Magic Hour

“Alice loves Jewlee.”

“I’m trying to tell you about your father, Alice. Brittany. You have to be ready for this. He’ll be here soon. You have to understand.”

“Be Mommy?”

Julia almost gave in, but a glance at the clock reminded her how short time was. She had to try again.

Alice had to understand that she wasn’t abandoning her, that she had no choice. She glanced over at the suitcase she’d packed so carefully last night. In it were all of the clothes and toys the town had gathered for “their” girl. Additionally, Julia had packed all of Alice’s favorite books and a few of her own childhood favorites that they hadn’t gotten around to yet. And there were the boxes that had been donated by the local families. Everyone in town had given their Alice something.

How would she button Alice’s—Brittany’s—coat, kiss her on the cheek, and say good-bye? You’ll be fine. Go off with this man you don’t know and who doesn’t know you. Go live in a big house on a street you can’t cross without help in a city where you’ll never quite be understood.

How could she do it?

And how could she not? No matter how she tussled with all of this, she couldn’t escape the fact that George Azelle was a victim in this, too. He’d lost his daughter and found her again, against all odds. Of course he wanted to take her home. And he’d hired all the best medical professionals to care for her. Julia was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough, but she didn’t know how to stop the inevitable.

She drew in a ragged breath and tightened her hold on Alice. Outside, she heard a car drive up.

“Mommy?” Alice said again. This time it was her little girl’s voice that sounded wobbly and afraid.

“Oh, Alice,” she whispered, touching her soft, pink cheek. “I wish I could be that for you.”

ALICE HAS A VERY BAD FEELING. IT IS LIKE THE TIME WHEN HIM FIRST left and she was so hungry that she ate the red berries off the bush by the river and threw up.

Jewlee is saying things that Alice can’t make herself understand. She is trying hard; she knows these words are important. Father. Chance. Daughter. Jewlee says them all slowly, as if they weigh down her tongue. Alice knows they mean something important.

But she cannot understand and the trying is hurting now.

Jewlee’s eyes keep watering.

Alice knows this means Jewlee is sad. But why? What has Alice done wrong?

She has tried so hard to be Good. She showed the grown-ups the Bad Place in the woods, even went to the rocks that covered Her, even though it made Alice feel so sad. She let herself remember things she’d tried to forget. She’d learned to use forks and spoons and the toilet. She’d let them call her Alice, and had even learned to love that word, to smile inside when someone said it and meant her.

So what is left, what has she not done?

She knows about Leaving. Mommies who are soon to be DEAD have pale cheeks and shaking voices and leaking eyes. They try to tell you things you don’t understand, hug you so tightly you can’t breathe.

And then one day they’re gone and you’re alone and you wish your eyes would leak and someone would hold you again, but you’re alone now and you don’t know what you did wrong.

&

nbsp; Alice feels that sick stomach feeling coming back, the panic that makes breathing hurt. She keeps trying to figure out what she has done wrong.

“Shoes!” she says suddenly. Maybe that is it. She never wants to wear her shoes. They pinch her toes and squish her feet, but she will sleep in them if Jewlee will keep loving her. “Shoes.”

Jewlee gives Alice a sad, sorry smile. From outside comes a sound, like a car driving into the yard. “No shoes now, honey. We’re inside.”

How can she say I’ll be good, Jewlee? Always. Always. I’ll do everything you say.

“Good girl.” She whispers it as a promise, meaning it with every piece of her.

Jewlee smiles again. “Yes. You’re a very good girl, honey. That’s why all this hurts so much.”

It isn’t enough, being a good girl. That much she understands.

“No leave Alice,” she says desperately.

Jewlee looks toward the glass box that holds the outside. The window.