in next year’s album?
Pictures of the dog and the empty dining room?
Tears well in my eyes before I can stop them.
“I don’t misplace things,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’ve run this sale for eleven years. This is what I do. I’m good at it.”
“I know,” Miguel says. “You are. But you’re human and mistakes happen.”
“What am I supposed to say to that woman Holly? That I lost her bracelet? Her stolen bracelet?”
“Kenya will handle her,” he says, reaching for my hand. “And in the meantime, I’ll go through every bin. Every box. I bet we’ll find it tucked in with the baby clothes or under a scarf.”
I offer a wan smile, but I still feel queasy about the origins of the bracelet.
“What is it?” Miguel knows something is off. After twenty-three years of marriage, he can read my moods. “What else is bothering you?” he asks softly.
I hesitate, then whisper, “The bracelet? The one she says was stolen? I found it in a bag Rachel was going to donate to Goodwill.”
He lets go of my hand and leans back against the sofa, his shoulders sagging. He exhales a slow, measured breath.
I pull a throw pillow to my chest. You can’t ever really prepare for parenthood.
No one tells you it can drag you to the edge, break your heart wide open.
No one tells you that while you might love your kids in equal measure, it won’t look identical, and that it’s not your fault.
Zach was easy. Predictable. A kid out of a parenting book.
His phases came and went on schedule, from tantrums to eye rolls to late-night pizza runs.
He was cheerful, flexible. A sure, whatever works kind of kid.
Rachel was the opposite. Hard from the start. I’d been sick every day of my pregnancy. She came early and spent two weeks in the hospital. Breastfeeding was a disaster, unlike with Zach. What should have been our bonding time was a battle that left both of us in tears.
But Miguel got her in a way I didn’t. It was as if he had a manual I couldn’t decipher. When she screamed, he soothed. When I punished, he forgave. When she shut down, he found the key. Their bond became unshakable. Tennis became their language when words failed.
In the middle of loud arguments, he would enter the room with two rackets, and she would follow him out the door like he was the pied piper. They’d come home a few hours later, transformed by their time on the courts, sweat-slicked and laughing, like nothing had happened at all.
I was always on the outside of that huddle.
So when things spiraled the beginning of junior year—the drinking and staying out late with Elo?se—it was Miguel who bore the weight.
And now, after surviving that storm, after she got into college, and not just any college but Georgetown, here I am, dredging up ghosts.
“You sure it was Rachel’s?” Miguel asks. “You get so many donations this time of year. It would be easy to mix something up.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I remember the day. I remember pulling the bracelet out of the Goodwill bag, thinking, ‘She doesn’t even know what she’s throwing away.’”
He hesitates. “But your memory isn’t—”
“My long-term memory is fine,” I say. “I may not remember Saturday, but I remember that.”
He studies me for a long beat. “If you’re sure. Because if you’re not—”
“I’m sure!”
We sit in silence. From somewhere in the neighborhood, a leaf blower roars to life.
“Let’s not do anything rash,” he says finally. “Let me look for the bracelet first. If I find it, we return it. No harm, no foul.”
“And Rachel?”
“What about Rachel?” His tone sharpens. “If we find it, we’re not saying a word to her.
” He crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re not derailing the progress she’s made over something that might not even be real.
I’m not going to let my daughter get caught up in something that could ruin her future,” he says.
“Our daughter,” I say quietly. “Our daughter.”
“Yes, of course. Our daughter.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “We’ll take care of this. You and me. We’re her parents. We’re a team.”
And just like that, he says exactly what I need to hear. Like he can still read my mind.
I let him. I let him hold my hand. I let myself believe him—for now.