Page 92 of You Know Why

That’s where things get blurry. I don’t remember why, or how, he died, just a sense of disquiet, fear, a plaid picnic blanket, the water lapping the bank, cold, cold vodka, Roger—and a gun.

So when Alex came back, I was overjoyed to see him. And when he tried to kill me in the hospital, the betrayal I felt was almost as bad as the ring of bruises around my throat.

They said I did it to myself.

But why would I do that?

Why would he?

It takes a few rounds of medication shifts to discover that I’m reacting to the Adderall they put me on to try to help my brain focus. My blood work shows a huge amount of it in my system. They think the combination of that medication and some others I’m on metabolized strangely. When they take me off of it, the hallucinations lessen dramatically, slipping away through the veil with the other dead things.

Alex goes with them, and as happy as I am to be back in reality after hours of sheer terror, the loss hurts.

It’s hard to lose a love to violence. I think it was violence. The image of the gun comes to me all the time. With it, blood. Screams. The rushing water. The body . . .

I think I understand Trey a little better now.

It’s funny—he never talked about Chloe, and I never talked about Alex. I never spoke about Roger, either. I wonder if we would have been able to help each other through the pain of these respective losses.

I miss my husband. With past and present colliding, I miss them both.

Rambling On

Eden

We are all so very worried about Brooklyn.

Brain injuries are unpredictable at best. The doctors are baffled. She was improving so well, ready to come home, and then this happened. Poor girl. She doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t, and that’s a dangerous place for her. And for the children. I am reluctant to let them visit, because we just never know what we’re going to get. Is she rational, aware, in the now? Or is she seeing things? She’s been muttering names of people who are unfamiliar to all of us, and a few who aren’t.

A man she calls Alex, in particular, seems to be a regular visitor. Margot assures me he is long dead, but Brooklyn insists he tried to hurt her. The nurse on duty said Brook was having one of her episodes, and when she entered the room, she found her alone, squeezing her neck. The bruises were gruesome.

Poor Brooklyn is unhinged, and that’s frightening for everyone.

Margot tells me over dinner about the man her twin was once in love with.

“It was an unhealthy relationship. He was volatile but incredibly charming. Brook wanted out, she just didn’t know how. When he died, it was a blessing, truly. She probably doesn’t see it that way, but trust me, Alex was troubled.”

“They were close, though?”

“For a while, very. When she got hired by Bandolier, that’s when things got complicated. Alex didn’t like the relationship Brooklyn had with Roger. All the travel intimacy. They were just friends, but Roger liked her, had a little crush, and that upset Alex. There were lots of fights, things got tense. And then, of course, Bandolier died, and Alex, too, and Brooklyn came home a shell of the woman she was before she met him. Trey fixed her. He loved her back to herself.”

We are drinking a lovely pinot noir from the Burgundy region—Brooklyn and Andrew have an extensive wine cellar that I’ve been raiding with impunity. I like wine; I’ve just never known much about it. I’ve been studying Brooklyn’s wine atlas, learning what’s what. There are so many videos online from sommeliers sharing their knowledge. It’s a new hobby, a wonderful pastime, when I have a quiet moment, that is. The children take so much of my time.

Margot enjoys seeing what I’ve picked to accompany our evening meal. Tonight, I’ve made a beef bourguignon, which is fitting for the pairing. The children loved it, though Four was reluctant to try his pearl onions. We’re working on his palate; it needs a level up in sophistication. Neve will eat anything I put in front of her like a starving animal. I’ve already had to take out the waistband of her tutu. Her teacher sent a note suggesting that perhaps we should consider a small diet, but that’s nonsense in my mind. She’s a growing girl, about to hit a spurt. I remember when Chloe was her age and I fed her my leftovers. It made her chubby for a minute, and then she grew four inches in a single summer. Young bodies need sustenance.

The children are in bed now, happily tucked in after a small ice cream snack and a bedtime story. We’re definitely in a good groove. They’ve come to accept me as a new part of their daily lives. It was easy, really, to step in and lend a hand. It’s a calling, a duty, a pleasure.

I used to care for Chloe like this. When our parents decided I was old enough to babysit, I was thrilled to be in charge. To protect, to nurture. She wasn’t always obedient, but at the end of the night, after her bath, when she was warm and sleepy, she loved a bedtime story.

I tell the children all of their aunt Chloe’s favorites: Snow White, Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood. How they have never heard these tales . . . They ask for more modern fare, but it’s important for children to be educated in the classics. Neve especially loves Cinderella. She wants to choreograph a ballet to the story.

Next week I’ll start them on mythology. They’re clever creatures; they’ll love hearing these tales of immortal bravery and courage.

They often ask about their father when he was a child their age, and I tell them all the stories I remember. How he stole the flag from the school’s pole and draped it over the principal’s front door so when he walked out, he got tangled up in it. How he used to run every morning in the summers before school started to keep himself in shape in between seasons. How he used to look at Chloe like she was the sun and the moon and the stars.

They love to hear about Chloe. About how kind and sweet she was. How close we were. How their father adored her. She is a real princess in a real tower who was trapped by a real monster. They want to meet her, but I tell them she’s gone to heaven. I don’t tell them how. They won’t understand. I show them pictures instead. I have many on my phone to choose from.

Margot sips her wine and hums appreciatively. We’re halfway through the bottle now, and her eyes have taken on a glowy sheen. “I had no idea how French wines do well with onion-heavy dishes, and Italian wines with garlic. You’re a genius.”