city. If only . . .” Rizzoli stopped.
Is there any phrase more useless than “if only”?
“I’m sorry,” said Rizzoli.
Maura breathed deeply and sat up straight, indicating she was not in need of hand-holding. That she was capable of dealing with this. She closed the folder and slid it back to Rizzoli. “Thank you, Jane.”
“No, you keep it. That photocopy’s meant for you.”
They both stood up. Rizzoli reached into her pocket and laid a business card on the table. “You might want this, too. He said you could call him with any questions.”
Maura looked down at the name on the card: RICHARD D. BALLARD, DETECTIVE. NEWTON POLICE DEPARTMENT.
“He’s the one you should talk to,” said Rizzoli.
They walked together to the front door, Maura still in control of her emotions, still playing the proper hostess. She stood on the porch long enough to give a good-bye wave, then she shut the door and went into the living room. Stood there, listening as Rizzoli’s car drove away, leaving only the quiet of a suburban street. All alone, she thought. Once again I’m all alone.
She went into the living room. From the bookshelf, she pulled down an old photo album. She had not looked at its pages in years, not since her father’s death, when she’d cleaned his house a few weeks after the funeral. She had found the album on his nightstand, and had imagined him sitting in bed on the last night of his life, alone in that big house, gazing at the photos of his young family. The last images he would have seen, before turning off the light, would have been happy faces.
She opened the album and gazed at those faces now. The pages were brittle, some of the photos nearly forty years old. She lingered over the first one of her mother, beaming at the camera, a dark-haired infant in her arms. Behind them was a house that Maura did not remember, with Victorian trim and bow windows. Underneath the photo, her mother, Ginny, had written in her characteristically neat hand:
Bringing Maura home.
There were no pictures taken in the hospital, none of her mother in pregnancy. Just this sudden, sharp image of Ginny smiling in the sunshine, holding her instant baby. She thought of another dark-haired baby, held in another mother’s arms. Perhaps, on that very same day, a proud father in another town had snapped off a photo of his new daughter. A girl named Anna.
Maura turned the pages. Saw herself grow from a toddler to a kindergartener. Here on a brand-new bicycle, steadied by her father’s hand. There at her first piano recital, dark hair gathered back with a green bow, her hands poised on the keys.
She turned to the last page. Christmas. Maura, about seven years old, standing flanked by her mother and father, their arms intertwined in a loving weave. Behind them was a decorated tree, sparkling with tinsel. Everyone smiling. A perfect moment in time, thought Maura. But they never last; they arrive and then they vanish, and we can’t bring them back; we can only make new ones.
She’d reached the end of the album. There were others, of course, at least four more volumes in the history of Maura, every event recorded and catalogued by her parents. But this was the book her father had chosen to keep beside his bed, with the photos of his daughter as an infant, of himself and Ginny as energetic parents, before the gray had crept into their hair. Before grief, and Ginny’s death, had touched their lives.
She gazed down at her parents’ faces and thought: How lucky I am that you chose me. I miss you. I miss you both so much. She closed the album and stared through tears at the leather cover.
If only you were here. If only you could tell me who I really am.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the business card that Rizzoli had left on the table. On the front was printed Rick Ballard’s work number at the Newton PD. She flipped over the card and saw he’d written his home number as well, with the words: “Call me anytime. Day
Is there any phrase more useless than “if only”?
“I’m sorry,” said Rizzoli.
Maura breathed deeply and sat up straight, indicating she was not in need of hand-holding. That she was capable of dealing with this. She closed the folder and slid it back to Rizzoli. “Thank you, Jane.”
“No, you keep it. That photocopy’s meant for you.”
They both stood up. Rizzoli reached into her pocket and laid a business card on the table. “You might want this, too. He said you could call him with any questions.”
Maura looked down at the name on the card: RICHARD D. BALLARD, DETECTIVE. NEWTON POLICE DEPARTMENT.
“He’s the one you should talk to,” said Rizzoli.
They walked together to the front door, Maura still in control of her emotions, still playing the proper hostess. She stood on the porch long enough to give a good-bye wave, then she shut the door and went into the living room. Stood there, listening as Rizzoli’s car drove away, leaving only the quiet of a suburban street. All alone, she thought. Once again I’m all alone.
She went into the living room. From the bookshelf, she pulled down an old photo album. She had not looked at its pages in years, not since her father’s death, when she’d cleaned his house a few weeks after the funeral. She had found the album on his nightstand, and had imagined him sitting in bed on the last night of his life, alone in that big house, gazing at the photos of his young family. The last images he would have seen, before turning off the light, would have been happy faces.
She opened the album and gazed at those faces now. The pages were brittle, some of the photos nearly forty years old. She lingered over the first one of her mother, beaming at the camera, a dark-haired infant in her arms. Behind them was a house that Maura did not remember, with Victorian trim and bow windows. Underneath the photo, her mother, Ginny, had written in her characteristically neat hand:
Bringing Maura home.
There were no pictures taken in the hospital, none of her mother in pregnancy. Just this sudden, sharp image of Ginny smiling in the sunshine, holding her instant baby. She thought of another dark-haired baby, held in another mother’s arms. Perhaps, on that very same day, a proud father in another town had snapped off a photo of his new daughter. A girl named Anna.
Maura turned the pages. Saw herself grow from a toddler to a kindergartener. Here on a brand-new bicycle, steadied by her father’s hand. There at her first piano recital, dark hair gathered back with a green bow, her hands poised on the keys.
She turned to the last page. Christmas. Maura, about seven years old, standing flanked by her mother and father, their arms intertwined in a loving weave. Behind them was a decorated tree, sparkling with tinsel. Everyone smiling. A perfect moment in time, thought Maura. But they never last; they arrive and then they vanish, and we can’t bring them back; we can only make new ones.
She’d reached the end of the album. There were others, of course, at least four more volumes in the history of Maura, every event recorded and catalogued by her parents. But this was the book her father had chosen to keep beside his bed, with the photos of his daughter as an infant, of himself and Ginny as energetic parents, before the gray had crept into their hair. Before grief, and Ginny’s death, had touched their lives.
She gazed down at her parents’ faces and thought: How lucky I am that you chose me. I miss you. I miss you both so much. She closed the album and stared through tears at the leather cover.
If only you were here. If only you could tell me who I really am.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the business card that Rizzoli had left on the table. On the front was printed Rick Ballard’s work number at the Newton PD. She flipped over the card and saw he’d written his home number as well, with the words: “Call me anytime. Day
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