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Back Devotion Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. About the Publisher

I’m looking at the last photo as I write. One day I slipped it from its plastic casing into my purse. She is sitting on the wood floor next to an unmade bed. A white sheet is falling next to her. Her cheeks are a little fuller, her hair a little shorter, but otherwise she looks exactly like the adult incarnation I knew. She’s not in her uniform, but a pair of white denim shorts and a navy halter top. She’s barefoot, her toenails painted a deep red. Her knees are bent, so you can see the full flesh of her thighs and the small strip of denim covering her crotch. She is leaning back, resting her palms on the floor behind her. Her lips are pursed and her eyes a little narrowed at the camera. She is ready to devour the photographer.

The photo was easy to steal. I didn’t think she would suspect me, I didn’t think she would even notice its disappearance, but that wasn’t why I took it. I wanted to be the photographer or Lonnie, maybe both, though I knew owning the photo would not get me any closer to either experience. Did I have an inkling that I would need to record her? That I would spend a long time trying to work out what she was to me? Did I have a suspicion that she might not be real? Was I grasping for evidence?

I am picturing us together at the beach, but I can’t be sure if it is a real memory. We are the only ones in the water. The lifeguard’s chair is empty. I look behind me and see the men, her men, asleep on the sand with the baby. I am waist deep in the water, numb to the cold but still goose pimpled. I keep turning around so the waves don’t hit me in the face, then looking back out, searching for her. She is past where the waves are breaking, just floating on her back, bobbing in the water. I catch glimpses of her arms, stretched out and gleaming wet in the sun, then I lose her again. I can’t go back to the shore because I am the only one watching.

3

THEY OWNED A FOUR-STORY TOWN HOUSE BETWEEN PARK AND Lexington in Carnegie Hill. I didn’t see their home until my first day of work. My interview had been conducted at the playground. They told me about William’s routine as we followed him around the sandbox. He was sixteen months old, walked on the balls of his feet like a tiny ballet dancer, and could say a few words. “We may need you to stay late occasionally, but generally, you’ll be off by four.”

The husband gestured to his wife and said, “Lonnie doesn’t work, but she needs the days for her writing.”