Page 69 of You Know Why

“Can I see them? The kids? Maybe that will help.”

“Of course. We might want to wait a day or two, though, until you have natural recall of them. It might freak them out, and they’ve had enough scares for a lifetime.”

“If I have children, I need to be discharged. I need to see them. I need to see Trey.”

Margot pats my hand. “I’ll bring them by tomorrow, okay? Let’s make sure this lucidity holds. I can show you pictures later, but they want you to remember as much as you can on your own before we start prompting memories. Like I said, they expected you to be missing parts of the story.”

The word pictures sparks something. Photos. Photography. I am a photographer. Cameras broken into pieces on a plaid blanket. Water lapping the edge of a picturesque riverbank. Alex, talking. Panic. Fear. A gunshot. Blood leaking from his chest.

My mind veers away from those images as if they came with the searing burn of a hot stove. Trey. Hold on to Trey.

There is silence, at least what passes for it in the hospital environment. I apply logic to the situation. My sister is here. My husband is not.

“Trey . . . Is he at home with the kids?”

Margot’s face freezes. “Not exactly.”

And now I understand the loss I’m feeling. “So he did die in the accident? The car that hit us?”

Saying it aloud, though, it doesn’t feel right, but I don’t understand why.

“He’s alive, honey. But Trey is maybe more complicated—ah, perfect timing. Hey, Eden! Look who’s awake!”

Joy and Pain

Eden

I am admittedly surprised and dismayed to see Brooklyn under such duress. Yes, it’s a relief that the breathing machine has been unhooked, and her mouth is visible again. Visiting her has been disconcerting, to put it mildly. The wide tube snaking into her mouth, the one up her nose feeding her, the lines running into her arms, the leads from her chest and head, have been breaking Margot’s heart, and mine, too.

But Brooklyn doesn’t seem happy to see me. She’s staring at me like I’m some sort of nightmare come to visit, her eyes wide, her face pale. I mean, technically, I am the ghost of Christmas past, but it’s clear she doesn’t know why.

“Who are you?” she rasps—oh, her poor voice. Her throat must hurt so badly.

“I’m Eden, Brooklyn. Don’t you recognize me? From Atlanta?”

Margot is holding Brook’s hand. I make my way to the bed and take up residence on the other side. Her skin feels like paper, soft and dry.

“I was so relieved when Margot texted to tell me you’d woken up. You’ve given us quite the scare.”

Brooklyn slowly wrenches her hand out of mine.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”

Margot is watching us with concern. I give her a gentle smile. “It’s fine! That’s fine. You had quite a bang on the head. I’m sure you will remember once you’ve had more time awake.”

“She’s already recalling a lot,” Margot says with pride. “She’s going to own this place in a day or two.”

Brooklyn drags her eyes to her sister. “Um . . . you were saying, about Trey?”

“Oh, let’s not talk about that right now,” she replies, and I have to say, I agree wholeheartedly. Andrew Locke is a thorn in all of our sides. After what he did to his parents . . . and look at the pain he’s causing Brooklyn and the children, running away instead of facing me like a man. Then again, that’s his MO.

“The kids are going to be so excited to see you,” I tell her.

“Where are the kids?” she asks, with an odd sort of longing in her voice. I don’t blame her—I’d miss those cherubs, too, if I hadn’t seen them in three days.

Margot answers, glancing at her watch. “If Eden’s here, that means Neve is at ballet, and Four is at hockey.”

“Ballet . . .” I can tell Brook is trying to remember the details. “And Four plays hockey? I don’t remember that.”