Page 93 of You Know Why

I can’t help but dimple at the compliment, though it’s not my victory to claim. “Simple terroir common sense. What grows in the ground regionally is usually the best pairing. I’ve been reading all of Brooklyn’s articles. She’s the one who mentioned it. I’m learning from her. She’s so talented at all of this! I can’t wait for her to come home so we can get to know one another better. I already feel like she’s a good friend.”

Margot is tipsy, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. I top her off.

“Don’t tell her,” she says, whispering as if Brooklyn is in the next room, not across town in the hospital, “but I don’t usually read her work. Just like she doesn’t offer her opinion on my designs. Our parents made it a point when we were growing up to help us cultivate different interests so we weren’t in each other’s pockets all the time. It rubbed off. We’ve always stayed out of each other’s way professionally, and that allows us to socialize and hang out. If we were in the same fields, or even giving input, we’d get competitive. We both want to be right, we both want to win. It was smart of them to encourage us to move on separate paths so we could be sisters instead of rivals.”

I lean forward conspiratorially. “Well, I’ll say this. She’s an incredibly talented photographer, but her writing isn’t quite as good. It’s still excellent, but you can tell where her real passion lies. Her photos are impeccable.”

Margot nods gravely. If she is upset by my criticism, it doesn’t show. “She always had an eye. When we were little, our parents took us all over the country. I was in a touring ballet company, and Brook would bring her camera, and we’d go on all kinds of adventures. There are tons of old photo albums upstairs in the cabinet with pictures from all of our trips.”

“Oh, how nice. I will have to look at them. Here, have some more.”

The bottle is empty now, and I sip at my glass genteelly. This new life of mine has taken on such shape and texture so quickly that it’s almost hard to remember the before, when I was alone in Atlanta, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

I run a finger along Margot’s forearm. She watches me, eyes full of longing.

“Aunt Margot?”

I jerk back. Four is standing in the dining room doorway, pale and sweaty.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Margot hurries to Four’s side. The wine—and me—forgotten.

“Don’t feel good. Neve too.”

Our quiet evening is over. Margot attends to the children, and I clear the table and scrub down the kitchen until it sparkles.

Upstairs, I hear disgusting noises, and Margot calls down. “Eden, a little help here?”

Both are throwing up, poor things: Neve in the shared bath, Four in his mother’s toilet. I bring trash bags and buckets, and we spend the night with them, ferrying out sick, until their stomachs are empty and raw. I make peppermint tea, which helps, and milkshakes, which don’t, then we put them back to bed and tuck them in for a nap.

Margot wakes me an hour later. She’s feeling poorly now, too. I bring her some Sprite and put her to bed.

Three sick ducklings. What a shame.

It’s a miracle I don’t come down with it.

I stay home and care for them. They need me. And I don’t want to drag anything to the hospital, so we leave Brooklyn to her own devices. I hate to do it, but the nurse on call tells me it’s better for us to stay away now. They’re doing a new assessment, trying a new protocol, to see if it helps her come back to herself.

It’s a whole day before my little family can stomach real food again. We are rewarded with chicken soup and wonderful news.

Brooklyn is coming home.

Life, Fractured

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful river in the French countryside. And there was a lover with whom to share the splendor. A soft blanket. Cheeses. Baguettes. Foie gras. Vodka. Laughter.

The naughty girl has grown up and is having the time of her life. She travels the world and gets paid for it. She is a commodity. She is desired, personally and professionally.

She talks to the good sister more now. They have become friends. The good sister has her own life, her own passions. She dances, and she loves, and she lives, too. They understand one another. Support one another’s choices. The good sister is so different from the naughty one. They aren’t even naughty or good anymore. They are just sisters.

So when things go badly, when the pressure, the situation, the consequences become too much to handle, the sister is the first person she calls.

And the sister, knowing she is needed, gets on a plane.

I Give Up

Trey

When Trey comes back to life, he feels the motion of tires on pavement. He’s in a car. The confinement around his shoulders tells him he’s been shoved in a trunk. He can feel something hard against his femur, realizes a tourniquet has been placed around his thigh to keep him from bleeding out. His arm is sore. His head is throbbing, and he tastes metallic blood in his mouth.