The Unfinished Book
EXCERPT
Amy was at the tail end of putting the baby down for its afternoon nap when the doorbell rang. The little bundle of Charlotte, sweaty and sticky, lay on the bed beside her, thumb in mouth, calm and beautiful now, but her face still red from screaming and crying. Amy closed her eyes again: did she need to answer the door? If it was someone canvassing for a charity she couldn’t afford to support, let them pass by. It could be Tom, home from work early; he often forgot his key and he’d push the bell again if he didn’t hear her feet on the hardwood. If he rang again and the baby woke and started to cry, she wouldn’t hold herself responsible for what came next.
Out the window, she couldn’t see down to the front door, but up the street a great white triangle, shining in the sun, its apex topped by a head, caught her eye; her mind amalgamated the sweeping shape into that of a bride in her wedding dress crossing the road. If Tom had asked her, she would’ve worn one of those.
He still could. The image shifted, and the triangle detached from the head and she saw that it was a clear garbage bag, white in the reflected light, full of recycling, being held, now, at arm’s length, by an old woman. Amy shook her head and descended the stairs in something between a tiptoe and a run. She unbolted the door and swung it wide. It wasn’t Tom.