Chapter 7: The Second Crib

The next afternoon, Rhonda and I drove to my own house to pack a bag.

June was in an incubator on the third floor, under a blue light.

I had held her for twenty minutes that morning, skin to skin, and had not wanted to put her down.

The nurse had said, "Go home and eat something. We'll call you if she so much as sneezes."

A female deputy followed us in her cruiser. She was young and brisk, and she had asked to come.

"Standard civil assist," she said. "You collect your things, you leave, nobody argues."

The house was a grey two-story at the end of Spruce Lane. I had picked the paint myself.

My key didn't work.

"He changed the locks," Rhonda said.

"Yesterday?"

"Looks like it."

The deputy rang the bell.

The door opened, and Whitney stood there in a soft grey sweater and my slippers.

She looked at the deputy, and at me, and she went pale.

"Hallie," she said. "I'm so sorry. Neil's at his mother's. I told him not to change the locks. I told him it was your house too."

"You're staying here," I said.

"Joyce said it was easier. I didn't want to be alone, and I have nowhere. I didn't think you'd mind."

"I do mind," I said.

"I know. I'll go. I'll pack right now."

"Please don't touch anything of mine."

She stepped back, and the deputy walked in first.

My house smelled of cinnamon and someone else's perfume.

There was a half-eaten cookie on the coffee table. There was a cardigan on the back of my armchair, and a hairbrush on my bathroom sink.