Chapter 5
Ryan didn't open it. He held the cream envelope between his thumb and forefinger like it might leave a mark, the red SIX DAYS AGO stamp facing me. The postmark was smudged underneath but the blue postage square was clean at the corner. His other hand was still loose at his side, not fisted anymore, which was worse.
Maya made that thin, tired whimper behind me and her knuckles tightened on the edge of the little wooden stool. The polish on her palms had started to dry to a tacky shine. I could smell it now, that sharp chemical smell from the tin I'd left on the low shelf while I was conditioning my own shoes last Tuesday.
"You hid this," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was low and even, the way it got when he was trying not to be heard outside the bedroom.
I breathed once through my nose. I had practiced what I'd say if he found it in the mail pile, or in my drawer. I hadn't practiced this, with Maya's hands black and his eyes on me in the hallway where we both got dressed every morning.
"I did," I said. "Six days ago. It came while you were in Memphis."
His jaw moved. He looked down at the return address again. I watched him read it a second time. That was when I realized he wasn't reading it for the first time.
"You didn't tell me," he said.
"I told myself I wanted to check it first," I said. "Before I brought it to you. Before we had to do something about it."
That was as close to the truth as I could get without dressing it up. I had slid it behind the shoe boxes on the top built-in, behind my winter boots where Maya never went, or where I thought she never went. I'd told myself verification was responsible. That we didn't need to blow up our week, Maya's routine, the foundation dinner on Friday, over something that might be a mistake.
Ryan stared at the envelope. The marble under our socks was cold.
"I know that name," he said finally. He didn't look at me when he said it. "The sender."
My stomach dropped, but I didn't move.
"Before you," he said, and then paused and corrected himself. "Before we were married. Right before we were engaged, actually. It was brief. It ended. I didn't —" He stopped, swallowed. "I didn't know she was pregnant. If she was. I didn't know anything after we stopped talking."
He said it plainly, not as an excuse. I felt my own breath catch and I had to work to keep my face still. Maya chose that moment to cry out louder, a real cry now, tired and frustrated, and she lifted her black hands toward me.
The sound broke whatever hold the envelope had on both of us. Ryan stepped back half a step. I turned and bent down to her.
"Hey, baby. I got you," I whispered, and picked her up. She was heavier than she looked in that white dress, warm against my chest. She immediately smeared a faint black half-moon on the shoulder of my own white sheath dress and I didn't care.
Her hands were sticky. She rubbed her cheek and I gently caught her wrist.
"Let's clean these hands, okay?" I said, mostly to her, mostly to give us a reason to move.
I carried her the three steps into the primary bathroom, Ryan following without being asked. The marble continued in there, same white with faint gray veining, same warm light from above the mirrors. I set Maya on the long counter next to the sink, my hand at her back so she wouldn't slip. She clutched the edge of the counter now, looking at her own palms like she didn't understand them.
I pulled a clean white washcloth from the stacked set by the soaking tub, ran it under warm water, wrung it out. When I took her right hand first, she whimpered but let me.
The black didn't wash off. It transferred. With the first wipe, a stark, oily stain bloomed across the white terry cloth, the shape of her tiny fingers and palm. The cloth went gray-black in an instant. I turned it to a clean patch and wiped again. More polish lifted, but a faint gray still clung to her creases and under her nails.
"Hold still, love," I murmured. I was breathing through my mouth now to keep steady.
Ryan stood in the doorway, envelope still in his hand, watching the cloth. He didn't say anything while I worked. I wiped her left hand, same result, same dark print left behind on the white fabric. When I was done, I held up the cloth slightly so he could see it. It was ruined.
"It's not coming off all the way," I said quietly. Not just about her hands.
He nodded once. His shoulders had dropped.
Maya's crying had softened to hitched breaths. I kept my hand on her back, rubbing small circles. Her hands were cleaner but still faintly gray, the polish locked into the lines of her skin. She leaned her head against my side.
Ryan looked at the cloth, then at me, then at the envelope.
"Do you think it's real?" I asked.
He considered it longer than I wanted him to. He turned the envelope over once, not opening it.
"I think it's plausible," he said. "I think we have to act like it's real until we know."
I felt a small, awful relief that he didn't lie about it, that he didn't say it was impossible. It would have been easier if he'd said that, and it would have been a lie I'd have to pretend to believe.
He didn't open it. He set it down on the marble island in the center of the closet hallway, face up, the red stamp visible from the bathroom. A clear invitation.
May you like
"Together," he said. "After we get her down for a minute. We open it together."
I nodded, holding Maya on the counter, the stained white cloth balled in my other hand. Her breath was evening out. The envelope sat between us, closed, waiting.
