Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

Lena saved the moment. Out of nowhere she snagged some lines from her favourite story and began reciting in her fluty little-girl voice. “ ‘Today is gone. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.’ ” She turned to her sister. “There’s more, but I can’t remember.”

Maddy sighed. “ ’every day, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.’ ”

Soothed by Dr. Seuss, we began packing the empty ornament boxes in the storage bins and carrying them out to the garage. Ready or not, another Christmas was underway.

Like all people in a deep and passionate relationship, my life was shadowed by five words that Zack and I had uttered on our wedding day without a second thought: “Till death do us part.” When Zack was seven, a drunk driver fumbling for his cigarette lighter had failed to see him crossing the street on his way to baseball practice. The drunk’s momentary distraction meant that three thousand pounds of steel hit Zack’s sinewy young body, ripping it apart and leaving him a paraplegic with a host of physical problems that worsened with age. My husband always said that he had chosen law because it was a sedentary profession, but it could also be a deadly one. Trial law was high stakes, and the hours and pressures were punishing. The average time between a lawyer’s first court appearance and his or her first heart attack was twenty years. This was not a statistic that encouraged me.

During the early months of our marriage our most serious quarrels had centred on Zack’s determination to shut me out when his body betrayed him and my determination not to be shut out. There were some compromises. I convinced him that caring for one another’s bodies could be a sensual pleasure, so we swam together and rubbed one another down and massaged each other until the knots disappeared. Zack also worked at home as much as he could, but despite his promises to cut back, his hours were long, and there were mornings when after his customary five hours of sleep, he awoke grey and drawn.

This morning was one of them, but I had long since learned not to comment. By the time the dogs and I got back from our run, Zack had showered, made the porridge and coffee, poured the juice, and placed the local paper beside my plate. I put my arms around him. “You are a scarily handsome guy,” I said. “Why don’t we have breakfast and go back to bed after Taylor leaves for school?”

“Can’t. Got to get my client ready for court. Besides, I have a feeling the phone will be ringing soon. Check out the paper.”

The picture of Abby Michaels on the front page was the one Zack had taken at the concert Saturday afternoon, but it had been cropped and blown up, so that her broad expanse of forehead and piercing eyes dominated the page. The headline was stark: “MOTHER MISSING.”

Zack sipped his coffee. “See what you think of the story.”

I read it through. “Standard journalism,” I said. “The five W’s and one H with no answers to why and how and a deliberate obfuscation of who. Do you see something sinister there?”

Zack removed his reading glasses. “Nothing sinister. On the contrary, the press are cooperating with the police. Abby Michaels reads the paper. We know that because she showed up at Luther for the concert. You’ll notice that all the references in the story are generic.”

I skimmed the story again. “The baby was handed over to ‘a student’ and is now in the custody of ‘an area family.’ ” I looked at Zack. “So you think this story is calculated to bring Abby Michaels out of hiding.”

“I do.”

“Do you think it will work?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed. “We live in hope,” he said. “If Abby comes forward, she can be hospitalized, and if they can find the right doctor and the right meds, she’ll have a second chance.”

“But you don’t think it’s going to happen.”

Zack shook his head. “After twenty-four hours, the odds aren’t great, and I’ve learned not to play long shots.”

Zack’s BlackBerry rang just as he was ladling out the porridge. I answered. It was Delia. “Can he call you back?” I said. “We’re just about to eat.”

“Nothing important,” she said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“Everyone make it through the night okay?”

“Jacob almost slept through. Noah wasn’t able to find a baby monitor, so Isobel moved that inflatable mattress the kids use for sleepovers into Jacob’s room. When Noah went in this morning, Jacob was curled up in Isobel’s arms, and they were both sound asleep.”

I glanced at the picture of Abby Michaels on the front page and felt my throat close. Wherever she was, her night must have been an agony.

Delia’s voice was insistent. “Jo, are you there?”

“Sorry, just woolgathering.”

“That’s an odd expression,” she said. “Anyway, would you mind telling Zack I’m going to work at home today?”

“I’ll pass along the message,” I said. “And, Delia, I’m glad things are going well.”

After I rang off, Zack pulled his chair up to the table. “You don’t look glad,” he said.

“It’s hard not to think about what Abby Michaels is going through,” I said.

“Somebody always loses,” Zack said, and his voice was heavy. “Should we call Taylor for breakfast?”

I looked at my watch. “Let her sleep. It’s early, and the buses will be a nightmare. I’ll drive her to school.”

“And you’re not quite ready to put on your game face.”

“That too,” I said. “By the way, Delia’s working at home today.”

“For the first time in living memory,” he said. “Well, good for her.”

“For wanting to be with Jacob?”

“Yes, and for being smart enough to establish that she stayed home with her grandson on his first day in her care.”

When we’d finished eating, Zack turned down a second cup of coffee. “I have to get a move on,” he said. “Why don’t you keep me company while I get dressed?”

As always, Zack had laid out his clothes the night before. He picked up a pair of silk briefs. “So what’s on your agenda?”

“I’m going up to the university,” I said. “I told my first-year students I’d be in my office this morning in case they had any questions about the exam. I don’t imagine I’ll have many customers, but I’ll be able to get some marking out of the way. And this afternoon I’m having tea with the Brokaws.”

Zack grimaced. “Better you than me,” he said. “Although I’m not going to be having much fun either. The sentencing decision in the road-racing case is at hand, so this morning my client and I will be in court listening to victims’ impact statements.”

I shuddered. “I can’t imagine losing someone I loved and then standing up in court and telling everybody how much that person meant to me.”

“You’re not alone. Everyone sitting in that courtroom will be wishing they were somewhere else.”

“Do the statements do any good?”

Zack shrugged. “Well, there are two schools of thought. Proponents say the statements give judges information they wouldn’t normally have and keep victims from feeling they’ve been left out of the process. Theoretically, the statements also make offenders appreciate the pain they’ve caused.”

“But you don’t believe that?”

“No. I think the statements just cause everybody grief and raise false expectations for the victims. And defence lawyers share a dirty little secret. We know that 99 per cent of offenders just don’t give a shit. They leave tire tracks on the backs of everyone who’s ever been unlucky enough to care about them, and they never look back. The other 1 per cent, and I would include my client in this small group, are already filled with guilt about what they’ve done. They don’t need to sit in court and have coals heaped upon their head. So my job this morning is to desensitize Jeremy to what he’s going to hear in court.”