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his love and I will hold her down to take it all because then there will be none for me.
    I cannot save myself, and I do not want to save her.

32

    THE ALICE BEFORE ME, HER PARENTS were named Bob and Megan. They cried so much at her funeral, at her coming home, that Ray says it's a wonder they lived long enough to ever see her come home at all.
    These are the kind of stories Ray tells.
    His stories are always true, which doesn't make them stories at all.

33

    IN THE MORNING, RAY MAKES ME GET up when he does, puts me in the shower and hums as he lathers soap and rubs his hands across me.
    I sit naked and cold on the bed while he opens the safe he keeps in his room, all his paychecks cashed and stored in a fireproof, destruction-proof box with a combination only he knows. He pays for everything in cash, no checks or credit cards like his mother always used, spending money she didn't have and then blaming him when everything got taken away.
    He counts the money once, twice, numbers falling from his lips like a song, and he's humming again when he's done.
    "We'll be able to go somewhere nice," he says. "Maybe someplace with a pool. I'll watch Annabel swim. A little blue suit with yellow trim for her, and you'll dry her off with a towel, then wrap her up and bring her to me."
    I will do that, will unroll her from the towel and make it so she's wearing only her shriveled, clammy skin, and leave her to Ray. I will steal her food to keep her tiny, to keep him happy. I will put her on his knee at night and let her hear his bedtime stories.
    "We'll need sunscreen," I say. "So she doesn't burn." He nods, pleased, and then picks out what I must wear. Not my black pants that sag around my waist and hips, that droop over my feet, that I wear every day. Not my gray T-shirt, his until he got tomato sauce on the hem, tiny holes on the sleeves from my fingers picking at the fabric while the day passes.
    I have to wear jeans, dark and stiff and too small, cutting into my waist and leaving my ankles bare. My shirt is pink, pale like the first blush of hurt skin, just a little blow to let you know you are here, that you are not leaving. That you must open your eyes and see.
    Pink like Ray makes me. I know that and he does too because he smiles big and fond and rubs the bruise on my chest, saying, "Remember? Remember how you used to be?"
    I remember.
    After I am dressed, he tells me what I will do. I will get to the park earlier than before, will miss my soap opera to be there on time. I will watch Lucy. I will wait for Jake, talk to him--and Ray narrows his eyes then, mouth biting off the word "talk" as his hands shake me back and forth.
    "You do know what that means, right?" he says, and I nod.
    I know.
    "You get the boy to come tomorrow too," he says. "Then everything can happen. Tomorrow morning we'll pack up, spend the day together, and then I'll pick up Annabel and come get you. Leave a present for the boy."
    He means it, really means it. I think. "What will we take with us?"
    He looks at me, and then a slow grin breaks across his face. His gums are red like meat.
    "Everything," he says, and walks into his room, comes back with folded, printed pages.
    Newspaper clipping in my hand, tiny girl with a bow in her hair grinning toothlessly. Vanessa Judith, miracle baby, born six months ago to Helen and Glenn. One daughter, gone long ago, and now a new one. Every day I think of what I lost, Helen says. And every day I'm glad God decided to give me a second chance.
    We can't go back, we can't forget, Glenn says. But wewant to live each day as it comes. In memory of what we lost, and in honor of what we have.
    "Isn't that sweet?" Ray says, and I stare at the baby, so tiny, so new.
    "Hey," he says, grabbing my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Mess this up and we'll drive to 623 Daisy Lane and I'll burn everything. Little girl that replaced you. Mommy. Daddy. All gone."
    He cups my jaw in his hands. "Mommy and Daddy and I'll hear them screaming