The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry Page B

in love with him. As much as an eleven-year-old can be in love. But he loved you.”
    â€œHe was my best friend,” I say.
    â€œUm, yeah. Sure thing, Eve.”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about this. It was a long, long time ago.”
    â€œHave you remembered number nine yet?” she asks, wiggling nine fingers in the air.
    â€œNo, I was hoping you’d help.”
    â€œGreat idea, sis. Get the brain-injured girl to help you remember.” She laughs and leans toward me.
    â€œShush.”
    â€œBut, yes.” She nods and sips her tea. “Absolutely I want to keep helping with this.”
    I take a lavender macaroon and pop it into my mouth. Willa picks up the other one, vanilla, and takes a tiny nibble from its corner, so hers lasts longer.
    I stand. “I need to go. I have to check in on the studio. If you want to come over for dinner tonight, I’m making lasagna. Just walk over in a couple hours.”
    â€œThanks, but I’ll probably just stay here. I want to get into my bed and sleep on a real pillow. I want to go all night without something beeping or someone poking me.”
    â€œCall me if you need anything at all. Anything. When Marci came to clean, I had her put groceries in your fridge, so you have the basics.”
    She takes another sip of her tea. “I will pay you back. Someday I will make up for this.”

 
    nine
    There is a story behind everything. Those are the words Cooper uses at the beginning of his keynote speeches, or his fund-raising talks, or his retelling of how he started his e-magazine publishing company. That’s also the tagline under the Fine Line, Ink’s logo. I’d never thought much of the fact that he took that sentiment from my letterpress company. It’s a compliment when your husband uses something of yours, when he admires your work enough to emulate it.
    Tonight, when he begins his speech, I will be able to mouth the words: There’s a story behind everything. He will then launch into his own story of how baseball changed his life, how he once believed he’d play college ball, until he threw out his shoulder. His talk will end on a high note, but for now, it’s three in the afternoon and I’m checking on every last detail for the party.
    It hasn’t always been this way—with me trying to prove my worth to Cooper. But it’s this way now and I can feel the push of the idea behind me: Show him and maybe he won’t be so upset about everything else—my sister, our daughter, my time at the studio. A hundred people will be here soon. I left the caterer in the kitchen, placing canapés on silver trays. The string quartet arrived an hour ago and they are deciding where to set up. Along the driveway, strings of twinkle lights cast a starlight glow from the trees, the heavens closer to earth. Nice, it’s all looking exactly as I planned.
    The party has a theme—baseball—but the theme for me is all about getting through the evening.
    I amble up the long driveway. One string of lights has come unhinged and hangs like a soft hammock of stars. “Brian,” I call out to the workman who hung the lights, but there’s no answer. Against the tree, the ladder rests with its pegged feet digging into the earth. I’m on the top step, tucking the string back into the branches, when I hear Max’s laughter, and I wonder if he is talking to Francie or Willa, and what is so funny. I lean my forehead against the tree. The bark is rough, a calloused hand on my skin, and I close my eyes. Then I hear my name.
    â€œEve,” Max says, and I look down, startled he is below me.
    â€œOh,” I say, and grip the ladder. “What are you doing?”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” He squints against the evening sun.
    â€œA string fell loose.” I climb down to face him. “And I couldn’t find Brian.”
    We’re facing each other and he’s holding the