"Win got better," Irene said.
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the room like a wire.
"She got better," Irene said again. "It took her almost two years. But she got sober, and the doctors got her on the right medicine, and she got her own place in Bloomer and a job at the nursery out on County Road SS, and she called this house. She called you, Russell, and she asked if she could see her daughter. Just see her. Supervised. In a park. Anywhere."
Russ was looking at his hands.
"And you sent her papers," Irene said.
"It was the lawyer," Russ said. "My mother's lawyer. He said if Win came back into the picture, Paige would be confused. He said it was better for her to have one mother. A stable home. He said a stepparent adoption would—that it would protect everybody. Paige, mostly. And if Win consented, it would be clean. No court fight. No dragging everything out."
"Clean," Irene said.
"She signed it," Russ said, and his voice broke. "Irene, she signed it. Nobody held a gun to her."
"No. You held a picture." Irene turned to Lucy, and her eyes were blazing now, wet and blazing at the same time. "Do you know what they sent with those papers, chickadee? A photograph. Paige at two and a half, on Dana's lap, at a Christmas party, laughing. And a letter that said, she's happy, she's settled, she calls Dana Mama, please don't take this away from her. And a promise. A promise that if Winnie signed, they would send her a picture and a letter every year on Paige's birthday. Every year until Paige was eighteen, and then Paige could decide for herself." Irene looked at Dana. "How many pictures did she get, Dana?"
Dana said nothing.
"Two," Irene said. "She got two. And then Dana found out about the diner in Cadott, and they stopped. And she called, and nobody picked up, and she wrote, and the letters came back. And you moved, from Chippewa to here, and changed your number. And when she tried to get a lawyer to enforce it, the lawyer told her an open adoption agreement in Wisconsin wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. That's the law. Did you know that, chickadee? You can promise a mother anything you want to get her to sign, and then you can just stop."
"That's not—" Dana's voice cracked down the middle. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't some plan. She was four, Irene, and she started asking questions. She found one of the pictures in my drawer, of the two of them, and she asked who the lady was. She asked why the lady was holding her. And I didn't—I didn't know what to say. I panicked. I said it was a friend. And then I couldn't stop. Every year it got harder. Every year there was more to undo. And I thought, if she knew, she would go. She would go looking for her and she would find her, and she would see that woman was so much—" She stopped. She pressed the back of her wrist against her mouth.
"So much what," Irene said, very quietly.
Dana took her wrist away. "So much more interesting than me," she said. "So much more—everybody loved Winnie. Everybody. Russ's mother loved Winnie, even after. His friends. Even Hanlon at the store, he wouldn't look at me for a year. Funny Winnie. Winnie with the greenhouse. Winnie who could beat everybody at horseshoes. I was the receptionist. I was the one who packed the lunches." She laughed, and it was a terrible sound. "And then she came back. Didn't she, Russ? She came back. Not for Paige. For you."
Russ put his face in his hands.