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Lulu’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Too angered to speak, I shook my head. Trying to cajole me into a better mood with bribery was not going to work.
Ignoring him, I searched through one of the kitchen drawers for tablemats and proceeded to set the table. The atmosphere in the kitchen was arctic, and it was my fault, but I was too livid to care. Lulu glanced from me to Dylan and shrugged, for once keeping her mouth shut. Dylan picked up his phone, and I thought he was checking email, but the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon filled the room from the HomePod.
I whirled around and glared at him. He stared back, his eyes filled with tender humor. If he had been gloating, or superior or unpleasant in any way, I swear I would have lost it with him. But his quiet amusement, even at my expense, was totally disarming. In spite of myself, I smiled, remembering his bad mood of a few days ago and my failed attempt to bring him out of it.
“Pachelbel’s Canon has rubbish parts for cello,” I muttered.
“Really?” He smiled.
“Rubbish. Eight notes. That’s it. Supper’s ready.”
“Looks delicious, Emily,” he said.
“Yes. Yummy,” Lulu agreed.
I left them to the washing up. Anxious to complete the move to the new room, I headed upstairs to move my remaining clothes. I dragged my full suitcase from the spare room and decided to hang some of my clothes, but I was missing hangers. We’d forgotten them at IKEA.
Hell. I didn’t want to go downstairs and interrupt whatever Dr. Inventive and Lulu might be doing. Perhaps Dylan had spare hangers in his wardrobe. I could just have a quick peek.
I’d never been inside Dylan’s bedroom, and I felt I was trespassing as I tentatively pushed the door open and peered in. Like the rest of the house, it was all white with the same dark-wood furniture as in the spare room. And in keeping with the rest of the house, it was tidy and uncluttered like a show home or a glossy Sunday magazine ad for furniture. I couldn’t find a wardrobe, but there were two doors off his room. Cautiously, I opened one to find a walk-in closet. His clothes were hung up neat and orderly. Everything was clean, fastidious—not what I was used to at all. I thought of home—scruffy, untidy, chaotic, noisy, laughing.
Home. No! I put a halt on those thoughts.
Lulu’s clothes hung on one small rail. There were a few items.
So, she did keep stuff here.
I found three spare hangers, so I grabbed them and went back into Dylan’s bedroom. There, I noticed a pot on the chest of drawers, a small, incongruous pot that looked familiar. A small rolled-clay pot made by a child—made by Billy.
Oh no!
Inside were some gold cuff links and a signet ring. I ran my finger around the edge of the pot. Billy had made this. Darling, darling baby Billy. Funny, sporty, adventurous Billy, in a house full of musicians and academics.
Oh no.
Billy, my baby brother… My dead baby brother.
I missed him so much—his silly jokes, his Legos, his football obsession, which I never understood or cared for.
Why hadn’t I taken more interest in his hobbies? Why? Why didn’t I take some time to try to understand, just to humor him? He was only a little boy. A beautiful little boy—my baby brother, who was cold and dead and buried in chalky soil.
I grabbed the pot and clutched it to me. I missed him. I missed him so much.
Why couldn’t he have been spared too? We’d have had each other. Poor Billy.
No… Billy… No… No… No.
My equilibrium collapsed, and I sank to the floor, keening quietly.
Billy, Billy, Billy.
I started to rock and whispered. “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.”
“Jesus, Emily!” Dylan stared down at me in horror.
“Billy,” I whispered, because it was the only way I could explain the agony that had sliced me open, little by little, leaving me bloody and bleeding.
Dylan’s jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed with pain. He knelt down beside me, and I held the pot out in front of him. “He made this for you,” I whispered through my tears. “He was so excited. He painted it in your team colors. You were the only one interested in football. Oh, Dylan, I miss him so much.”
