mother, and also she was a sister.”
The front door rattled open. There was the sound of stamping boots.
Justin glanced at me, then called, “In here, Gillie.”
Footsteps slapped down the hall, stopping at the door to the den. I imagined Gillian standing there, watching her mother, maybe reaching to touch her hand.
The footsteps continued to the kitchen. “Hey, Daddy? I was gonna—” She froze and for a second I could see her as she was, this beautiful eleven-year-old girl with wise eyes. But as she looked at me her expression changed, melted, became more like the younger child I’d seen on the jackets of Justin’s novels, the picture I’d held in my mind.
Her nose reddened and she began to tremble, her hands opening, closing, opening, closing, and then with a sob she ran to me, buried herself against my chest. I looked up at Justin, shocked, then wrapped my arms around her, cradled her head. I could scarcely breathe, was dizzy with love for this girl I’d never met, and so I clutched at her like she would save me, this fusing of Eve and Justin, and also of me.
I looked over her shoulder, into Justin’s face. He watched us with his fist against his mouth, eyes clouded.
Suddenly, Gillian pulled away and stumbled backwards. She looked from me to Justin and back, face fragmented with confusion. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then spun away and ran.
“Gillie?” Justin strode after her. “Sweetie?”
I followed them to the den, stunned, numb like I was muffled by a thick coat of fur, and I watched as Gillian crawled into the bed beside her mother and curled, baby-like, head resting on Eve’s chest. Justin watched them, face flushed, then edged forward to smooth the blanket over them both.
I stood there for as long as I could stand it, then backed away to the kitchen.
Not anymore;
I made it echo through my head, a chant, a warning.
Not mine. None of it. Not anymore.
A shuffling woke me sometime in the dead hours before dawn. I lay there a minute, disoriented, then turned my head towards the noise. In the shadows I made out a hunched form on the floor next to the bed. “Justin?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t move. I heard a gulping wet intake of breath. “Justin?” I whispered again.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I really am.”
I watched him for a minute, then reached out my hand.
He took it, held it to his cheek. “When you’re asleep, in this lighting you could be sixteen again.”
“How long were you sitting there?”
He didn’t answer, so I combed his sweat-damp hair back from his temple, not knowing what to feel, not knowing what was right to feel. But when he climbed into bed beside me I let him; the two of us curled against each other, minutes, then hours drifting in and out of sleep, waking with the weight of his head against my chest, the whisper of his hair at my neck. It didn’t feel wrong; it was like comfort, a fullness that I’d almost forgotten how to feel. And when the room finally began to fringe with the shadows of dawn, he touched my cheek and pulled away, closing the door behind him.
The sun filtered through my eyelids, a late morning sun, more cold white in it than yellow. How late had I slept? I lay awhile with my eyes closed, in the bed that had been Daddy’s. I lay there thinking of the weight of Justin’s head on me, still smelling the scent his hair had left on my pajama top, the homemade honey shampoo Mrs. Caine must still brew. I thought of the parts of this house that were irrefutable evidence of our childhood: the laundry chute in the front hall that Daddy boarded up after Eve slid down it, the memory of Eve’s hooting war cry and the presence of the nailed boards, both precious. The lines in the closet that marked our growth: no names, only years to denote them because our heights, mine and Eve’s, were always the same.
And then I thought of Eve and I didn’t want to open my eyes. Wanted to stay here shut behind
The front door rattled open. There was the sound of stamping boots.
Justin glanced at me, then called, “In here, Gillie.”
Footsteps slapped down the hall, stopping at the door to the den. I imagined Gillian standing there, watching her mother, maybe reaching to touch her hand.
The footsteps continued to the kitchen. “Hey, Daddy? I was gonna—” She froze and for a second I could see her as she was, this beautiful eleven-year-old girl with wise eyes. But as she looked at me her expression changed, melted, became more like the younger child I’d seen on the jackets of Justin’s novels, the picture I’d held in my mind.
Her nose reddened and she began to tremble, her hands opening, closing, opening, closing, and then with a sob she ran to me, buried herself against my chest. I looked up at Justin, shocked, then wrapped my arms around her, cradled her head. I could scarcely breathe, was dizzy with love for this girl I’d never met, and so I clutched at her like she would save me, this fusing of Eve and Justin, and also of me.
I looked over her shoulder, into Justin’s face. He watched us with his fist against his mouth, eyes clouded.
Suddenly, Gillian pulled away and stumbled backwards. She looked from me to Justin and back, face fragmented with confusion. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then spun away and ran.
“Gillie?” Justin strode after her. “Sweetie?”
I followed them to the den, stunned, numb like I was muffled by a thick coat of fur, and I watched as Gillian crawled into the bed beside her mother and curled, baby-like, head resting on Eve’s chest. Justin watched them, face flushed, then edged forward to smooth the blanket over them both.
I stood there for as long as I could stand it, then backed away to the kitchen.
Not anymore;
I made it echo through my head, a chant, a warning.
Not mine. None of it. Not anymore.
A shuffling woke me sometime in the dead hours before dawn. I lay there a minute, disoriented, then turned my head towards the noise. In the shadows I made out a hunched form on the floor next to the bed. “Justin?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t move. I heard a gulping wet intake of breath. “Justin?” I whispered again.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I really am.”
I watched him for a minute, then reached out my hand.
He took it, held it to his cheek. “When you’re asleep, in this lighting you could be sixteen again.”
“How long were you sitting there?”
He didn’t answer, so I combed his sweat-damp hair back from his temple, not knowing what to feel, not knowing what was right to feel. But when he climbed into bed beside me I let him; the two of us curled against each other, minutes, then hours drifting in and out of sleep, waking with the weight of his head against my chest, the whisper of his hair at my neck. It didn’t feel wrong; it was like comfort, a fullness that I’d almost forgotten how to feel. And when the room finally began to fringe with the shadows of dawn, he touched my cheek and pulled away, closing the door behind him.
The sun filtered through my eyelids, a late morning sun, more cold white in it than yellow. How late had I slept? I lay awhile with my eyes closed, in the bed that had been Daddy’s. I lay there thinking of the weight of Justin’s head on me, still smelling the scent his hair had left on my pajama top, the homemade honey shampoo Mrs. Caine must still brew. I thought of the parts of this house that were irrefutable evidence of our childhood: the laundry chute in the front hall that Daddy boarded up after Eve slid down it, the memory of Eve’s hooting war cry and the presence of the nailed boards, both precious. The lines in the closet that marked our growth: no names, only years to denote them because our heights, mine and Eve’s, were always the same.
And then I thought of Eve and I didn’t want to open my eyes. Wanted to stay here shut behind
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