Free Pictures of You by Caroline Leavitt Page B

April Nash and she was lovely and a mother and a wife and she was only thirty-five years old. Younger than Isabelle. She worked at the Blue Cupcake, where Isabelle sometimes went to get coffee. She had probably seen her lifting trays and chatting with customers. They could have passed each other on the street all the time. They could have been friends.
    Isabelle touched the screen with her fingertips and started crying again.
    When the phone rang, she almost didn’t answer it. She had fallen asleep on the kitchen table, her face pressed against the wood. The wall phone was so close, it seemed to be ringing in her ears. She sat up, reaching for the receiver, desperate for the sound to stop. “Hello?” she rasped.
    “You’re all right?” The voice was sharp. It had been years and years of calls unreturned, letters come back in the mail. But she knew who it was and she gripped the phone. “Mom. It’s so great to hear your voice. You can’t imagine—”
    “Your accident is in the Boston papers. Everyone is talking about it. I nearly died when I saw your photo. I called the hospital and they told me you were all right, so I didn’t have to come down there.”
    “I’m all right,” Isabelle said. She felt a sudden tug. She felt ten years old, wanting her mother there to smooth her hair back and tell her that she was Nora’s baby girl. Her mother snorted. “Well, I shouldn’t wonder about this mess. That’s you all over, barreling ahead, getting into trouble, never thinking about the consequences. I tried to stop you when you got involved with Luke, but you wouldn’t listen. And now what? You’ve killed a woman and ruined your life.”
    The floor was moving under Isabelle’s feet. Her tongue felt as if it were weighted with stones. “Mom,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”
    “Do what? You never understood anything that I was trying to do for you,” Nora said. “I’m glad you’re all right, but that doesn’t mean I approve of your life,” and she hung up the phone. Isabelle held the receiver against her forehead and shut her eyes.

F IVE
     
    T HREE DAYS AFTER April died, Charlie woke up on the floor of Sam’s room, a toy airplane cutting into his shoulder. He was drenched in sweat, still in the same clothes he had worn to the hospital. He hadn’t intended to sleep here, but last night Sam had shouted in his sleep and Charlie had raced in, switching on the light. “Mommy!” Sam had cried, and he looked so small and fragile that Charlie had held him until Sam fell back asleep. Charlie couldn’t bear to leave him. And more than that, Charlie couldn’t stand to be in his own bed alone.
     
    For the past two days, the two of them had done nothing but sleep. He had left Sam only once, calling a sitter so he could go and take care of the paperwork for the funeral home to have April cremated. When they asked what he wanted to do with the ashes, he went blank. “Let us know,” the funeral director said.
    Today, though, he had to get them back in a routine. He had to call people. And he had to tell Sam that April was dead.
    He was about to stand when he caught a whiff of beach salt. His head reeled. The room smelled like April. For one crazy moment, he imagined her coming into the room. He heard footsteps and he glanced up, sickeningly expectant. “You big silly. It was a mistake,” she would say.
    “April?” he said. Every detail of that morning rushed back to him.The smell of the coffee. The way April kept winding around him. They had argued and he’d been in a bad mood, but was that enough for her to snatch up their son and leave?
    Sam coughed. The April smell vanished and Charlie looked at his son. Right now, he felt as if Sam were the only thing anchoring him to the earth, that without him, he might dissolve into a thousand pieces. You breathe, I breathe, he thought.
    Charlie tucked Sam in and walked out of his room. He’d tell Sam after breakfast. He went to the kitchen and stood there for