Picked it up.
Pressed it against the reader with a shaking hand.
“Mommy, are you mad?” Theo asked.
“No.”
“You look mad.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
That was true.
I had moved somewhere colder than anger.
Every good memory of my husband was quietly rearranging itself into possible evidence.
The paint on Theo’s hand.
Owen’s explanation.
The locked room.
The telephone messages.
The mysterious errands.
The private smile.
My mother had been gone for three months.
For three months, I blamed every uncomfortable feeling in the house on grief.
I told myself I was distant.
That Owen was being patient.
That the silence between us came from the empty chair my mother had once occupied during holidays.
Now I wondered whether Owen’s kindness had been guilt.
The woman near the bakery picked up a loaf of bread.
“Theo,” I asked, “how many times has she visited?”
He began counting on his fingers.
Lost track.
Started again.
“A lot.”
“How many is a lot?”
“More than this.”
He held up both hands.
My stomach twisted.
“When does she come?”
“When you work.”
“What does she bring?”
“The tall bag.”
I looked at the canvas bag over her shoulder.
“What is inside?”
“Sticks.”
Brushes, perhaps.
Or equipment.
Or clothing.
My mind rejected every harmless explanation.
We were only ten feet away from her.
I could leave.
I could put Theo in the car, drive home, and confront Owen privately.
I could pretend I had not heard anything until I had time to think.
Or I could speak to the woman who might know more about my marriage than I did.
My mother’s voice returned to me.
A truth worth knowing is worth knowing today.
I turned the cart around.
My legs felt disconnected from the rest of me.
Theo became quiet.
He sensed the change in my body the way small animals sensed storms.
Ten feet.
Six.
Three.
“Excuse me.”
The woman did not turn.
“Excuse me,” I repeated.
She looked up.
Her eyes moved past me and landed on Theo.
Recognition appeared in her face.
