out like maybe I

am sure.

Squeezes out

like I do know

where the diary is.

I do know.

I do.

And then I get this memory

of Liz standing alone on the porch,

watching me ride away on my bike,

to Mari’s house.

And I think of that damn diary again.

That’s what Momma has

been calling it for days now,

That Damn Diary.

And on the

inside of me

I look away.

At the end

of the forty-five minutes

Dr. Marino says,

You know, Hope,

if you think of anything

that might help us figure

this mystery out, you can call me.

Anytime, day or night.

I live in Winter Park.

Kyle Marino.

Here’s my number,

and he scratches it down.

Call me at home if you need to.

Okay,

I say.

And my voice

has less weight than

the sticky note he’s handed

me.

I fold the number up tiny

and shove it deep

into my pocket.

And if you think of anything that’s,

you know, unusual,

you can tell me next time you visit.

He stands,

shakes hands with

Momma

and me.

Next time nothing,

Momma says

under her breath.

I start from the room,

then turn back.

I touch the cool jamb

with the palm of my hand.

From the front of the office
I can smell coffee.

In my memory

Lizzie stands

alone

on the porch

watching after

me.

She doesn’t like to be alone,

I say.

And she cries lots at night.

Dr. Marino nods.

Maybe he knows that

already.

82.

Don’t give him information,

Momma says,

driving home fast,

unless he asks first.

The windows are down

and ocean smell

fills the car.

A summer storm heads

toward us fast

the sky blooming

with black clouds.

Before

we have gone even a mile more

rain hits

the car like gunshots.

He has asked,

I say. And think,

Like a gunshot.

83.

Liz has been gone from home almost the whole summer.

84.

And

I do know.

Where That.

Diary.

Is.

85.

Once,

a long time ago,

Momma

took us to the river.

I was little,

just learning to swim.

Momma fastened an orange

Styrofoam bubble around

my waist to keep me afloat.

Then she sat

in the hot sun with

Lizzie right close to her.

Liz played in the sand

in her underpanties,

half a butt cheek showing.

Momma rubbed olive oil

on her skin to brown herself.

I love my babies,

Momma said.

Run into the water, Hope.

I did,

getting just my toes wet,

then my feet,

and finally plunging

in to my waist.

The bubble popped me up.

I played that afternoon,

sharing my bubble with Liz,

until a rainstorm came.

It pattered on the face of the river.

Momma and me and Liz huddled under a towel.

The wet sand smelled good,

like something hot and fresh.

Lookit out there,

Momma said.

Where?

Lizzie said.

Out there on the river,

Momma said.

It’s a family of snakes.

I stood from under