“She’s obviously troubled,” said Joy. “Have a heart.” She could feel herself and Stan slipping into their old parenting roles in response to Savannah’s actions. The angrier Stan got with a child, the more likely Joy was to defend them, and the worse the transgression, the calmer Joy’s response. She was more inclined to shout about dirty laundry thrown on the floor instead of the basket than a serious-sounding telephone call from the school principal. If she hadn’t witnessed the crime herself, she wanted proof, or at least to hear her child’s version of the story first. Stan was always too ready to deliver a damning verdict before they’d heard all the evidence. She needed to talk to Savannah. She needed to talk to Troy. She believed Stan’s side of the story, but part of her still felt as if this must be some kind of dreadful mix-up only she could sort out.
“Joy, for Christ’s sake, do you understand the implications of this? If she went public with this kind of accusation? In this da
y and age?”
“Well, I’m sure she had no intention of going public,” said Joy uneasily. “And of course this is all very upsetting but—”
“But what?”
“Don’t you dare call me borderline moronic.” Joy threw the pillow away from her and stood. Her eyes fell upon Savannah’s glory chest. The boys had struggled to carry it inside that day they’d picked up her things.
She lifted the heavy hinged lid. There wasn’t much inside: a stack of hardbound journals like the one on Amy’s desk and a handful of old-style battered-looking photo albums. Nobody really did photo albums like that anymore. They got those professional-looking bound books printed.
Joy picked up the first spiral-bound album and flipped through it. It was clearly a child’s album. The photos had been stuck in crookedly, and some of them were so out of focus only a child would consider them worth keeping. The edges of the photos were peeling away from the sticky backing. She looked at a page of photos of two children sitting under a Christmas tree. It could have been a scene from her own albums: the dated summer pajamas, tousled hair, strewn wrapping paper.
“Stan,” she said quietly.
“What?”
She sat back next to him on the bed and dumped the open album on his lap.
“What?” he said again.
“Look who it is,” she said.
“It’s her,” said Stan. “Savannah. Obviously. When she was a kid.”
“Yes, but look who the boy is.” Joy slid her finger over to the child sitting next to Savannah: the big eyes, pudgy cheeks, and shock of hair.
Stan stiffened. “That’s not … it couldn’t be, why would it be?”
“It is,” said Joy. “It’s Harry Haddad.”
“But why is Savannah with Harry?” asked Stan.
“She’s Harry’s sister,” said Joy.
“I don’t remember a sister,” said Stan.
“You only met me once,” said a voice, and they looked up to see Savannah standing at the bedroom door.
Chapter 41
For just a moment the man and woman seemed to cower, their lined faces slack-soft with shock, as they looked up at Savannah from where they sat side by side on her bed, in her bedroom, except that it was clearly no longer her bed or her bedroom. This was no longer her room. No longer her home. What did she expect? That she could take a hammer to this delightful life and yet find it still magically intact? It was always meant to be temporary. Everything was always meant to be temporary.
After Troy transferred the money (she would have accepted half as much) she’d considered never coming back, abandoning her possessions, but she’d felt an insane desire to spend one last night here, to be the Savannah that Joy saw, to experience one last time her fierce gratitude when Savannah placed a meal in front of her. Food was never just food for Savannah, and it clearly wasn’t just food to Joy.
Joy recovered first, straightened her back.
“You’re Harry’s little sister,” she said. “I forgot there was a sister.”
Joy looked at her with wary, searching eyes, as if trying to see her properly, and Savannah felt her personality slip away, and she stood on the precipice of that terrible endless void.
She was nothing
no feelings
no thoughts