Page 47 of You Know Why

Eden

Margot Thomas is such a dead ringer for her sister that it seems Brooklyn has risen from her deathbed and walked across the room, tearstained and travel rumpled.

When she bursts into the emergency department, I intercept her almost immediately.

“Margot?” It’s silly to ask; she is clearly Brooklyn’s twin. But I’m trying to be helpful. “I’m Eden Barrow. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I got here as quickly as I could. Have you heard anything?”

It’s only then that she realizes I’m holding the children’s hands. With a relieved sigh, she drops to her knees with a giant sob and yanks them to her. They merge into a single being for a moment, all of them crying. She reassures them, and they fall apart for her in ways they haven’t for me. She is their aunt. She is security and safety. I am still a stranger to them.

People are watching us. It is clear something dreadful has happened. The looks, the stares, the whispers. Emotions run high in an emergency room, yes, but this . . . this is something more, and they all know it. A woman in the corner makes the sign of the cross. That’s good. Brooklyn is going to need all the help she can get, in this life and the next.

Finally, Margot stands, wiping her pretty eyes. She wears her hair differently—it’s a shade darker than Brooklyn’s, with fashionable bangs. She gives off a more bohemian vibe than her preppy, uptight sister. “Sorry. It’s been a horrible few hours.”

“Don’t apologize. There’s no more news. She hit her head on the curb and has a deep laceration above her ear, so they stitched that up. She’s been in and out of consciousness. They don’t know if there will be permanent damage.” I cast my voice low. “They’re more concerned that she stays with us through the night. The attending physician would like to speak with you. Shall we go find her?”

Margot stands. The children cling to her like limpets. “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of them and for keeping me updated. I know you need to get back to your life. Can I pay you for your time?”

“Goodness no.” It comes out louder and sharper than I mean. “I just mean, anyone would do the same. Really, it’s no bother. I’d like to stick around. I feel responsible, and you can use a hand with the kids. They’re pretty traumatized.”

She’s too upset to argue. I lead her and the kids through the doors, and we hit the elevator. Brooklyn’s been admitted; her room is on the second floor. We wind through the anonymous hallways until I find the family room.

“You get settled, and I’ll let the nurses know you’re here.”

She nods with gratitude, collapsing into the too-firm tan vegan-leather sofa, gathering the kids to her like chicks under soft, downy wings. “Thank you, Eden.”

It’s been a long time since I was comforted like that.

The doctor arrives, wearing scrubs and clogs, dark hair in a chin-length bob, and says her name is Dr. Christie. She is kind and gentle, speaks to us quietly, but in terrifying terms, most of which neither of us truly understands. The gist of it, as far as I can gather, is that in addition to the head laceration and some bumps and bruises, Brooklyn has a severe concussion. There is some swelling on her brain. They are monitoring it closely. The doctor won’t give odds, just says they are cautiously optimistic that with time, she will be okay.

“How long, do you think?” Margot asks.

“Assuming the swelling doesn’t get any worse, maybe a few days. The first twenty-four hours are the most critical. She’s young and healthy, and we started treatment right away. Fingers crossed.”

“Can I see her?”

“She’s asleep right now. She was pretty out of it, but agitated, which is to be expected, so we gave her a light sedative. She’s scheduled for a second series of CT scans to make sure we aren’t missing anything. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. Try not to worry. She’s in good hands.”

When the doctor leaves, I hold Margot while she falls apart, then hold the children while she puts herself back together again.

I understand more than most the horror of having a sister who is hurt, who’s died. How life fractures into before and after, how easy it is to despair, to lose hope. Being a twin makes it all that much harder, I think. It’s not unusual to feel like half of your own body is being torn away, but for Margot, it’s like she’s lost part of her soul, too.

Finally, late or early, I can’t tell, a nurse stays with the children, who are asleep on the sofa under a fuzzy blanket, holding on to each other for dear life, sweet things, and they let us in her room. Together, we watch Brooklyn sleep. Dream, too, if the rictus grimaces and short cries are any indication. She wakes and looks around in terror, then disappears, again and again. She is bruised, her head wrapped in gauze, leads and lines running to and from her body. It’s frightening. I don’t know if she’s going to make it.

In her fugue state, Brooklyn calls for people and apologizes. She babbles and falls silent. Her eyes rarely open; when they do, it’s disconcerting—one eye is nearly black inside, a vermilion sclera from the accident.

The nurses pull Brooklyn from her dreams again and again, from the twilight where she exists under the sedative, neither waking nor sleeping, to try to keep her conscious. She moans in pain, and the nurses shoo us out of the room while they do another exam. Margot lingers, crying, then disappears into the hall.

I find her leaning against the wall, breathing deeply. Square breathing, like you do for a panic attack. Her head is back, the thick shearling coat she’s been wearing abandoned on the floor by her booted feet. She swipes a hand under her eyes and looks at me. “This sucks.”

“It does.”

“Seeing her hurting like that, it’s awful. She can’t move without screaming. How long will that last?”

“They’ll get the pain under control. It’s only been a few hours since the accident.”

“When we were little, and one of us got hurt, we’d tell each other fairy tales to distract from the pain. We’d disappear into some woods or cross an ocean or run from a wolf or become princesses locked in a tower, and we’d forget about the hurt. Next time they let us in, I’m going to try a story.”