Chapter 10: The Notebook

"Mom," Birdie announced the next morning, in the front hall, in a voice that carried to the back of the house.

"I need to go to the bathroom with you. It's a number two emergency."

Inez looked up from the teapot.

"Sweet pea, Mommy can wait here."

"It's a big emergency."

"I'll take her," I said.

"I could take her," said Inez.

"She asked for me," I said.

I took my daughter's hand and shut us both into the half bath under the stairs, and turned the lock.

Birdie lifted the front of her unicorn pajama top.

Under it, tucked into the elastic of her pants, was a thick black notebook with a rubber band around it.

"It was in the drawer," she whispered.

"The key was in the cookie tin, under the paper thing. I know because I watched her do it."

"Birdie."

"It has my name. So it's partly mine."

I should have given it back.

I knew that.

I took it, and I rolled off the rubber band, and I read.

The first page said BIRDIE in careful capital letters.

Under it, in handwriting I had seen on forty-one birthday cards, there was a table.

It had a column of dates, a column of sentences and a column of numbers.

Mar 3. "Mommy cried in the laundry room." 1.

Mar 17. "Mommy forgot my yogurt." 1.

Apr 9. "Mommy is the ugliest mom at preschool," said to the pastor, in front of the choir. 3.

I turned the page.

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