“Stop,” I tell her. “Just stop. You’re not taking me away from anything more important than you. I want to be here with you.”
The car behind me honks, and I look up and see the light is green. I drive straight ahead and pull into the parking lot at Cameron’s shop. Willa places her hand on my arm. “This is different. I’ll understand if you can’t … help.”
“Why is this different?”
“Because it involves your husband, and I refuse to mess up anyone else’s life but my own. I don’t want this to affect Cooper or Gwen or your marriage. I don’t want to … be the cause of anything even more terrible. I’ve thought a lot about this in that hospital room.”
“Did you write that speech in your head while you stared at the ceiling?”
“Yep. But my head doesn’t seem to be working all the way right yet. I think things and then they fall out. I have a thought and then it fades and then comes clear again. It’s scary. It’s freaking me out.” Her voice is uneven, bumping along the fears.
I take her hand. “I’ve been reading a lot about this,” I say. “And it will be fine. There are all kinds of therapies and exercises.”
“That’s what they say.” She doesn’t sound like she believes anything they say.
“I have to run in here”—I motion to the print shop—“and grab a part. Want to come in or wait in the car?”
“I’ll come.”
Cameron sits in his same spot he always does, reading the paper, as if I’d last been there only a moment ago. He looks up when the bell over the door announces our entrance. “Look at you two, like a breath of fresh air coming through my door.”
“I’m not sure ‘fresh air’ is exactly the right description,” Willa says. “But I’ll take what I can get.”
Cameron comes over to Willa and takes her hands in his. “I’m so glad you’re okay, my dear. If I’d have known it was you in the accident that night, I’d have run down there.”
“Run down there?” she asks.
“I live on that block,” he says. “I heard all the sirens and hullabaloo, but I had no idea it was you.”
“Oh…” She looks at me.
“Been the quietest neighborhood all these years, and now we’ve been in the paper twice in a week.” He rubs his hand along the scruff of his chin. “So you here to pick up Max’s part?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Glad you got it in so fast.”
“You’re lucky to have Max. Don’t know anyone who understands presses like he does. Better hold on to him.”
“I’m planning on it,” I say, following Cameron through the crowded aisles to the back room.
Willa follows and says, “Why was your street in the paper two times?”
“Oh, that homeless man they found.” Cameron reaches up and pulls down a small box and hands it to me.
“What man?” I ask.
“Don’t you read the papers?” His grin is lopsided and teasing.
“I’ve been a little preoccupied,” I say. “Tell me.”
Willa is still as a tree—Firm, rooted.
“Some kids found this poor guy in the alley between two houses. You know the kind of skinny no-man’s-land where the houses are so close that you can barely walk between them? Like that, except he was squeezed into there. Like he’d gone to get out of the rain or something, which doesn’t make sense to me, because there wasn’t any cover. But anyways, he died in there and—”
“He died?” I envision this man stuck between buildings … dying. I shiver. “Poor guy. Did he die because he got stuck?
“Don’t think so. Something about getting beat up,” Cameron says, walking out of the storage room when the front door rings, announcing an incoming customer. “Don’t know nothing about him except they took him away.” He stops and turns to me. “The saddest part is that no one knows who he is. In this world, how can someone not know? It’s terrible.” He shudders and moves on as he says, “Go on. I’ll put it on the tab.”
I follow Cameron, and it isn’t until I reach the front door that I notice Willa isn’t with me. I walk back to the rear of the store and into the storage room, where I find her staring into space. “Willa!”
She doesn’t startle, just slowly looks up at me, her gaze traveling in its sleepy-time way. “That is the most horrible story.” Tears glaze her eyes. “Some guy crawled between houses and died? Poor, poor man.” She covers her face; racking sobs rise from her throat. Her body shakes with the released force.
I wrap my arms around my sister, pulling her close. Emotional lability, this is called. The neuro practitioner told me to expect these displays of “mood-incongruent” behavior. I was warned that Willa might laugh at something sad, or cry fiercely at something mild. The emotion might not match the circumstance. But being warned about a behavior and experiencing it are not the same thing. Besides, this doesn’t seem so incongruent as completely excessive. What did the practitioner say to do? I can’t remember. At the time, I didn’t believe I needed to know. My sister wouldn’t have this weird emotional reaction with the initials PBA, which stands for something I will never be able to pronounce. Now I don’t know what to do, or how to act. I hold her. “It’s okay,’ I say, as though she’s a child.
“No, it’s not okay.” She pulls from my embrace and rubs at her eyes, grimacing as she swipes the stitch. “It is just not okay.”
“What can I do?” I ask, helpless.
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know … anything.”
“Let’s get home,” I say. “Tea and macaroons. How does that sound?”
She nods and turns, walking the wrong way, toward another closet.
“This way,” I say, pointing to the doorway.
Willa stares at me; obvious frightened. “What if I stay this way?”
“You won’t,” I say, flinging these words at the universe in defiance, in earnest.
