“Marcus doesn’t have to know. He’s away this weekend.”

“You would go to a prison without telling him?”

“He went to a lawyer without telling me.” Christine shrugged. The more she thought about the idea, the less crazy it seemed.

“But you’re pregnant.”

“By whom?” Christine leaned over the table, newly urgent. “I just saw my baby’s heartbeat and I want to know who his father is. I want to know if it’s Zachary Jeffcoat and I want to know if I can save my marriage. Why can’t I investigate like that other couple did, the one Gary told us about?”

“But going to a prison? You’re a teacher.”

“Then think of it as a field trip. With really bad clothes.”

Lauren didn’t laugh. Her mouth made a tight little line, turning down so comically she looked like a sad-face emoticon. “You can’t go alone.”

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Then don’t make me,” Christine said, with a wink.

Chapter Fifteen

“Mom, I’m home,” Christine sang out, as soon as she entered the living room, because her parents would be in the kitchen and wouldn’t hear her come in. They still left their front door unlocked, which drove her crazy. They still lived in Middletown where she grew up, and though it was safe, she felt lately that they were so vulnerable, protected only by an aging Chihuahua, Ralph Mouth. Christine found herself worrying about them, though her anxiety probably had something to do with her father’s Alzheimer’s. Everything seemed so precarious lately, so fragile. She closed the door and twisted the deadbolt, locking out all harm.

“In the kitchen!” her mother called out, unnecessarily since it was the only room in the house they ever used, from as far back as Christine could remember, just the three of them huddled around a Formica table in the sunny kitchen she always thought was cozy. She didn’t realize that it was cramped, or indeed how small the house was—a white clapboard with two bedrooms, a “sewing” room, and one bath on the second floor—until middle school, when she visited her friends’ houses. They had living rooms and family rooms, as well as a kitchen, but Christine didn’t see the point because in the Murray house, the kitchen was the family room and the living room.

“Hey, guys!” Christine entered the kitchen, dumped her purse, tote bag, keys, and phone next to the toaster oven, then went to her mother, who rose from her seat next to Christine’s father, lifting her arms for a hug.

“Here’s my girl, how are you feeling, honey?” Her mother gave her a big hug, then let her go, smiling at her. The former Georgina Maldonado, she was cute enough to be Homecoming Queen at Windsor High in her native Providence, R.I. They’d called her Gidget because she could have passed for the actress Sally Field, with her big, friendly smile, wide-set, warm brown eyes, and bouncy, dark brown hair, typically gathered into a girlish ponytail, even now.

“I feel good, okay, Mom. How are you?”

“We’re good, good.” Her mother had turned sixty-five last week but had the energy of a much younger woman, and her smile was dazzling. She stayed trim by walking on her treadmill in the basement, but silvery-gray strands sprouted at her forehead, a sign of recent stress. It broke Christine’s heart that just when her parents retired, her father had fallen ill and her mother had become his caregiver.

“Will you please lock the front door, from now on?”

“Nah, pssh.” Her mother waved her into the chair. “Sit down, get off your feet. You’re always running around.”

“Mom, guess what, I’m finished with school.”

“Oh my, already?” Her mother pushed bangs from her eyes, surprised. “You okay to be leaving teaching? Or are you sad?”

“I’m okay.”

“I bet, I can’t wait for the baby.”

“Me, neither.” Christine went around the side of the table to greet her father, though she wasn’t sure he knew her. Sometimes he remembered her name, but she wasn’t sure he knew she was his only child. He sat in his place next to her mother, behind a folded newspaper that he didn’t read and a flowery paper plate that held a grilled cheese sandwich, cut into small squares. There was a plastic fork in his hand, though her mother had started feeding him to save time. She still had him hold the fork, giving him the dignity that his awful disease was determined to strip him of.

“Paul, Christine is here.” Her mother leaned over, smiling in his face to get his attention. “Christine’s here to say hi to you. Look, it’s Christine.”

“Hi, Dad, it’s Christine.” Christine leaned close to her father, so close she could smell his breath. She used to think it was infantilizing to get right in his face, but they had learned it was finally necessary. She and her mother had attended a seminar at the hospital, as part of her support group for caregivers, where they had been taught the basics by an instructor who had not only a degree in social work but was taking care of her husband at home.

Now, don’t ask factual questions like, “Did you eat yet?” Or, “Did you go to the doctor?” They don’t remember the answer, and it could agitate them. Go with questions there’s no right or wrong answer to. Something that doesn’t elicit a fact. Try, “How are you feeling?” “Are you having a fun day?” “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Hi, Dad,” Christine said, smiling. “It’s Christine, your daughter. How are you feeling? Are you having a fun day?”

“What?” her father said, his hooded brown eyes shifting upward, to her. His gaze was unfocused, and Christine wasn’t sure he recognized her. He was only sixty-five, but the illness had aged him mercilessly, so that his forehead was more deeply lined and the folds from his aquiline nose to his fine lips more pronounced. The shape of his face was long, but his cheeks looked hollow. His bristled hair was cut close in a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, which her mother said would keep him cooler in summer but was really easier to help her shampoo him, in the shower.

“Dad, it’s Christine, your daughter. Great to see you, Dad. I love you.”

“Christine?” His lips curved into a smile. His lips were dry. “Christine.”

“Right, Dad!” Christine leaned over, heartened, and kissed him on the cheek, which was slightly grizzly. He’d had a five o’clock shadow in his younger days and still did, though his beard came in gray, and her mother didn’t bother shaving him again until the next morning.