“Would you look at the size of that television? It’s like a movie screen.”

She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

“Alice,” said Elisabeth.

Alice’s legs felt wobbly. She went and sat down on the brown leather couch (expensive!) in front of the television. Something dug into her leg. She pulled out a tiny plastic toy, a figure of a murderous-looking man carrying a machine gun under one arm. She placed it carefully on the coffee table.

Elisabeth came and sat next to her. She handed her a sheet of folded paper. “Do you know who this is from?”

It was a handmade card with glitter stuck to the front and a drawing of a stick-figure woman with a turned-down mouth and a Band-Aid on her forehead. She opened it and read out loud, “Dear darling Mummy, get well soon, love from Olivia.”

“It’s from Olivia of course,” said Alice, fingering the glitter.

“And do you remember Olivia?”

“Sort of.”

She had no memory whatsoever of “Olivia,” but her existence seemed indisputable.

“And what did you tell them at the hospital?”

Alice pressed her hand to the still tender spot at the back of her head. She said, “I told them that some things were a bit hazy, but I remembered most things. They gave me a referral for a neurologist and said if I kept having any significant problems to make an appointment. They said I should expect to feel totally back to normal within a week. Anyway, I think I actually do remember bits and pieces.”

“Bits and pieces?”

The doorbell rang.

“Oh!” said Alice. “That’s beautiful! I hated that old doorbell!”

Elisabeth lifted her eyebrows. “I’ll get it.” She paused. “Unless you want to get it.”

Alice stared at her. Why shouldn’t Elisabeth answer the door? “No, that’s fine.”

Elisabeth disappeared down the hallway and Alice laid her head back against the couch and closed her eyes. She tried to imagine what it would be like when Nick dropped the children off on the following night. Her natural instinct would be to throw her arms around him like she did when he’d been away. (She had a distinct feeling that she hadn’t seen him in ages, as though he’d been away for weeks and weeks.) But what if he just stood there, without touching her back? Or what if he gently pushed her away? Or shoved her away? He would never do that. Why was she even thinking such a thing?

And “the children” would all be there. Milling about. Doing whatever kids do.

Alice whispered their names to herself.

Madison .

Tom.

Olivia.

Olivia was a pretty name.

Would she tell them? “Sorry, I know your face, I just can’t quite place you.” But she couldn’t do that. It would be terrifying for a child to hear their mother didn’t remember them. She’d have to pretend until her memory did come back, which it would, of course. Soon.

She’d have to try and talk to them in a natural voice. Not one of those jolly, fake voices people put on for children. Kids were smart. They’d see right through her. Oh heavens—what would she say to them? This felt worse than trying to think up appropriate conversation topics before going to one of Nick’s scary work parties.

She heard voices coming down the hallway.

Elisabeth came in, followed by a man pushing a trolley piled with three cardboard boxes.

“Apparently they’re glasses,” said Elisabeth. “For tonight.”

“Where do you want ’em?” grunted the man.

“Um,” said Alice. For tonight?

“I guess just here in the kitchen,” said Elisabeth. The man lifted the boxes onto the counter.

“Sign here,” he said. Elisabeth signed. He ripped off a sheet of paper, handed it to her, and looked around him briefly. “Nice house,” he said.

“Thank you!” Alice beamed.

There was a shout from down the hallway. “Alcohol delivery!”

“Alice,” said Elisabeth. “I don’t suppose you remember anything about hosting a party tonight?”

Chapter 13

Together, they flipped to the date in Alice’s diary.

“Kindergarten Cocktail Party,” read out Alice. “Seven p.m. What does that mean?”

“I’d say it means that it’s all the parents from Olivia’s class,” said Elisabeth.

“And I’m hosting it?” said Alice. “Why would I host it?”

“I believe you host a lot of these sorts of things.”

“You believe? Don’t you know? Don’t you come to all these ‘things’?”

“Well, no. This is to do with the school,” said Elisabeth. “It’s all mothers. I’m not a mother.”

Alice looked up from the diary and said, “You’re not?”

Elisabeth seemed to flinch. “No, I’m not. I haven’t had any luck in that regard. So, anyway”—she seemed desperate to get off of the subject—“what are you going to do about this party?”

But Alice didn’t care about the party. There was no way she was going to host any “kindergarten cocktail party.” She said, “So will you tell me what happened? Please? Did you try again to get pregnant after you had that miscarriage?”

Elisabeth’s eyes slid away.

Frannie’s Letter to Phil So, the village minibus was pulling out of the driveway, and all of a sudden there was a commotion. It was Mr. Mustache, do you mind, running alongside the bus, rapping his knuckles on the window, shouting, “Wait for me!”