by Cate Holahan
She didn’t grasp that I couldn’t come with her, or that I’d packed all her things in a massive suitcase because she wouldn’t be coming back—at least, not for fifteen years.
I’d tried explaining, but my near-four-year-old still possessed a toddler’s conviction that she could will whatever she wanted. After all, she’d wished for me to come home—even after her father had told her I was dead—and I’d appeared. So far, she hadn’t asked about her daddy.
I guided Sophia onto the rubber strip of a moving walkway. Skipping burned a ton of energy and our gate was at the far end of the terminal. When she hopped aboard, another wave of delight washed over her face. “It’s moving, Mommy!”
I winced at the name. Just three weeks had passed since Investigator Monahan had filed his report recommending that the policy pay out to my parents. My folks had yet to receive a dime. The insurer was waiting for the official police report on my death to mail the check. Monahan had assured me that the case was filed as a homicide, on the recommendation of the NYPD’s financial crimes task force, but I still feared that ISI would hire another detective to refute the finding. For all I knew, someone was watching me right now, looking for similarities between the blond woman escorting Sophia to the airport and photographs of my former self.
“Soph, remember when you get on the plane, there will be a nice woman to help you. She’s called a flight attendant. I’ll introduce you when we get to the gate. She will let you watch movies and wait with you at the terminal until Grandpa and Grandma come to get you.”
Sophia’s eyes grew wide. I silently prayed that she could keep the tears at bay. I couldn’t break down here.
“But you’re coming?” Her voice sounded so small.
I took her little hand in mine and swung it to keep the mood light. I needed to pretend that saying good-bye to my child, after just getting her back, wasn’t shredding my insides. “I have to work for a little bit so you guys have what you need until a big check comes in,” I said. “Then Grandma and Grandpa will send for me.”
Sophia’s bottom lip trembled.
“Here’s an idea. Do you want to learn how to say Grandpa and Grandma in Portuguese?”
The conveyor belt deposited us back on the tile floor. Blue carpet and rows of black chairs filled each side of the room. Just beyond them, a wall of iron and glass gazed out onto the runway. The blue tail of Sophia’s plane was just visible.
My heart lodged in my throat. I cleared it as I marched my kid toward her departure gate.
“It’s vovô and vovó,” I said. “Vo-voh is Grandpa. And Vo-vah is Grandma. But want to know something funny? They’re spelled the same. They just have a different strange symbol above the vowel. You’re going to learn all about those.”
Sophia’s nose wrinkled. She didn’t spell in English yet, let alone Portuguese. My words were pointless. I was talking to keep from thinking, to keep from feeling. “Vovô and vovó,” I repeated. “Grandpa and Grandma. You try.”
“Vo.” Her voice lacked any of her prior excitement.
“Vo-vah. Grandma. Try again.”
“I want you to come.” Tears shone in her brown eyes. I needed to keep it together.
I crouched to her level and hugged her little body tight to my chest. “I will. I promise. So soon.” I kissed her forehead. “I love you so much. It won’t be like last time. I’ll be there really soon.”
Could I keep that promise? In truth, I had no idea how long the policy would take to pay out or how difficult it would be to arrange my entry into Brazil. What I did know was that my daughter would be safe, loved, and thanks to me sending a few hundred U.S. dollars a month, financially secure. Right now, that would have to be enough.
By the time we reached the gate, boarding had started. The line entering the plane sent a jolt of panic through my body and started my eyes watering. I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and, as promised, introduced Sophia to the flight attendant: a friendly woman with bright eyes and hair swept back into a neat ponytail behind a blue pillbox hat.
I dropped to my knees and, again, hugged Sophia as though I wished to squeeze all the air from her body, trying to etch every detail of my child into my memory. I needed to remember this: her strawberry-scented hair, her dark, curious eyes, her fair skin, the shape of her narrow shoulders and thin arms. My Sophia.
Eventually, the stewardess tapped my shoulder. Sophia had a flight to catch.
My little girl was brave. She only cried a little. All the newness surrounding her was sufficient distraction.
I stood at the gate until the plane backed onto the runway. Then I hurried back to the center of the terminal where I could better view the flights taking off. From behind the window, I could still hear the rush of jet engines. The sound of escape.
I sobbed as I watched flight after flight arch into a rose-colored sky. My daughter sat on one of those planes, destined for a better life—a life she would have because of me, in spite of her father.
A germ of pride sprouted in my belly and swelled to my chest. My husband had underestimated me. I had beaten him while officially dead. If I could do that, I could do anything.
I was definitely worth more alive.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my daughters: Elleanor and Olivia. Being their mother has been the greatest gift and source of inspiration. Every day, they make me strive to be a better, stronger person worthy of calling herself their mother.
Thanks also to my husband, Brett, who bears absolutely NO resemblance to Tom Bacon. I am blessed to be married to such a hardworking, generous, witty man. Also, thanks to my dog Westley who lets me pet him endlessly while writing the more tense scenes.
Much gratitude to my amazing agent, Paula Munier, who in addition to selling my work lets me bounce ideas off of her, suggests changes, and makes sure I don’t embarrass myself by sending out anything before it’s ready. She’s a lifesaver.
Thanks very much to the wonderful team at Crooked Lane: Matt, Dan, Nike, Sarah, and Heather. A writer couldn’t want for a more dedicated, thoughtful group. Thanks also to Dana, Julia, Amanda, and Meryl for all the marketing support.
I am very fortunate to have a family that not only reads my work but shouts about it from the rooftops: Mom, Dad, Tara, and James. Thank you. I am incredibly blessed to have such great, supportive siblings. My sister is a force. Thanks also to my grandmothers, Madaline Holahan and Gloria Fidee. Both of you are such an inspiration as women, and your support has helped make me the person I am today. Thanks to my late grandfather, James Holahan, who inspired me to write in the first place. I think you would have been proud of this one.
Thanks to Denize, who helped me with the Portuguese language and Brazil research in the book and is a great sounding board.
Many, many, many thank-yous to all the wonderful friends and extended family members that have supported and shared my books: Linda, Erika, Harry, Saundra, Gabby, Madeline, Elaine, Paul, Julie, Megan, Cassidy, Philip, Oona, Sharon, Philip G., Nino, Tamiko, Soroya, Garth, Cheryl, Margot, Shana, Karin, Lisa, Jen, Galit, Gia, Shelley, Mina, Karly, Nadine, Lauren, Dara, Linda K., Shuni, Ken, Tom, Paul M., Marisa, Zakiya, Dennis, Fabrizio, Stacy, Dyandra, Liz, Jessica, Signian, Janice, Cecilia, Fran, Andrew, Junior, Latin, Kim, George, Missy, Nicole, Chris, Jamie, Margie, Elizabeth. Your support means the world.
Last, but always first, thanks to God:
“In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.”
—David Foster Wallace, “This Is Water”
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