* * *
I decorated the cottage years before Willa came to stay, and yet it looks as if I knew that one day she’d arrive. The walls are painted a dove gray over board and batten walls. The artwork is eclectic and scattered: a painting of an old circus tent I bought at an arts festival; multiple framed posters and sketches of the Fine Line, Ink work; black-and-white photos of my parents’ younger years. There’s one photo of Willa and me as youngsters, standing on top of a rock with our arms looped together. We are smiling in the photo, happy and free—all of life ahead of us.
The kitchen is bright and painted white. The table is round and wooden. I found it in the barn and painted it with Gwen one summer afternoon. A multicolored glass chandelier dangles above the table like a discarded necklace. This space was fun to decorate, and now Willa adds her own style. Mismatched painted pottery plates are piled on open shelves around the room, most of which she found at flea markets. Linen napkins of every pattern spill from a wire basket. Music sheets and handwritten lyrics are piled in an old milk crate in the corner.
At the table, I unwrap the day’s newspaper, spread it out, and flip through the pages, looking for the article Cameron mentioned. The story is buried in the last page of the “Metro” section.
The man’s death is summarized in one paragraph, and I have the horrible thought that if Willa or Cooper died on that same street during the accident, they would have garnered more than a few sentences in the back section. The man was an African-American and obviously homeless. It appeared that he’d been in a fight and then crawled between houses, where he died of internal injuries.
Willa enters the kitchen. “I forgot where the bathroom was.” Her voice shakes.
“What?” I look up.
“You know how sometimes you have a really bad hangover and you can’t find your words, or a thought escapes, or you can’t remember where you are?”
“Sadly, yes.”
She slumps into a chair and drops her face into her palms. “Well, it’s just like that, but a billion times worse. It took me way too long to remember where the bathroom was.
” She looks up at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “In this house where I’ve lived for a year.”
I close the newspaper and busy myself making two cups of tea, placing the macaroons on a pink plate. I sit next to my sister. “Maybe working with us again will help. You think you’re up for it?”
“Of course.” She leans her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You know, while I was in the hospital, I had a ton of weird memories. It was like mud from the bottom of my life all stirred up. But I thought of Caden and how you two made up those commandments. How could I forget him?” Then she laughs again, but this time it has a more manic, high-pitched sound, and for a moment I think it’s the emotional lability hitting. “I guess right now that is the wrong question to ask.”
“Huh?” I ask, confused.
“How could I forget? That was the wrong thing to say.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I remembered so much about that time—you getting in trouble. Big, big trouble. Willa closes her eyes. “I wish that memory had been hit right out of my head.”
“Me, too.”
“I wonder what ever happened to Caden.” She closes her eyes, as if the answer is behind her eyelids. “He had those green eyes, and he always carried a baseball.”
Maybe this is one of those times when the past is clearer than the present—another symptom. Willa can’t remember the bathroom location, but she remembers Caden’s eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “The last I heard about him, he’d married and moved to Seattle, as far away from the South as he possibly could.”
“I was madly in love with him. As much as an eleven-year-old can be in love. But he loved you.”
“He was my best friend,” I say.
“Um, yeah. Sure thing, Eve.”
“I don’t want to talk about this. It was a long, long time ago.”
“Have you remembered number nine yet?” she asks, wiggling nine fingers in the air.
“No, I was hoping you’d help.”
“Great idea, sis. Get the brain-injured girl to help you remember.” She laughs and leans toward me.
“Shush.”
“But, yes.” She nods and sips her tea. “Absolutely I want to keep helping with this.”
I take a lavender macaroon and pop it into my mouth. Willa picks up the other one, vanilla, and takes a tiny nibble from its corner, so hers lasts longer.
I stand. “I need to go. I have to check in on the studio. If you want to come over for dinner tonight, I’m making lasagna. Just walk over in a couple hours.”
“Thanks, but I’ll probably just stay here. I want to get into my bed and sleep on a real pillow. I want to go all night without something beeping or someone poking me.”
“Call me if you need anything at all. Anything. When Marci came to clean, I had her put groceries in your fridge, so you have the basics.”
She takes another sip of her tea. “I will pay you back. Someday I will make up for this.”
nine
There is a story behind everything. Those are the words Cooper uses at the beginning of his keynote speeches, or his fund-raising talks, or his retelling of how he started his e-magazine publishing company. That’s also the tagline under the Fine Line, Ink’s logo. I’d never thought much of the fact that he took that sentiment from my letterpress company. It’s a compliment when your husband uses something of yours, when he admires your work enough to emulate it.
Tonight, when he begins his speech, I will be able to mouth the words: There’s a story behind everything. He will then launch into his own story of how baseball changed his life, how he once believed he’d play college ball, until he threw out his shoulder. His talk will end on a high note, but for now, it’s three in the afternoon and I’m checking on every last detail for the party.
It hasn’t always been this way—with me trying to prove my worth to Cooper. But it’s this way now and I can feel the push of the idea behind me: Show him and maybe he won’t be so upset about everything else—my sister, our daughter, my time at the studio. A hundred people will be here soon. I left the caterer in the kitchen, placing canapés on silver trays. The string quartet arrived an hour ago and they are deciding where to set up. Along the driveway, strings of twinkle lights cast a starlight glow from the trees, the heavens closer to earth. Nice, it’s all looking exactly as I planned.
