Ben was right. He hadn’t sent a letter, just a couple of short telegrams. He’d sent a note to Lorelei’s father later of course, along with a few of Lorelei’s things. But he’d never written Ben directly. Ben who’d once looked up to him and followed him everywhere. Had he really treated Ben—the closest thing he had to a brother, besides Isaac Jessup—like he didn’t matter? Like he’d forgotten him entirely?
Jem winced inwardly.
It was true, in a way.
Right after Lorelei died, it was like he couldn’t think clearly at all. It was like his brain only had room for one thought: She’s gone .
He’d thought about how Lorelei’s father and Ben would take the news. Of course he had. He’d known they’d miss her. He’d known they’d grieve too, but it had been a far-off sort of realization, like something happening to someone else. Certainly, not anything he could help them with.
He’d wanted to hide himself in a cave for months and never come out, but he’d had Mae. She’d just been a baby, not quite two. He hadn’t been able to hide. He had to keep going. Any ounce of wherewithal went to his daughter: getting her fed, comforting her when she wouldn’t stop crying, rocking her until she finally fell asleep. He’d had to pack up the house and sell off his veterinary practice on his own. He’d had to pack up the rest of their belongings too. There’d been all that sorting: going through Lorelei’s dresses, her papers, all her stories and the bundles of letters she’d kept, her jewelry, even her underthings. Every little thing had taken a slice out of him. There’d been nothing left of him to give.
He’d gone to Seattle to grieve, to get help with Mae. By the time he got to Becky and Isaac’s, he’d nearly fallen on his face in bed and not risen for weeks. That was what he’d wanted to do, needed to do. He hadn’t been able to though. Not with Mae still needing him. Demanding his attention. So he’d walked around like he was walking through water over his head. Everything came at him sort of slurred. Nothing seemed to have as much meaning anymore.
“You’re right—I should have.” It was like scales falling from his eyes. “I should have sent something.”
“But you’re not sorry.”
“Of course I’m sorry,” Jem said, annoyed now. He reflexively scratched through his beard. “I wrote after your father died, didn’t I?”
That too had been a short note.
“What’s that all over your face, anyway?” Ben asked, changing tacks. “Forget to shave for the last six months? Or maybe you’re hiding...?”
So much hostility. It was a new Ben, one Jem wasn’t so sure he liked very much.
“I’m not hiding from anything. Or anyone,” Jem said, glancing at Ray, who was standing back silently watching, eyeing them as if they were a couple of irate bobcats circling each other.
“Sure you’re not,” Ben said. “I think you’re scared—scared someone’s going to find out—that it was all your fault she died. You could have stopped it. Could’ve brought her home first.”
Jem flinched, hopefully not so much that anyone noticed, but, from the glimmer of awareness in his eyes, Ben did.
“It wasn’t that way, Ben,” Jem said, each word a pinprick of pain. “She died. There wasn’t anything I could do.”
Ray shifted, his stance a bit hesitant, like he wanted to intervene, wanted to say something.
“Couldn’t?” Ben asked, his face a mask. He wasn’t snarling, he wasn’t yelling, but an air of disdain practically rolled off him. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”
“Ben—” Ray started in a cautioning tone, but Jem wasn’t going to hide behind the older man, especially not after Ben’s accusation.
“Not that kind of doctor,” he said. “I work with horses—you know that.”
Even as the words left his mouth, Jem knew there was only one problem with what he said: He was guilty. He should’ve done something. He should’ve known. He’d lost
Jem winced inwardly.
It was true, in a way.
Right after Lorelei died, it was like he couldn’t think clearly at all. It was like his brain only had room for one thought: She’s gone .
He’d thought about how Lorelei’s father and Ben would take the news. Of course he had. He’d known they’d miss her. He’d known they’d grieve too, but it had been a far-off sort of realization, like something happening to someone else. Certainly, not anything he could help them with.
He’d wanted to hide himself in a cave for months and never come out, but he’d had Mae. She’d just been a baby, not quite two. He hadn’t been able to hide. He had to keep going. Any ounce of wherewithal went to his daughter: getting her fed, comforting her when she wouldn’t stop crying, rocking her until she finally fell asleep. He’d had to pack up the house and sell off his veterinary practice on his own. He’d had to pack up the rest of their belongings too. There’d been all that sorting: going through Lorelei’s dresses, her papers, all her stories and the bundles of letters she’d kept, her jewelry, even her underthings. Every little thing had taken a slice out of him. There’d been nothing left of him to give.
He’d gone to Seattle to grieve, to get help with Mae. By the time he got to Becky and Isaac’s, he’d nearly fallen on his face in bed and not risen for weeks. That was what he’d wanted to do, needed to do. He hadn’t been able to though. Not with Mae still needing him. Demanding his attention. So he’d walked around like he was walking through water over his head. Everything came at him sort of slurred. Nothing seemed to have as much meaning anymore.
“You’re right—I should have.” It was like scales falling from his eyes. “I should have sent something.”
“But you’re not sorry.”
“Of course I’m sorry,” Jem said, annoyed now. He reflexively scratched through his beard. “I wrote after your father died, didn’t I?”
That too had been a short note.
“What’s that all over your face, anyway?” Ben asked, changing tacks. “Forget to shave for the last six months? Or maybe you’re hiding...?”
So much hostility. It was a new Ben, one Jem wasn’t so sure he liked very much.
“I’m not hiding from anything. Or anyone,” Jem said, glancing at Ray, who was standing back silently watching, eyeing them as if they were a couple of irate bobcats circling each other.
“Sure you’re not,” Ben said. “I think you’re scared—scared someone’s going to find out—that it was all your fault she died. You could have stopped it. Could’ve brought her home first.”
Jem flinched, hopefully not so much that anyone noticed, but, from the glimmer of awareness in his eyes, Ben did.
“It wasn’t that way, Ben,” Jem said, each word a pinprick of pain. “She died. There wasn’t anything I could do.”
Ray shifted, his stance a bit hesitant, like he wanted to intervene, wanted to say something.
“Couldn’t?” Ben asked, his face a mask. He wasn’t snarling, he wasn’t yelling, but an air of disdain practically rolled off him. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”
“Ben—” Ray started in a cautioning tone, but Jem wasn’t going to hide behind the older man, especially not after Ben’s accusation.
“Not that kind of doctor,” he said. “I work with horses—you know that.”
Even as the words left his mouth, Jem knew there was only one problem with what he said: He was guilty. He should’ve done something. He should’ve known. He’d lost
Similar Books
