Dickie says it’s my fault. He says I caused the miscarriage by changing the oil on his car. He whispered it to me, as I lay here in my hospital bed.
“You did this, you stupid bitch. You don’t deserve to be a mother.”
Later, I asked the doctor if changing the oil on Dickie’s car caused the miscarriage.
He frowned. “Where did you get that idea?”
“From my husband,” I said in a low voice, unable to meet his eyes.
And he gave me a long look, full of sympathy. And suddenly I wanted to tell him everything, about the way Dickie screams at me, and finds flaws in everything I cook and the way I keep the house. In the way I look and talk and everything I do. The way he took away my shoes.
But I didn’t because I’m so ashamed. Ashamed and stupid. And this is my punishment. For thinking I deserve a husband who looks like Paul Newman. For thinking I deserve a house full of babies. For thinking I deserve anything at all.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kiersten
Pink and orange light streaked the early-morning sky as Kiersten laced up her sneakers, then slipped through the side door and into the garage, where she grabbed a basketball.
She’d had a rough night. When she finally drifted off to sleep around 2:00 a.m., Dottie’s husband plagued her dreams, appearing as a violent, faceless giant who pelted her with shoes. She shook her head, trying to dispel the strands of nightmare that still clung to her consciousness.
The crisp October air nipped her nose and fingers as she paced off the distance from the hoop mounted on a steel pole on the side of the driveway. She faced the basket, lined up her shot, then sent the ball flying through the air.
The net swished as the ball dropped through. She sprang forward to retrieve it before it bounced across the driveway.
She didn’t want to wake her neighbors at 6:00 a.m. with the thunk, thunk, thunk of a basketball hitting the asphalt. But she needed to think, and she did that best while shooting free throws.
Growing up, she’d done this in the partially heated Quonset where her dad fixed machinery while she and her four siblings spent the long Minnesota winters playing H-O-R-S-E and pickup basketball.
She’d found peace in the repetitive process of shooting free throws, standing at the line her dad painted on the concrete floor, aiming for the hoop he’d attached to the corrugated metal wall. It provided an outlet for the slings and arrows of teenage life, a bad grade, a breakup, an argument with a friend.
And this morning she needed the balm of basketball again.
The diary entries last night disturbed her. The desire to help Dottie, and the futility of doing so, created a knot in her stomach.
It was like reading a history book and wanting to shout at Abe Lincoln to skip that performance at Ford’s Theatre. She wanted to do the same with Dottie, to reach into the past and warn her, to tell her to leave immediately, but space and time made such advice impossible.
She didn’t know even who Dottiewas, where she lived now, or whether or not she still lived at all. Maybe she’d died peacefully in her sleep after a long and happy life. Or maybe she was alive and well, an active senior taking her grandkids for ice cream.
But Kiersten couldn’t shake the feeling that Dottie may have had a different fate.
She gripped the basketball and tried to rid her mind of these disturbing thoughts, took aim, and sent the ball through the hoop again.
“That’s a beautiful shot you’ve got there.”
She whirled around. An older man who looked like Morgan Freeman smiled at her from the end of her driveway. Sweat stained the front of his sweatshirt as he ran a hand over short-cropped hair streaked with gray.
“Thanks,” she said, walking to the end of the driveway where he stood.
“Reggie Spade. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Hope I didn’t wake you up,” she said, shaking the hand he extended.
“Oh, I’ve been up for hours.” He dismissed this concern with a wave of his hand. “You probably have too. I’ve seen all those boys climbing out of your car. You’ve got a whole platoon. You’rebusy.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Too busy to exercise, unfortunately. I used to be a decent ball player, back in the day. Now I’m just a mom who shoots free throws in the driveway when she needs to think.” She gestured at his sweat-streaked shirt. “It looks like you’ve already gone for a run.”
His eyes narrowed as he gave her an appraising look. “You could run, too, you know. We’re just a short hop from the bike trail. Nothing better than a jog along the Potomac to start your day.”
