I walked home, turning up my collar against the wind from a gathering storm. Something was gnawing at me. I’d solved the case. I’d caught the bad guy. But I still felt that there was something I hadn’t fully understood.
I strolled along the sidewalk, thinking of the strange similarity between Arthur and Harold Jacoby—two men who had tried to reshape reality to their own requirements. Each had tried to replace a daughter—one out of grief, and the other out of pride. Arthur had brought about near disaster.
And Jacoby? He had done far worse. I shuddered, thinking of the long-tended grief that had twisted every line in Mrs. Jacoby’s face. How could her husband have done such a thing? I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him when the idea first bloomed in his mind. It must have seemed to him such a clever, even marvelous trick—the restoration of all of his hopes, brought about by a single, brutal lie.
But people couldn’t be replaced, not really. When they were gone, they were gone. Jacoby’s attempt to swap out his child for a healthier girl hadn’t resulted in the family of his dreams—instead, it had nearly destroyed everyone around him.
The wind quickened, and I hugged my coat close around me. At least, I consoled myself, some healing had begun? Mrs. Jacoby had Pearl back in her life. Eleanor had Jeannette. And an endless array of possible futures stood before them. They could be whoever they chose to be.
Except for the families that they might have been.
Leaves were coming off the trees now. They chattered down the brick street, sweeping into a brief, circling eddy, then coming to rest on the ground. I crunched through them. I had been in Chicago now for almost a year. The anniversary had crept up on me, unnoticed. I turned the corner, and there it was, my familiar street, with Uncle Owen’s house. My house. Home.
But if it was home, then that meant the time for playing make believe had ended. It was time to face up to the hard truths that Arthur Burrage and Harold Jacoby had tried to paper over. To acknowledge that perfection doesn’t come in this world, only in the next.
She sat on the front steps, drawing faces on the porch with colored chalk. There was a smear of green powder over one eye, and a hole in her tights where the rough concrete had snagged them. My heart seemed to swell to twice its size. I wanted to make everything right for her. But finally, I knew: I never could.
She looked up as I approached, and as the intense concentration faded from her eyes, she recognized me. She smiled.
“I’m not going to replace your mother,” I said.
Koko nodded. “I know.”
Of course she knew. Like Harold Jacoby, I had been living in a fantasy. One in which I could wipe away every dark thing that had touched her, and restore her to the blithe, unblemished life she should have had.
But Koko had never inhabited that fantasy with me. She had to live in reality—and now it was time for me to join her there.
I knelt down in front of her. “I can’t be her, and I can’t be your dad.” I took a breath, frustrated by the inadequacy of my words. I stumbled on. “The family we have—it’s going to be different. Different than it would have been. But it’s the life we’ve got, and Koko—” I took her hands in mine. What was I to say to her? It will work? It will be just as good?
“It’ll be ours,” I settled for at last.
She came into my arms. I hugged her, watching the winds rise up and strip dead leaves from their branches. Rain was coming now. I could feel it in the air.
She handed me a yellow chalk, and we drew until the first raindrops started to fall. I shooed her inside, and stood for a moment watching the rain splatter on the porch, smudging my doodles and Koko’s careful sketches. They would be gone by morning. But they had been here, and there would be others yet to come
A poignant conclusion to the story!
(Slightly disappointed not to see Mr Gallo again but I guess something has to be saved for the next book!)