Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [109]
He missed a step but kept moving. “I'm going into my house. You better run along.”
“Do ya hafta poop?”
He was startled into laughter by that. “No.”
“You wouldn't tell me anyway.”
“I definitely would not. I need to get ready to go somewhere. It was nice to meet you, though.” He didn't slow down.
She fell into step beside him, talking animatedly about some girlfriend named Moolan who'd cut off all her hair and played with knives.
“They have school counselors for that kind of behavior.”
Alison giggled and kept talking.
Joe climbed the porch steps and opened his door. “Well, Alison, this is where—”
She darted past him and went inside.
“Alison,” he said in a stern voice. “You need to leave now. It's inappropriate to—”
“Your house smells kinda funny.” She sat on the sofa and bounced. “Who's the lady in all the pitchers?”
He turned his back on her for a second; when he looked again she was at the windowsill, pawing through the pictures.
“Put those down,” he said more sharply than was necessary.
Frowning, she put it down. “I don't like to share my stuff, either.” She glanced at the row of photographs. There were three of them along the living-room window and two on the mantel. Even a child recognized an obsession when she saw one.
“The woman in the pictures is my wife. Diana.” It still hurt to say her name aloud. He hadn't learned yet to be casual about her.
“She's pretty.”
He gazed at a small framed montage of shots on the table nearest him. Gina had taken those pictures at a New Year's Eve party. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. It was 4:15 now. Getting late. “Don't you have someplace to be?”
“Yeah.” She sighed dramatically. “I gotta go give Marybeth my Barbie. Mine.”
“Why?”
“I broke the head off hers. Grandpa says I hafta 'pologize and give her my doll. It's 'posed to make me feel better.”
He squatted down to be eye level with her. “Well, Ali Gator, I guess we have something in common, after all. I . . . broke something very special, too, and now I have to go apologize.”
She sighed dejectedly. “Too bad.”
He put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “So, I really need to get going.”
“Okay, Joe.” She walked over to the door and opened it, then looked back at him. “Do you think Marybeth will play with me again after I 'pologize?”
“I hope so,” he said.
“Bye, Joe.”
“See ya later, Ali Gator.”
That made her giggle, and then she was gone.
Joe stood there a minute, staring at the closed door. Finally, he turned and headed down the hallway. For the next hour, as he shaved and showered and dressed in his cleanest worn clothes, he tried to string together the sentences he would need. He tried pretty words—Diana's death ruined something inside me; stark words—I fucked up; painful words—I couldn't stand watching her die.
But none of them were the whole of it, none of them expressed the truth of his emotions.
He still hadn't figured out what he would say, when he turned onto their road or, a few minutes later, when he came to their mailbox.
Dr. and Mrs. Henry Roloff.
Joe couldn't help touching it, letting his fingertips trace along the raised gold lettering on the side of the mailbox. There had been a mailbox in Bainbridge like this one; that one read: Dr. and Mrs. Joe Wyatt.
A lifetime ago.
He stared at his former in-laws' house. It looked exactly as it had on another June day, so long ago, when Joe and Di had gotten married in the backyard, surrounded by family and friends.
He almost gave in to panic, almost turned away.
But running away didn't help. He'd tried that route, and it had brought him back here, to this house, to these people whom he'd once loved so keenly, to say—
I'm sorry.
Just that.
He walked up the intricately patterned brick path, toward the white-pillared house that Mrs. Roloff had designed to look like Tara. There were roses and sculpted hedges on both sides of him, their scents a cloying sweetness. On either side of the front door stood a cast-iron lion.
Joe didn't let himself pause or think. He reached out and rang the bell.
A few moments later, the door opened. Henry