instantaneously through my head, of the storytelling afternoons, of secrets whispered and silent, of the night I’d first told him I loved him, and then the last night when I’d learned the pointlessness of love.
Justin’s cheeks flushed and his eyes seemed to cloud. Everything I’d needed to see on Eve’s face was in his, the pain, the joy, the bitter remorse. His palms opened to face the ceiling and he looked from me to Eve and back, then strode forward to pull me into his arms.
I inhaled his smell—wood, moss and pine—as if it could press out the blackness that had numbed me. I wanted to take from him what I’d needed from Eve, but I could feel her eyes at my back. I pulled away.
Eve’s face was tight, watching us, eyes red with the tears she hadn’t shed in greeting. And I suddenly understood she was afraid.
Eve sat in bed, hunched against the wall, her face gone slack and her eyes glazed over like the black marbles in the heads of stuffed animals. “Just a minute,” Justin said. He kissed Eve’s temple, then lifted her, easily as one would lift a child, settling her down to the pillow.
“She gets like this sometimes,” he said, “like she’s too tired even to close her eyes. It’s the morphine that does it. She takes more than she needs because it’s easier just to sleep.”
“Jesus, Justin.” How would I stand this, stand being here unless I just turned off, forgot who I was and who she’d been?
“It’s why I put the bed down here. She gets dizzy climbing stairs, and a month ago she fell. I hate it taking up our den, though, it’s like this constant reminder. Not like we need a reminder, I mean look at her.”
I watched as he tucked her under the stark white sheets, fighting the dark heaviness that seemed dead set on becoming tears.
With his face turned in profile, I could study him closely for the first time. At first I’d thought there was no change; he had the same full lips, the heavy-lidded eyes. But there were little things that disoriented me because they didn’t fit: the dimples lengthened to deeper grooves by his mouth, the slight graying at his temples and a kind of muting of intensity in his eyes, a distance. It drained something in me to see it, made me want to reach for him, but also to turn away. He brushed his hand over Eve’s eyes to close them, and I saw his face flush with pain and love. I focused on the ugly steel rails framing Eve’s bed so I wouldn’t have to interpret the clutch in my chest.
“Come on,” Justin said. “We’ll get some tea.”
I sat at the kitchen table as Justin filled mugs, gazing over at the wall. Still hung with crayoned drawings, but now printed with someone else’s name. I examined the signatures as if they could tell me something about the girl behind them. A kindergarten scrawl, a wide-looping script,
Gillian,
the first
i
dotted with a heart. I felt Justin’s eyes on me but didn’t want to look up, because exchanging glances didn’t seem like a good idea. I shivered and cupped my hands around the warm mug.
“It’s good you decided to come,” he said finally. “She needs you here.”
And then the tears came after all, stinging hot. I looked away, trying to steady my breath. “Doesn’t seem like she needs anybody,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows at me, reproaching.
I inhaled the steam from my mug, let it condense on my nose and eyelids. “I don’t know what to do for her. I don’t know her anymore.”
“The fact you came is enough, at least for a start. She needs to know everything she’s done is forgivable before she can forgive herself.”
“It’s not forgivable, Justin. I can be here in spite of it, but I guess I’m not a big enough person to go beyond that.”
Justin’s face seemed to sag. “She’s been a good wife, Kerry, a great mother. You need to let it go as much as she does. She’s your sister, for God’s sake.”
“We’ll put that on her tombstone: Eve Barnard-Caine, good wife, great
Justin’s cheeks flushed and his eyes seemed to cloud. Everything I’d needed to see on Eve’s face was in his, the pain, the joy, the bitter remorse. His palms opened to face the ceiling and he looked from me to Eve and back, then strode forward to pull me into his arms.
I inhaled his smell—wood, moss and pine—as if it could press out the blackness that had numbed me. I wanted to take from him what I’d needed from Eve, but I could feel her eyes at my back. I pulled away.
Eve’s face was tight, watching us, eyes red with the tears she hadn’t shed in greeting. And I suddenly understood she was afraid.
Eve sat in bed, hunched against the wall, her face gone slack and her eyes glazed over like the black marbles in the heads of stuffed animals. “Just a minute,” Justin said. He kissed Eve’s temple, then lifted her, easily as one would lift a child, settling her down to the pillow.
“She gets like this sometimes,” he said, “like she’s too tired even to close her eyes. It’s the morphine that does it. She takes more than she needs because it’s easier just to sleep.”
“Jesus, Justin.” How would I stand this, stand being here unless I just turned off, forgot who I was and who she’d been?
“It’s why I put the bed down here. She gets dizzy climbing stairs, and a month ago she fell. I hate it taking up our den, though, it’s like this constant reminder. Not like we need a reminder, I mean look at her.”
I watched as he tucked her under the stark white sheets, fighting the dark heaviness that seemed dead set on becoming tears.
With his face turned in profile, I could study him closely for the first time. At first I’d thought there was no change; he had the same full lips, the heavy-lidded eyes. But there were little things that disoriented me because they didn’t fit: the dimples lengthened to deeper grooves by his mouth, the slight graying at his temples and a kind of muting of intensity in his eyes, a distance. It drained something in me to see it, made me want to reach for him, but also to turn away. He brushed his hand over Eve’s eyes to close them, and I saw his face flush with pain and love. I focused on the ugly steel rails framing Eve’s bed so I wouldn’t have to interpret the clutch in my chest.
“Come on,” Justin said. “We’ll get some tea.”
I sat at the kitchen table as Justin filled mugs, gazing over at the wall. Still hung with crayoned drawings, but now printed with someone else’s name. I examined the signatures as if they could tell me something about the girl behind them. A kindergarten scrawl, a wide-looping script,
Gillian,
the first
i
dotted with a heart. I felt Justin’s eyes on me but didn’t want to look up, because exchanging glances didn’t seem like a good idea. I shivered and cupped my hands around the warm mug.
“It’s good you decided to come,” he said finally. “She needs you here.”
And then the tears came after all, stinging hot. I looked away, trying to steady my breath. “Doesn’t seem like she needs anybody,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows at me, reproaching.
I inhaled the steam from my mug, let it condense on my nose and eyelids. “I don’t know what to do for her. I don’t know her anymore.”
“The fact you came is enough, at least for a start. She needs to know everything she’s done is forgivable before she can forgive herself.”
“It’s not forgivable, Justin. I can be here in spite of it, but I guess I’m not a big enough person to go beyond that.”
Justin’s face seemed to sag. “She’s been a good wife, Kerry, a great mother. You need to let it go as much as she does. She’s your sister, for God’s sake.”
“We’ll put that on her tombstone: Eve Barnard-Caine, good wife, great
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