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A flash of lightning lit the sky, but Hannah didn’t see it because her eyes were closed. Cricket didn’t say anything. Hannah would make them go inside. And Cricket was loving the bubbles, her buzz, the stars. She didn’t want it to end yet.
“Was that thunder?” Hannah asked, eyes still closed. No way she could have heard that over the hum of the jets. Mom ears.
“I don’t think so?” said Cricket. “Just relax.”
“I think I felt a temperature drop,” said Hannah. “There’s a storm coming.”
Cricket dropped her head on Hannah’s shoulder; Hannah sighed. Cricket stared up into the starry, velvety sky above. It did look like a cloud cover was moving in, obscuring the sky. Cricket didn’t say anything.
Mako pushed back through the sliding door.
Great. He’s back.
But then, the look on his face gave Cricket a jangle of alarm.
“What is it?” asked Cricket. Hannah opened her eyes and sat up.
“Mickey? What’s wrong?”
“Liza,” he said. He clutched a piece of paper in his hand, looked down at it in wondering despair. “She—uh. She’s gone.”
26
Hannah
The trees around them sang with insects and frogs. Fireflies blinked a languid, slow brightness in the black.
“What do youmean? Gone?”
Hannah climbed out of the tub, grabbed one of the towels on the big pile and wrapped it around herself. The air was cold on her skin; her brother looked pale. He sank onto the big couch by the fireplace.
“I mean—” he said, looking up at her. “She left this note.”
“What does it say?” Hannah moved over to sit beside him, and he handed it to her. She dried off her hands and took it. Cricket sat in the chair across from them. Hannah read it out loud.
“I’m sorry to do this.
I just need some space from you right now.
You know it’s a long time coming. Stay here this weekend. Don’t call.
I do love you.
Liza”
“Did you fight?” asked Hannah.
The handwriting looked odd—scrawling and rushed. Hannah knew that Liza had beautiful penmanship—from all the lovely cards and notes she’d sent over the years. Hannah had in fact admired it, how elegant and looping it was. But maybe when you were upset enough to leave your husband, you weren’t worried about how you formed your letters.
“No,” he said, drawing the syllable out. “She was sick with a headache. We talked a little before and after she left the table. But she said she was just going to rest so that she could be well in the morning.”
“What does she mean? A long time coming?” asked Cricket. She’d wrapped up in a towel, too. She sat shivering a little, a worried wrinkle in her brow.
“I have no idea,” Mako said, dumping his head into his hands. “I mean. No marriage is perfect, right? We’ve had our issues.”
This was news to Hannah. She and Bruce had theirissues—the things you argue about as a couple. He left his laundry on the bathroom floor instead of putting it in the basket; she dropped spent tea bags in the sink instead of putting them in the trash. She used his razor. Bruce was a workaholic. Hannah fussed over the baby too much. More recently her paranoia and snooping. But neither one of them were going to take off in the middle of the night, were they?
“What kind of issues?” She knew she sounded shrill, a little like Sophia.
