Chapter 2 - Good Girl
I did not open the second box in front of the guests.
That surprised Margaret.
Possibly Wesley too.
I wanted to.
I wanted to tear it open, hold whatever was inside above my head, and force everyone in that room to choose whether they were still laughing.
Then June cried.
Not angry newborn crying.
Overwhelmed.
She had been passed around.
Photographed.
Woken by voices.
Then felt her mother jerk, shout, slap, sweep objects from a table.
Enough.
I left.
Wesley followed me to the driveway.
“Nora.”
“Not now.”
“I didn’t know she was going to put it on June.”
I stopped.
That sentence mattered.
Not:
I didn’t know about the collar.
More specific.
“What did you know?”
He looked toward the house.
Wrong direction.
I said:
“Look at me.”
He did.
“What did you know?”
“Mom said she had a joke planned.”
“What joke?”
“She wouldn’t tell me exactly.”
“Then why are you pale about the second box?”
Silence.
I opened the car.
Placed June carefully into her infant seat.
Checked straps.
Blanket tucked.
Everything slowed because babies force practical reality into adult chaos.
Only after she was secure did I turn toward Wesley.
He looked frightened.
I held up the velvet box.
“For me?”
He closed his eyes.
There.
I opened it.
Adult-sized black leather collar.
Narrow.
Polished.
Silver tag.
Engraved:
GOOD GIRL
MRS. WESLEY HALE
My stomach went cold.
Wesley whispered:
“Nora.”
I laughed once.
Not because funny.
“You knew.”
“I knew she ordered something.”
“With my married name on it.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“She told me it was for a private joke.”
“What does that even mean?”
He did not answer.
“Wesley.”
“She did something similar years ago.”
There.
I stared.
“To who?”
“My aunt.”
“What?”
“My uncle’s wife.”
“When?”
“Before I was born.”
“How do you know?”
“Family story.”
I looked at the collar.
“Family story.”
“It wasn’t like this.”
“Explain.”
He rubbed his face.
“My grandmother gave Aunt Diane a dog collar at her engagement party because she kept joking that Diane had my uncle ‘on a leash.’ Then Diane turned it around and wore it for a photo. Everyone laughed.”
“And your mother copied it.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
He realized he had said too much.
I leaned against the car.
“How many women?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wesley.”
“Two maybe.”
I stared.
He said quickly:
“It was stupid. Not abusive. Just old family humor.”
“Your mother just tried to put a pet collar on a five-week-old infant.”
“I know.”
“And the matching adult one was for me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask her not to?”
“Yes.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I told her not to do it.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought she’d drop it.”
There.
Not ignorance.
Cowardice.
May you like
I had used the right word.
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