“Hi I’m Adara Davis,” I stood in front office facing the high school secretary as I rested my elbows atop the chest-height barrier that stood between us, the unwelcoming modern version of an administrative desk.  “My daughter called me earlier saying she wasn’t well and I’d like to take her home.”

The secretary, pale and thin, and dressed in a plainly modest gray wool dress, looked at me in waiting, as if I hadn’t yet spoken.

“Paige,” I continued. “Paige Davis is my daughter.  She’s a freshman and I think she has…. Oh.  I’m not sure what class she has this hour but if you could just look her up or page her,” my cramps harassed an intense stab into my abdomen and I gripped the fake stone countertop of the desk and leaned in toward the secretary.  “She’s expecting me.”

The woman sat still and silent.  Why wasn’t she on her computer or in her books looking up my daughter?  Had I frightened her?

“I’m sorry,” I said and leaned back of the desk.  Though I could feel droplets of perspiration mingle across my hairline, from pain or worry or just frustration—maybe it was hot in hear—I struggling to give this woman a smile of endearment.  “Could you please get my daughter for me?” I asked trying to emit an illustration patience that was draining much too quickly.

“Mrs. Davis,” the secretary finally spoke.

“Ms.,” I corrected her.  Why was I correcting her?

“Ms. Davis,” she continued. “Paige left close to an hour ago.  She walked through here with her father and…”

“Her father?”  My heart stopped.  “Paige’s father died almost ten years ago.”  My cramps tightened and I could feel the sweat begin to drip off my forehead. 

The secretary stood and looked as if she were about to reach out to me.  “Ms. Davis?”

I hunched over cradling my stomach.  Who had Paige?  Did he take her?  Does he have her?

“Ms. Davis?”  The secretary continued.  “Mr. Franco ____ came in with Paige and signed this release slip.”  She held out a thin pink sheet of paper.  “Is everything okay Ms. Davis?”

Relief overtook my body.  Franco had her.  I stood up straight feeling unaccustomedly embarrassed as the secretary came around corridor of her desk and stood beside me.  She placed her hand on my arm.  “Are you alright Ms. Davis?”

I laughed sluggishly as I wiped the droplets from my forehead.  Why had I over reacted like this?  I hadn’t had a bad dream about Paige ever in my life?  “I’m fine,” I assured the secretary.  I wanted to say more, to explain my humiliating reaction, but I could only continue to laugh nervously as I apologized and headed back out to my car.

What is wrong with me, I thought as I drove down the highway and speed dialed Franco on my cell.  How could I have overreacted like that?  Paige was fine.  She must have called Franco when I refused to pick her up, and Franco, being Paige’s ever-faithful obedient puppy, always trying to secure her love, had probably not even flickered a hint of hesitation when she called him.

“Hello Adara,” Franco answered the call.

“Franco, for goodness sakes,” I sounded like my mother. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were picking up Faith?  I was worried to death.”

“Calmness my darling,” Franco had always had a way with soothing conversation, doubtlessly due in fact to his alluring Italian accent and romantic intuitions.  “Your little girl is safe with me.”  I could hear Paige mumbling in the background that she wasn’t a little girl, and when they both laughed I felt like an idiot for being such a mom.

“We’re going for ice cream,” Franco continued.  “To cure the womanly woes of Paige’s adolescence.”

“Franco!”  I could hear Paige whining and could even picture her giving Franco a gentle punch on his shoulder as she squirmed in embarrassment.

“You alright darling?”  He said and I realized that though I was smiling, my face was strained and I was scratching at the nape of my neck.  Why was I nervous now?  Paige was with Franco.  There was not one I’d rather have her with right now, especially after that disturbing phone call this morning.  “Honor your father and mother.”  Who could that have been?

“Adara,” Franco’s voice stunned me from my thoughts.

“Yes, yes.  I’m fine.  I’m just glad you have her.  I want her home right after ice cream though.  If she’s going to miss school because she’s not feeling well she’s going to do it in the discomfort of her room.  And make sure she does her homework, will you?”

“Si, si.  Anything you need.”

“I’m going to head back to the office and catch up on some work.  Please tell Paige I love her and I’ll see you two at dinner time.”

“Arrievederci.”

Since Mertha had cleared all of my sessions for the day I was hoping that I could research the Nona Flores case a bit more, but when I got back to my office I was exhausted, so I just kicked my heels off sprawled out on the long cushy patient chair.  My eyes felt heavy, and though my cramps had subsisted, the intermittently related drowsiness was beginning to overwhelm me.  I turned my head to the side and gazed over the bookshelf as I waited for my nap to overcome me.  As my eyes began to weigh to a close, I glanced at a framed photograph of Paige and Franco and me last spring.  We were at the Grand Canyon for a week.  Poor Paige, she had gotten altitude sickness and spent the first couple days in bed throwing up.  But she looked happy in this picture.  Her arm was around my shoulder and mine around her waist.  We both looked happy, like great friends.  I felt so grateful to have her in my life, grateful that she loved me and understood me, and grateful that she loved Franco too.  It had been hard for her at first, she didn’t want him take the place of her father.  Of course not.  But through the years she became closer to him, and they too became good friends.  Her other arm was wrapped around Franco’s shoulders in the photograph.  I was glad to have in my life too.  He was there to help me through the toughest time of my life.  He picked me up daily through all the tears I shed for my lost husband, and he comforted me with his love more than I could possibly deserve.  He was handsome in that picture.  His wild and curly Italian hair and dark skin made him look like a god.  His clothes on the other hand….I laughed as I stared at his outfit in the picture.  Tight navy slacks with fancy leather shoes.  His stripped button down shirt was left open at the top revealing his mass of wavy chest hair and that thin silver chain her always wore.  As my breath slowed and my eyes closed I pictured Franco’s necklace.  It was beautiful, a silver and gold pendant hung upon it in the shape of a cross.  It was unlike any cross I had ever seen.  It looked antique and almost handmade as the two precious metals intermingles amongst roses and thorns to from this brilliant pendant.  It looked so original, so priceless, and it looked so foreign, yet somehow, so incredibly familiar.