Page 96 of You Know Why

“I’m not really hungry. But I could murder a cup of tea.”

We start toward the kitchen. The house looks charming, sporting its holiday decorations. Typically, we take them down the weekend after Christmas, clearing out the clutter and resetting for the new year. That will give me something banal to do. Touching each ornament and wreath should bring back all kinds of memories.

When I turn right out of the foyer, there is a strange woman standing in front of the double ovens. Her back is facing us, and she moves as if she doesn’t hear us. I clear my throat.

She whips around, a sheet pan in her hand. Jumping slightly, she puts her free hand on her heart and drops the tray to the stovetop with a clatter.

“Oh, you startled me. I had hoped to have these done before you arrived. Welcome home, Brooklyn!”

And What Do We Have Here?

I look to Margot, a wild sort of panic thudding in my chest. The house smells of cookies, and a stranger is in what I know is my place. The kitchen is my domain. This is a violation.

My twin reaches out a reassuring hand, her voice calm and soft. “Brook, it’s Eden. Look again.”

I shake my head. I know I should remember this woman. I know I’ve seen her before, talked to her before. I understand it’s just the new environment throwing me, the spatial difference of seeing her in the hospital versus seeing her in my home.

In my home.

Still, I want to get away, far away, right now. But Eden is crossing the kitchen with her arms out, a huge smile on her face. She gathers me into a hug, seeming to ignore that I’ve gone stiff.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you home and okay. We’ve all been worried sick. The past couple of days, the hallucinations . . . goodness.” She steps back, still holding my shoulders. I wrench myself away, and she frowns. “A little thin, but we can fix that. You said you wanted some tea? I already have a pot ready. It’s on the table. Let me just get the cookies off the sheet before they overcook, and you can have one with your tea. Decaf Earl Grey, one stevia, right?”

Margot, sensing my dismay, puts a hand gently on my arm and pulls me to the table. “Just sit down and catch your breath.”

I sit, trying to calm the chills racing through my body.

Eden drops a mug of tea in front of me, and hands me a plate—my mother’s china, the delicate rosebud Spode that we never, ever use—with two piping hot chocolate chip cookies on it. I immediately push them away.

“Oh, they’re safe as houses. I used your recipe from the magazine. Almond flour and sugar-free chocolate chips. They won’t make you sick.”

“I’m not hungry.”

A flash of something across Eden’s face. Anger? It’s gone as quick as it came, the broad smile in its place. “I’ll just put them in a container so they don’t spoil. The kids love them. They should still be warm when they get home.”

The mention of this woman feeding my children brings on a wave of rage. I leap to my feet and charge across the kitchen.

“How the fuck dare you? Get out of my house. Leave. Now!”

Margot steps between us. “Eden, sorry, sorry, they said she might not have control over her emotions. She doesn’t mean it.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Let’s just all take a breath. Brooklyn, you’re having a moment. They said this might happen. You know Eden. You know she’s been an essential part of our lives since the accident. She’s taken time off work, has helped me with the kids. You just don’t recognize her face in this setting, that’s all. You’ll put it all together soon. The short-term memories are the ones that will come last. Dr. Lui said so.”

I try to steady myself, taking deep breaths. My therapists did warn me I might have some “dysregulated thoughts” as I healed. I shut my eyes tight and try to think about the night of the accident. Of Trey leaving. Of meeting this woman. Of Eden in the hospital, standing over me with such concern. Of the hallucinations that followed. Of the day we met—the airport in Atlanta. The plane. I know her name, I know she is involved, I know the FBI is protecting her. But of the corporeal aspect of the woman? She seems like a stranger. A dangerous stranger.

Why?

“I’m sorry,” Eden says sincerely. “I’ll leave. It’s fine, Margot. I don’t want to be an imposition or upset Brooklyn.”

“You’re not,” Margot tells her. “Let’s just give it a moment, okay?”

You’re totally an imposition, I think, but instead excuse myself, ignoring Margot’s calls after me. She could have warned me. It’s not fair to be ambushed like this.

They clearly planned this little surprise.

I flee up the stairs, the Berber runner soft against my feet. The house is familiar and strange at the same time. The landing has a creamy couch and bookshelves, more decorative than a decent seating area, with a box of toys in the corner. I don’t remember it looking like this. Ordered. Clean. Even the decorations feel . . . more purposeful than I remember.