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James’s jaw knots. “Let’s just get it over with.”
“Okay, this way.”
James’s hand tightens on mine, although I don’t think he’s aware of it. I follow him through the door, my heart banging against my ribs.
The room smells strongly of antiseptic. I don’t register anything else about it. All my focus is on the young woman lying in front of us. She’s covered to her shoulders, so only her face and neck are visible.
James walks forward a few feet and stops.
We both study her quietly. When a member of a Maori family dies, the tangi, or funeral, often takes three days, with the body taken to the marae or meeting house where they lie in state, usually in an open casket. This happened with my grandfather, so it’s not the first time I’ve seen a dead person. I wonder distractedly whether James saw his mother after she died.
The young woman has a big graze on her forehead, and another cut on her cheek. Her eyes are closed, so I can’t see how like James’s they are. She looks peaceful, though, and for that, at least, I’m pleased for James.
He stares at her for a long, long moment. Then he says, “It’s her.”
Dr. Hemara comes to stand beside him. “You confirm that this is the body of your sister, Madeleine Ann Rutherford?”
“Yes. I didn’t think it would be. But it’s her.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dr. Hemara says. “Would you like a moment alone with her?”
James shakes his head. He releases my hand, then he turns and walks out.
I follow him back through to the waiting room where Henry’s waiting. Henry takes one look at him and obviously realizes that it’s Maddie.
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.
James sinks into one of the chairs. “I didn’t think it would be her,” he repeats. “I thought they’d made a mistake. Ah, fuck.” He covers his face with his hands.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” I sink to the ground in front of him and put my arms around him before I can think better of it. I half expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rests his forehead on my shoulder.
“I can’t believe it,” he whispers.
I rub his back. “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think of to say.
He takes a deep, shivery breath. “She was so young.”
“I know. Just a girl.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“It is. It’s horrible.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t bear it,” he says. “I can’t bear to think she felt so bad and I wasn’t there for her. Why didn’t she call me?”
“Henry was right—she wouldn’t have been thinking clearly or rationally.”
“How could she do that to me?”
“She wouldn’t have been thinking of you, James. She would only have been thinking about herself. If she did it, it would be because she was unhappy and in pain, and she wanted it to stop.”
“I should have made her come and live with me.”
“Against her will?”
