Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

turned and walked over to her desk, picked up a pencil and wrote something on the sheet of paper I’d given her, folding it carefully when she had finished, walking back to the bed and slipping it into my tote.
    Standing at the foot of her bed, I looked at the walls Sally had painted, the gigantic fish, the turtle, the coral, rocks, sea grasses, and wondered, when the time came, how much I’d tell Madison and what she would do when I did.
    I zipped the tote bag and sat on the end of the bed for a moment.
    “This is temporary,” I said, “my not talking. There are a couple more things I need to check out and then I’ll be back.”
    She came and sat next to me.
    “So you figure that when I get home and look at what you wrote, I’ll have the answers I was after?”
    Madison just slid one of her hands into one of mine. She looked so much like her mother that it was almost spooky, but it was her father’s hand she’d put in mine, wide, almost square, the fingers blunt, the nails, with most of the black polish chipped off by now, flat with tiny ridges running from side to side, giving them the delicate texture of a seashell. We sat there for a minute or two, neither of us speaking. Then I thanked her for taking care of Dashiell. And for her faith in me.
    “Back at you, kid,” I told her. “I trust you completely.” I meant it, too.
    I didn’t tell her anything about my trip, about seeing Roy waiting on the beach, about my talk with Sally. I never mentioned a word about the death of Celia Abele nor the evening I spent sitting on the cool sand in Coney Island talking to her genetic father. Even before I thanked Leon and Madison again and told them I’d call him very soon, I was already thinking about another little girl, one who slept peacefully in her bed while in the next room her mother did what she had to in order to save her baby’s life.

Chapter 29

    I didn’t wait until I got home to see what Madison had written on the drawing. I sat on the steps in front of her building, opened the tote and slipped out the folded piece of paper right there, smoothing it open on my lap. There were no words. Madison had merely continued the wavy line. Now it went all the way through the heart, dividing it in two. It was no longer a stabbed heart, no longer a threat. It was a broken heart. She’d simply been telling Bechman how she felt.
    Had he stopped her before she’d finished it, telling her he understood, explaining again that the droop was temporary, that it would go away. Had he told her they could wait and see before trying the Botox again? Is that why the needle had been left on the desk or on the counter behind him? He’d had it ready but changed his mind when he saw how upset Madison was. And had she picked it up after he’d put it down, the way she picked up everything? Bechman would have been wearing latex gloves. Madison’s hands would have been bare. “How’s my favorite research person coming along?” When I turned, startled, there was Ted. You used to hear people coming, but no more now that everyone and his grandmother wore running shoes. He sat next to me. In daylight, he looked older than he had in the apartment. Given his profession, I didn’t think the flattering lighting in his apartment was a coincidence.
    “Not bad,” I told him. “And you?”
    “Fabulous. My agent just called. He has a lead on a commercial I’d be perfect for. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to play the guy with diarrhea. Or maybe it’s acid reflux. I forget. The important thing is the cachet I get putting this on my resume.” He rolled his eyes. “And how goes your work life?“
    “Plugging along,” I told him.
    “Any leads to Miss Sally?”
    I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the gossipy neighbor something my client didn’t yet know.
    “Oh. The tan could have fooled me. I thought perhaps you’d tracked her to Belize. Or Costa Rica. Isn’t that where people go when they want to disappear?”
    “Yup. Rich people. People with assets to hide. Sally didn’t have any of those. She didn’t even have a credit card with her when she left. She didn’t have a watch.”
    “Just house keys and Leon’s dog.”
    “That sounds about right.”
    “Too bad. I thought perhaps you’d found the trucker who’d spirited her away.”
    “I wish,” I told him.
    “But you’re still working on it, aren’t you? Please don’t tell me you’ve given up. I do miss her so.” He waited a beat, stood,