The little girl in the living room was barely tall enough to see over the coffee table. On television, the cartoon figures bounced and gamboled and zoomed, their manic movement a loud and colorful display. The little girl giggled.
Faith Chandler tried to focus. She was so tired.
In that space between memories, the bullet train of years, the little girl became twelve, about to enter junior high school. She stood tall and straight, the last moment before the boredom and utter misery of adolescence took over her mind; the furious hormones, her body. Still her little girl. Ribbons and smiles.
Faith knew she had to do something, but she could not think. She had made a phone call before she left for Center City. Now she was back. She was supposed to call again. But who? What had she meant to say?
There were three full bottles on the table, a full tumbler in front of her. Too much. Not enough. Never enough.
God, grant me the serenity…
There is no serenity.
She looked to her left once more, into the living room. The little girl was gone. The little girl was a dead woman now, cold in some gray marble room downtown.
Faith lifted the glass to her lips. She spilled some whiskey on her lap. She tried again. She swallowed. The fires of sorrow and guilt and regret flared within her.
"Stephie," she said.
She lifted the glass again. This time he helped her bring it to her lips. In a little while he would help her drink straight from the bottle.