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He doesn’t ask what it’s about; I knew he wouldn’t. Sometimes, I wonder if it bothers them: the fact that my life moves forward when Margaret’s came to such an abrupt and violent ending, like a car careening into a wall. My job, my husband, my son. All reminders of what she wouldn’t have. What I took from her.
But then again, maybe it brings them some semblance of comfort that I’ve managed to destroy those things on my own.
“How are you, honey?” my mother finally asks, the addition of her voice both sudden and startling. “How are you holding up?”
I look over at her. There’s that question again. The question nobody really wants you to answer.
“I’m… you know,” I say, giving her a pinched smile. “Not great, honestly.”
“Any updates with the case?”
My dad cuts in, and I can feel the shift of power in the room again, almost like the way a storm cloud alters the pressure in the air, making it harder to breathe. They had met Mason, of course—I would never keep my parents from meeting their grandson—but by the time he came into this world, the distance between us had grown so vast, there was nothing we could do to cross it. I remember them stepping into my home for the first and last time, glancing around as if they were in a museum, too afraid to touch anything. Tiptoeing around rogue toys and dirty laundry the same way I had always navigated their antique vases and breakable things with a sense of acute awareness, though that sharp tang of irony seemed to have gone over their heads completely. Ben had ushered them toward me as I nursed Mason on the couch, my old button-up stained and sour, and I’ll never forget the way my mother blushed when she saw me like that, her eyes darting to the ground like she was embarrassed for us both. The entire visit, my father had been the one to hold him, smellinghis head and pinching his cheeks, while she sat silently by his side. At one point, he had thrust Mason toward her, gesturing for her to take him, and I felt a spasm in my chest as she looked at him, then up at me, muttering a quietExcuse mebefore standing up and walking back outside.
Like her own grandson would make her break out in hives.
She had been thinking about Margaret, I’m sure. About how she should have been there—or, more likely, about how it should have been her baby we were all in town to see. I’m sure she had been imagining her singing to that doll, hushing to her sleep. Bouncing her on her knee in the kitchen.
Margaret would have been such a good mother. A better mother than me.
“No, not really,” I say at last. It dawns on me now: I wonder if they’ve suspected it all along. Mason’s disappearance. I wonder if they heard the news, saw my face on the television screen, and thought to themselves:It happened again.
I wonder if they pictured me at night, holding him in the dark the same way I must have held Margaret’s hand. If they’ve been protecting me now the same way they protected me then: through silence, secrets. Lies.
“Well, keep us posted,” my father says, like we’re talking about a job interview. We’ve never really gotten the hang of how to interact with one another since Margaret left us. Without her around to pad our interactions, they’ve felt jagged and awkward, like old friends bumping into each other at the grocery store. Exchanging pleasantries while biting our tongues, tasting blood, racking our brains for excuses to leave.
“I passed the cemetery on my way here,” I say, looking for an opening. “Have you been to visit recently?”
I catch a glimpse of a shudder roll through my mother’s body, like she was hit with a sudden blast of cold. My father cocks his head, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“I might stop by later,” I continue. “I haven’t been, you know, since—”
“We go every Sunday,” my dad interrupts. “After church.”
“That’s good.”
Silence again. My mother is scratching at the fabric of her armchair, her nails digging into the expensive threads. I catch my dad stealing a glance at the grandfather clock, probably wondering how a minute could possibly move so slowly.
“You know we don’t talk about it much,” I say, unable to peel my eyes from the carpet. This is where we used to lie: Margaret and I, stomachs on the oriental, flipping through issues ofThe Gritand sounding out the words together.Revealing stories of another world, another life, imagining ourselves ripped from our own and implanted into the pages. “That night, what happened. We’ve never actually talked about it—”
“What’s there to talk about? It was a terrible accident.”
I look at my mother—still silent, still scratching—and back to my dad. That air of authority has crept back into his voice just a little bit. Just enough for him to signal that this conversation is off-limits.
“It was.” I continue pushing forward. “But I think it might help me if we could justtalkabout it. Mom asked how I was doing—”
“Okay,” he says, leaning forward, resting his chin on his palm, like he’s a psychiatrist, studying me. “What would you like to talk about, Isabelle?”
“I have… memories, I guess, of that night. Some things that have been bothering me. Things that don’t make sense.”
My parents shoot each other a look.
“Like, when I woke up that morning… there was water on the carpet.” I force myself to continue, hawking up the words like vomit stuck in my throat. “I was wearing a different nightgown from what I fell asleep in. There was mud—”
“Isabelle, what is this about?” my dad asks, his voice suddenly softer. “Why are you dragging all this back up?”
“Because I need to know whathappened!” I shout, louder than Iintend to. My voice seems to echo off the walls, the grand piano, a pitchy whining vibrating off the strings. “Ineedto know—”
“Your sister had an accident, sweetie. It was nobody’s fault.”
