Lisa Gardner - Love You More

“Did you see me?” my wild child squeals. “Mommy, did you see me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I hasten to assure her, finally arriving at the scene and inspecting my child for damage. She’s safe; I’ve lost twenty years off my life.

“Again!” my child demands.

Brian laughs as he straightens out her bike and helps her climb aboard. “You’re crazy,” he tells her, shaking his head.

Sophie simply beams.

By the end of the afternoon, she’s sailing around the park, training wheels nothing but a distant memory. Brian and I can no longer stroll behind her; she’s too fast for us. Instead, we climb up on a picnic table, where we can sit and watch her bike exuberant laps.

We’re holding hands again, snuggled shoulder to shoulder against the late afternoon chill. I place my head on his shoulder as Sophie goes racing by.

“Thank you,” I say.

“She’s a nut,” he answers.

“I don’t think I could’ve done that.”

“Hell, my heart’s still hammering in my chest.”

That surprises me enough to straighten and look at him. “She scared you?”

“Are you kidding? That first spill.” He shakes his head. “No one tells you how terrifying it is to be a parent. And we’re just beginning. She’s gonna want a trick bike next, you know. She’ll be leaping down stairs, standing on handlebars. I’m going to need that hair stuff for men, what’s it called, that gets the gray out?”

“Just for Men?”

“Yep. First thing when we get home, I’m ordering a case.”

I laugh. He puts his arm around my shoulders.

“She really is amazing,” he says, and all I can do is nod, because he’s exactly right. She’s Sophie and she’s the best thing that ever happened to either of us.

“I’m sorry about this weekend,” Brian says, one, two minutes later.

I nod against his shoulder, accepting his words without looking at him.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he continues. “Guess I got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay,” I say and I mean it. At this stage of the marriage, I still accept his apologies. At this stage of the marriage, I still believe in him.

“I’m thinking of joining a gym,” Brian says shortly. “Got enough time on my hands, figured I could spend it getting into shape.”

“You’re in good shape.”

“Yeah. But I want to get back to weight lifting. Haven’t done that since my college days. And let’s face it.” Sophie zooms past our picnic table. “At the rate she’s going, I’m going to need all my strength to keep up.”

“Whatever you want to do,” I tell him.

“Hey, Tessa.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

In my dream/memory, I smile, curve my arms around my husband’s waist. “Hey, Brian. Love you, too.”

I woke up hard, a noise jerking me from the golden past to the sterile present. That afternoon, the solid feel of my husband’s arms, the bright sound of Sophie’s exuberant laugh. The lull before the storm, except I hadn’t known it then.

That afternoon Brian and I had returned home with an exhausted child. We’d put her to bed early. Then, after a leisurely dinner, we’d made love and I’d fallen asleep thinking I was the luckiest woman in the world.

It would be a year before I told my husband I loved him again. Then he would be dying on our freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, his chest plugged with the bullets from my gun, his face a sad mirror of my own regrets.

In the seconds before I ran through the house, tore apart the house, searching frantically for the daughter I hadn’t found yet.

More noises penetrated my consciousness. Distant beeps, rapid footsteps, someone yelling for something. Hospital noises. Loud, insistent. Urgent. It returned me once and for all to the present. No husband. No Sophie. Just me, alone in a hospital room, wiping tears from the unbruised half of my face.

For the first time, I realized there was something in my left hand. I drew my hand up so I could inspect the find with my one good eye.

It was a button, I realized. Half an inch in diameter. Navy blue frayed thread still looped through double-holes. Could be from pants, or a blouse, maybe even a state police uniform.

But it wasn’t. I recognized the button the instant I saw it. I could even picture the second button that should be sewn right beside it, twin plastic rounds forming blue eyes on my daughter’s favorite doll.

And for a second, I was so angry, so filled with rage my knuckles turned white and I couldn’t speak.

I hurtled the button across the room, where it smacked against the privacy curtain. Then, just as quickly, I was sorry I’d done such an impulsive thing. I wanted it back. Needed it back. It was a tie to Sophie. One of my only links to her.

I tried to sit up, intent on retrieval. Immediately, the back of my skull roared to life, my cheek throbbing in a fresh spike of pain. The room wavered, tilted sickeningly, and I could feel my heart rate skyrocket from sudden, excruciating distress.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I forced myself to lie down, take a steadying breath. Eventually, the ceiling righted and I could swallow without gagging. I lay perfectly still, acutely aware of my own vulnerability, the weakness I couldn’t afford.

This was why men beat women, of course. To prove their physical superiority. To demonstrate they were bigger and stronger than us, and that no amount of special training would ever change that. They were the dominant gender. We might as well submit now and surrender.

Except I didn’t need to be smashed over the head with a beer bottle to understand my physical limitations. I didn’t need a hairy-knuckled fist exploding in my face to realize that some battles couldn’t be won. I’d already spent my whole life coming to terms with the fact that I was smaller, more vulnerable than others. I’d still survived the Academy. I’d still spent four years patrolling as one of the state’s few female troopers.

And I’d still given birth, all alone, to an amazing daughter.

Like hell I would submit. Like hell I would surrender.

I was crying again. The tears shamed me. I wiped my good cheek again, careful not to touch my black eye.

Forget the fucking duty belt, our instructors had told us the first day of Academy training. Two most valuable tools an officer has are her head and her mouth. Think strategically, speak carefully, and you can control any person, any situation.

That’s what I needed. To regain control, because the Boston cops would be returning soon, and then I was probably doomed.

Think strategically. Okay. Time.

Four, five o’clock?

It would be dark soon. Night falling.

Sophie…

My hands trembled. I supressed the weakness.

Think strategically.

Stuck in a hospital. Can’t run, can’t hide, can’t attack, can’t defend. So I had to get one step ahead. Think strategically. Speak carefully.

Sacrifice judiciously.

I remembered Brian again, the beauty of that fall afternoon, and the way you can both love a man and curse him all in one breath. I knew what I had to do.

I found the bedside phone, and I dialed.

“Ken Cargill, please. This is his client, Tessa Leoni. Please tell him I need to make arrangements for my husband’s body. Immediately.”

Trooper Shane Lyons agreed to meet Bobby and D.D. at the BPD headquarters in Roxbury after six. That gave them enough time to stop for dinner. Bobby ordered up a giant hoagie, double everything. D.D. nursed a bowl of chicken noodle soup, liberally topped with crumbled saltines.

Sub shop had a TV blaring in the corner, the five o’clock news leading with the shooting in Allston-Brighton and the disappearance of Sophie Marissa Leoni. The girl’s face filled the screen, bright blue eyes, huge, gap-tooth smile. Beneath her photo ran the hotline number, as well as an offer of a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for any tips that might lead to her recovery.