CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Although she wanted to lie around and moon about Liam, Tillie had a show to finish. To get herself into the right mindset, she set a primed canvas on one of the big worktables under the north skylight and layered it with a glaze of darkest ultramarine mixed with just a tinge of phthalo green, then left it to rest while she showered. Starting the day as she meant to continue had been her practice for a decade.

After the shower, she made herself a smoothie of slightly wilted spinach and frozen strawberries, along with a cup of coffee, and carried them to the easel. Her sketch of the cat with a girl on his back was there, and she suddenly remembered the girl in her dream, in the woods. Letting it surface, she used a soft focus on the painting, allowing trees into the background, a shaft of sunlight. The girl was not quite right, and she tilted her head, took a sip of smoothie, and picked up a black oil stick. Over the flying brown hair, she drew tendrils of black. Better. She smiled.

It suddenly occurred to her that the girl was Tillie's imaginary friend, Sunny. Of course.

Her phone buzzed. Jon. "Hey, what's up?"

"You need to call your boy. He's blowing up my phone."

"My boy?"

"Jared."

"Oh, shit. I forgot I told him I'd call him. Sorry, I'll do it right now."

"Why did you open that door, baby? You're just stringing him along."

"That is so not fair!" she snapped. "He has been texting me constantly, and when I blocked him, he showed up twice on my stoop. I'm trying to be kind, but he's making it pretty hard."

"I'm sorry. I take it back. Just call him so I can get some sleep."

Something in his voice was a little ... off. "You okay, dude?"

"I'm good. Just want to sleep some more."

"All right. I'll call you later."

For a moment, she stood in the midst of her paintings, thinking. Dropping the oil stick in the cart where it lived, she held her phone next to her chest and paced through the room, end to end, thinking about what to say, how to ... ease his acceptance. Nothing came. But to honor her promises, to both Jon and to Jared, she unblocked him and dialed.

He picked up on the first ring. "Tillie?"

"Yes. Are you in your right mind this morning?"

"Hungover," he said with a hint of ruefulness. "Which is to be expected. Look, I'm sorry I keep playing the same record over and over."

This was a surprise. "Yeah, it's not that much fun for me."

Silence. "I just don't know how to let you go."

Tillie started pacing, anxiety rising at the pain in his voice. "I know," she said, and sighed. "And I don't know how to help you. But we are not together anymore, and we aren't getting back together. I would like it if we could be friends someday, but that's not right now."

"I hear you."

She stopped. "Do you?"

"Yes. I've already called a therapist, and he'll see me this afternoon."

"Good."

"Just ... don't block me, Tillie. I can't stand it."

For a moment, she stared up at the rectangular windows showing her a cloudy sky. "Okay, but if you text me, I'm going to block you again."

"Fair."

"And if you show up on my doorstep again, I will get a restraining order."

"What? That's a little extreme."

"No, it isn't. I'm done with this."

"Fine." He was much less conciliatory. "I just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

He paused. "I don't know. Just—"

"No more talking. We're done." She paused. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

She hung up.

A wild energy swelled through her body, anxiety and anger and weariness with the situation. She threw the phone on the couch and, fueled by too much emotional energy, stomped toward the pile of papers by the front door, still lying where it fell when Liam brought it in. She started scraping them up, dumping them back into the box. A flash of Liam's mouth came to her, his hands on her body as they left the mess yesterday and twined themselves together. Her skin rippled. If she hadn't let Jared go when she had, this whole thing would not have been possible. What a relief!

Live for today, she thought, and scraped the last few papers into a stack. One had sailed all the way over to the wall, and she walked over to pick it up, turning it over to organize it with the others.

The words on the paper penetrated her emotional storm. A chill wound through her body.

It was a death certificate, dated March 9, 1989. For Matilda Magdalene Morrisey, age three.

Matilda. Tillie.

Her skin rippled, cold then very hot, and a buzzing filled her ears.

This death certificate was for her .