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Should be wary of making smiles fade.
For what goes around comes around
And kills you without a sound
Leaving you dead in the bed that you made.
I confess it is rather dark, but I was a child living with a death sentence at the time. Perhaps if I’d known back then that I’d still be around now, I might have had a more cheerful disposition.
But I didn’t know I was living in a family full of liars.
My mother lied to me—and everyone else—about how long I had left to live. The doctor who made her cry at the hospital hadn’t given herbadnews about my life expectancy. It was the opposite. Thanks to medical advances, that doctor thought I could go on to live a lot longer than everyone previously believed. He was right. My death sentence had effectively been revoked thanks to science. I just needed one more operation. But my mother didn’t tell me at the time. She didn’t tell anyone at all at first. And she didn’t sign the consent form. It was as though shewantedme to be broken forever.
Some secrets really shouldn’t be shared.
There are no other Daisy-shaped achievements to see on the wall. Maybe some members of this family didn’t think I amountedto much—volunteering at a care home for the elderly might not seem like an accomplishment to people who have spent their lives reaching for the stars—but I was always happy to keep my feet firmly on the ground and watch the stars sparkle in the sky where they belong. I’m proud of what I do, helping and caring for people who can no longer care for themselves. Being there when it matters most.
Framed book covers decorate the rest of the library wall—some of Nana’s own favorites, includingDaisy Darker’s Little Secret.Nana had Conor’s first cover story on the front of theCornish Timesframed too. His father disappeared the day after the Halloween beach party in 1988, and Nana let Conor move in with her at Seaglass for a while. The start of Conor’s career in journalism did not go well—he seemed to spend more time making tea than writing stories—so Nana let him do a rare interview with her, which made the front page. Then she framed it so that he would know that she considered him one of the family, and that she was proud of him.
Conor has worked so hard to get where he is today. He’s done more working than living for the last decade. I imagine an exclusive story about the murder of the celebrated children’s author Beatrice Darker and her family in an eccentric house on a remote tidal island would be good for his career. Making the jump from a local newspaper, to local TV, to London, to network news, before finally achieving his dream of becoming a BBC crime correspondent was not easy. I think his success has exceeded even his own expectations. But success is a drug: the more people have, the more they want. And Conor has always been a man with something to prove, if only to himself. Sometimes when people try too hard to be more than they are, they end up being less than they were.
The frame on the Wall of Achievements that belonged to Conoris still there, but the faded newspaper article that had been inside it for over a decade is gone. I’m not the only one to notice.
“Someone stole my front page,” he says, taking a closer look.
The frame isn’t empty. Rose and I step forward to read the piece of paper that has taken the newspaper’s place. It’s an official-looking typed letter, with only a handful of words. But those words change everything.
Dear Ms. Darker,
Test report for case ref: DAR2004TD
Your supplied samples have been analyzed and our results can be summarized as follows:
Alleged father:Conor Kennedy
Mother:Lily Darker
Child:Trixie Darker
Based on our analysis, we can conclude without reasonable doubt that Conor Kennedy is the biological father of Trixie Darker. Please call us for further details if you would like to discuss these results.
I stare at the words printed on the paper for a long time, trying to make sense of them. Then I remember Conor and Lily on the beach in 1988 and do the math. I’m sure I’m the only person in the family who knew that they’d slept together, but I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been never to have put the pieces of the puzzle together before. Lily was always very casual about sex. I thought Trixie’s father could be just about anyone. It never, ever occurred to me that it was Conor. We all have to compromise between the ideas we can afford to live inside and the ones we hope to inhabit.
Rose stares at Conor. So do I. He stares at the framed letter fora very long time before turning to look at Trixie, who is still sitting on the floor staring into space. She hasn’t said a word since Lily died.
Having a niece is as close as I’ll ever get to having a child of my own. Most doctors I met over the years said that people with my condition should never risk getting pregnant; that if I did, a pregnancy would put so much pressure on my heart that it would almost certainly kill me. Trixie is my world in some ways. I’ve never felt anything but love for the child since the first time I saw her. I think some people might presume that she wasmydaughter if they saw us side by side, we look enough alike, but now I turn to stare at her as though she were a stranger.
“Why are you all looking at me like that? What does it say?” Trixie asks, a new frown forming on her tearstained face. Nobody answers, because we can hear someone walking around upstairs again. Someone who shouldn’t be.
43
October 31, 4:55 a.m.
just over one hour until low tide
I turn to stare at Conor and see that his face has drained of color. He looks at Rose, then at me, then at Trixie again.
“I didn’t know,” he whispers. “I was drunk. I presumed she was on the pill. If I’d known… why didn’t she tell me?” I look at Rose and wonder if she has done the math too. There’s something strange about the expression on her face. Lack of surprise, perhaps? “I always wanted to be a better father than my own,” Conor says to nobody in particular before turning away. I think he might be crying.
