No Second Chance

“She used yours,” Lenny said.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Stacy must have guessed what was up. She ran to the house. She saw what Monica had done. I don’t know how it played exactly. Maybe Monica tried to shoot her too—that could explain the bullet hole near the stairs. Or maybe Stacy just reacted. She loved me. I was lying there. She probably thought I was dead. So I don’t know, but either way Stacy came armed. And she shot Monica.”

The gate attendant announced that the flight would soon be boarding but those with special needs or One Pass Gold and Platinum members could board now.

“You said on the phone that Stacy knew Bacard?”

Lenny nodded. “She mentioned him, yeah.”

“Again I’m not sure how it played exactly. But think about it. I’m dead. Monica is dead. And Stacy is probably freaking out. Tara is crying. Stacy can’t just leave her. So she takes Tara with her. Later she realizes that she can’t raise a kid on her own. She’s too messed up. So she turns her over to Bacard and tells him to find her a good family. Or, if I want to be cynical, maybe she gives Tara over for the money. We’ll never know.”

Lenny was nodding.

“From there, well, we just follow what we already learned. Bacard decides to rake in extra money by pretending it was a kidnapping. He hires those two lunatics. Bacard would be able to get hair samples, for example. He double-crossed Stacy. He set her up to take the fall.”

I saw something cross Lenny’s face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

They called our row.

Lenny stood. “Let’s board.”

The flight was delayed. We didn’t arrive in St. Louis until past midnight local time. It was too late to do anything tonight. Lenny booked us a room at the Airport Marriott. I bought clothes at their all-night boutique. When we got to the room, I took a very long, very hot shower. We settled in and stared at the ceiling.

In the morning, I called the hospital to check on Rachel. She was still sleeping. Zia was in her room. She assured me that Rachel was doing fine. Lenny and I tried to eat the hotel’s buffet breakfast. Nothing would stay down. Our rental car was waiting for us. Lenny had gotten directions to Hanley Hills from the desk clerk.

I don’t remember what we saw on the drive. Aside from the Arch in the distance, there was nothing distinct. The United States has a strip-mall sameness about it now. It’s easy to criticize that—I often do—but maybe the appeal is that we all like what we already know. We claim to embrace change. But in the end, especially in these times, what truly draws us is the familiar.

When we reached the town limits, I felt a tingling in my legs. “What do we do here, Lenny?”

He had no answer.

“Do I just knock on the door and say, ‘Excuse me, I think that’s my daughter?’ ”

“We could call the police,” he said. “Let them handle it.”

But I didn’t know how that would play out. We were so close now. I told him to keep on driving. We made a right onto Marsh Lane. I was shaking now. Lenny tried to give me a buck-up look, but his face was pale too. The street was more modest than I’d expected. I had assumed that all of Bacard’s clients were wealthy. That was clearly not the case with this couple.

“Abe Tansmore works as a schoolteacher,” Lenny said, reading my thoughts as usual. “Sixth grade. Lorraine Tansmore works for a day-care center three days a week. They’re both thirty-nine years old. They’ve been married for seventeen years.”

Up ahead, I saw a house with a cherry-wood sign that read 26—THE TANSMORES. It was a small, one-level, what I think they called “bungalow” style. The rest of the houses on the block seemed tired. This one did not. The paint glistened like a smile. There were lots of clusters of color, of flowers and shrubs, all trimly laid out and perfectly pruned. I could see a welcome mat. A low picket fence encircled the front yard. A station wagon, a Volvo model from several years back, sat in the driveway. There was a tricycle, too, and one of those bright-hued plastic Big Wheels.

And there was a woman outside.

Lenny pulled over in front of an empty lot. I barely noticed. The woman was in the flower beds, on her knees. She was working a small digging spade. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna. Every few digs she would wipe her forehead with her sleeve.

“You say she works at a day-care center?”

“Three days a week. The daughter goes with her.”

“What do they call the daughter?”

“Natasha.”

I nodded. I don’t know why. We waited. The woman, this Lorraine, worked hard, but I could see she enjoyed it. There was a serenity about her. I opened the car window. I could hear her whistling to herself. I don’t know how many minutes passed. A neighbor walked by. Lorraine rose and greeted her. The neighbor gestured toward the garden. Lorraine smiled. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she had a great smile. The neighbor left. Lorraine waved good-bye and turned back to her garden.

The front door opened.

I saw Abe. He was a tall man, thin and wiry, slightly balding. He had a neatly trimmed beard. Lorraine stood and looked over at him. She gave him a small wave.

And then Tara ran outside.

The air around us stopped. I felt my insides shut down. Next to me, Lenny stiffened and muttered, “Oh my God.”

For the last eighteen months, I had never really believed that this moment was possible. What I had done instead was convince myself—no, trick myself—into believing that maybe, somehow, Tara was still alive and okay. But my subconscious knew it was only a self-delusion. It winked at me. It nudged me in my sleep. It whispered the obvious truth: that I would never see my daughter again.

But it was my daughter. She was alive.

I was surprised at how little Tara had changed. Oh she’d grown, of course. She was able to stand. She was even able, as I now saw, to run. But her face . . . there was no mistake. No being blinded by hope. It was Tara. It was my little girl.

With a huge smile, Tara ran with total abandon toward Lorraine. Lorraine bent low, her face lighting up in that celestial way only a mother’s can. She swept my child into her arms. Now I could hear the melodious sound of Tara’s laughter. The sound pierced my heart. Tears streamed down my face. Lenny put a hand on my arm. I could hear him sniffling. I saw the husband, this Abe, walk toward them. He was smiling too.

For several hours, I watched them in their small, perfect yard. I saw Lorraine patiently point out the flowers, explaining what each one was. I saw Abe give her a horsey ride on his back. I saw Lorraine teach her how to pat the dirt down with her hand. Another couple dropped by. They had a little girl about Tara’s age. Abe and the other father pushed the girls on the metal swing-set in the backyard. Their giggles pounded in my ears. Eventually they all went inside. Abe and Lorraine were the last to disappear. They walked through the door with their arms around each other.