The party has a theme—baseball—but the theme for me is all about getting through the evening.
I amble up the long driveway. One string of lights has come unhinged and hangs like a soft hammock of stars. “Brian,” I call out to the workman who hung the lights, but there’s no answer. Against the tree, the ladder rests with its pegged feet digging into the earth. I’m on the top step, tucking the string back into the branches, when I hear Max’s laughter, and I wonder if he is talking to Francie or Willa, and what is so funny. I lean my forehead against the tree. The bark is rough, a calloused hand on my skin, and I close my eyes. Then I hear my name.
“Eve,” Max says, and I look down, startled he is below me.
“Oh,” I say, and grip the ladder. “What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” He squints against the evening sun.
“A string fell loose.” I climb down to face him. “And I couldn’t find Brian.”
We’re facing each other and he’s holding the ladder, so when my feet touch the grass, we’re so close.
“Why isn’t anyone helping you?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I got it.”
He smiles at me. “I’m so very sorry I can’t be at this party tonight.”
I smile in return, but my face almost doesn’t know how to do this; I seem to be out of practice. “I know you wish you could come, because you love to put on a tuxedo and eat small bites and have libations.”
“You are so right,” he says. “And I wish I could smile and shake hands and talk about the state of South Carolina politics while holding a tiny martini.”
“You’d have a blast with all the small talk—it’s your very favorite.”
“Small talk is my favorite,” he says. “I much prefer it to big talk.” His laughter rises into the oak leaves and settles there with the evening sunlight. “Maybe I could just hang out in the kitchen and eat all the small bites before they can be served.”
“Get out of here.” I laugh and gently nudge his shoulder.
“I will.” He picks something from the edges of my hair. “Moss,” he states simply, and then hands me a wisp of it.
I take the tangle of spindly plant and then drop it onto the soft earth. We both look down to where it lands and then glance back up together. Our eyes meet and he smiles. “Have a libation for me.” And with that, he walks back across the field toward the barn.
* * *
The evening sun plays catch me if you can with the Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees. Slivers of light stab and then retreat through the screen on the porch, where Gwen and Cooper are sitting on lounge chairs, each absorbed in their own reading. I can’t see the novel Gwen’s reading, but I’m sure it has something to do with true love or vampires, probably both. Cooper flips through a stack of papers with charts and graphs. I’m propped on the arm of a living room chair, watching them. They can’t see me but I can see them. And I can’t resist eavesdropping.
Dad and daughter.
Cooper loves his daughter. He’s devoted to her. But deep down, in the honest places, I’ve always considered Gwen to be mine. She grew inside me. She was nursed by me, rocked by me. I took her to every doctor and teacher and tutor. I shuttled her to dance class and horseback-riding lessons and camps. I sat up with her the nights she was sick. I’ve let her cry and made her laugh. Maybe I didn’t give Cooper any space to do these things, but he’s never tried and I’ve never blamed him. He wants to be close to her, and he tries with words of love, always telling her how much he loves her, how proud he is of her, at least until lately. I’ve watched and cringed with frustration at Gwen’s attempts to get closer to her dad on those occasions whe
n Cooper hasn’t been able to sit still long enough, listen long enough to hear what she’s really trying to say.
Now that he wants to be more involved, to dictate the discipline and rules, I find myself defensive and annoyed. He didn’t stay up all night when she had a fever or sit through a slew of teacher conferences, so why does he want to slam his hand down on her life now? I think it must have something to do with her fading childhood, about her becoming a woman with her own opinions and needs. But who can know anyone’s motivation?
They need to understand each other better and I need to step back and not interfere. I’ve placed myself between them in some meager attempt to stop Cooper from hurting Gwen and to stop Gwen from infuriating Cooper, and I’ve been about as effective as Willa was when she grabbed the steering wheel.
“What are you reading?” Cooper asks her.
“The Fault in Our Stars.”
“What’s it about?” Cooper asks.
“Two best friends with cancer who fall in love. It’s really sad and really great. Want to hear my favorite line?”
“Sure.”
“‘I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.’” She exhales the last part of the sentence, a sigh. “Isn’t that perfect?” she asks her dad.
There is a lull, a silent pause, a breath, before he speaks.
“You coming to the party tonight?”
My fists grip and my jaw clenches. Can’t he hear her? Can’t he hear the need for response, for something, anything, that doesn’t have to do with him? I hold back; I stand still, but my heart rate speeds up, as if I’m running for Gwen.
Then she answers, quietly, almost defeated. “Yes, of course I’ll be at the party. I mean, like, it’s totally here in our house, so how could I not?”
“Good. I want you there. It’s a big night and I’m a little nervous.”
“You?” Gwen laughs and places her book on the coffee table.
“Yes, me.” He leans toward her. “I haven’t really been in a crowd since the accident and…”
Gwen nods. “You’re back at work, though.”
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