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There’s a lump in my throat. Sometimes, during those phone conversations, after a barrage of questions about Martin’s chances of recovery, or if whether perhaps a heart transplantdidmake more sense at this stage, I’d talk about my daughters. I felt so alone innavigating Martin’s illness; Sienna and Aurora were more concerned with their friends and social media minutiae. I remember sitting on my kitchen floor one night, talking to Greg about how I’d asked Sienna if she wanted to be there in the hospital during Dad’s surgery. Sienna shrugged and said callously, “But homecoming is that night, Mom.”
“She’s just scared,” Greg assured me. “She’s distancing herself from the situation so she doesn’t have to face the tough emotions.”
It was weird to be telling this to my husband’s cardiologist instead of my husband, but how could I share it with Martin? It would break his heart to know that his beloved Sienna was pushing him away. Those two always had a special bond, with inside jokes and special hobbies and interests they pursued together. I wouldn’t be surprised if Martin wanted Sienna and Aurora by his side even more than he wanted me. We loved each other, sure, but marital love is complicated, whereas love between parent and child is pure.
“It just felt so good to be listened to,” I say softly, knowing how poorly I’m explaining this. “I was so,soscared.”
“Of course you were,” Willa says softly, sympathetically.
I remember looking up at Greg in the hospital, after he’d told me Martin hadn’t made it. I’d drunk up the strangeness of him—his full head of wavy hair, the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, the bone structure of his clean-shaven, youthful face. Our gazes locked, and something stirred low inside me, something both lustful and shameful. It almost felt as if we were going to kiss. We didn’t, of course. I turned in the hall and saw that my daughters were standing there, watching.
“Did you ever ask your girls what they thought about all of this?” Willa asks, as if reading my mind.
I crinkle my muffin bag between my fingers. “What do you mean?”
“What did they think about you dating the surgeon who couldn’t save their dad?”
I don’t like the way she’s phrased that. “He didn’t... look, I don’t think they would have liked anyone I dated.” I blow out a breath. “What was I supposed to do, Willa? Be alone forever? I didn’t have any support system.”
“You had the girls. And Martin was their father. They adored him.”
“It wasn’t like GregreplacedMartin.” This just isn’t something Willa can understand. “And, Jesus, they adored Greg. They were... I don’t know, impressed by him. Their grades went up when he came into the picture, almost like they felt they needed to prove themselves. Also, Greg was able to give them things they never had. Cool clothes. Fancy handbags all the popular girls were carrying. Lavish vacations. Stuff we never got to enjoy before. And over the years, they really bonded. Half the time I’d walk in and Greg and Sienna would be talking about something I had no clue about. Aurora had him correct her science homework. She went tohimwhen she got the best grade in her biology class.”
“But what about in the past few months? I heard that Greg kind of acted like the girls didn’t exist.”
A shock goes through me. “Who said that?”
“Just... more reception gossip. People are assholes, but sometimes in gossip there’s a kernel of the truth.”
I rise from my chair. “Because you know the situation so well.” I’m hurt. I’m shocked. But below this, I’m horrified. Was that how people saw us?DidGreg shut the girls out, just like he’d done to me?
No.The past three months, besides Barbados, were normal. We all went out to dinner as a family. Greg and the girls binged Netflix shows. He dropped Aurora off at school almost as much as I did. Sienna told us at dinner one night that she had a crush on Anton, a boy in the dorm, and Greg asked her a million questions about him—what’s his major, is he athletic, what are his friends like, does he smoke pot.
“Are you sure I can’t talk to your girls?” Willa asks quietly, breaking me from my thoughts.
“About Greg?No.”
“But they’re a part of this puzzle. They’ve had a lot of stuff happen in a few short years—their dad’s death, their mom’s remarriage, stepdad’s affair, his murder. It’s a lot to unpack. And also,” she goes on, perhaps sensing that I’m about to interrupt, “Ijust want to know, too. Personally, as their aunt. I regret not getting to know them better through the years. I’ve interviewed a lot of kids for some of my investigative pieces. I know how to do it without pushing.”
“But they aren’t your interview subjects. They might not open up to you. You might make it worse.”
“But maybe I’ll getsomethingout of them. Like at the funeral, Sienna said Aurora’s angry with her about something. Any idea what that might be?”
I glance back and forth. My thoughts are scattered.
“What are their thoughts on all that Lolita stuff? They’re teenagers, they must be humiliated.”
“I didn’t get to talk to them about it.” But this is a lie. I avoided talking to Sienna about it on the phone. And at the grocery store, I told Aurora nothing was wrong.Deflect, deflect, deflect.But my girls aren’t idiots. They must have read those e-mails. Everyone did.
God, they were probably crushed. Maybe they saw an inevitable future hurtling toward them: Another broken family. A lonely mom. A mess. Maybe they even worried we wouldn’t have nice things anymore. Some mom I was, instilling in them that only nice things lead to happiness.
Suddenly, I’m seized with uneasiness. “Leave the girls out of this.”
“Butwhy?”
“I appreciate what you’re doing, trying to figure out what went on, but just...don’t.”
There’s a long silence. Down the hall, a shadow looms in thebreak room. A moment later, Lynn Godfrey’s tall, slender form appears in the doorway. She holds a cup of coffee, the steam rising over her face. Her gaze holds mine for a moment, and one eyebrow raises. She tips her chin upward and marches away. My cheeks blaze.
