The Children(21)

Llewellyn looked more afraid, Guinevere thought, than he would if his wife had been weeping, wailing, pouring blood. “That’s good, Edie.” He draped a coat around her shoulders, his tender lack of haste that of an attendant to a corpse. “That’s lovely. Let’s see what the doctor says.”

When they were out the door, and the car had screeched down the dirt, and another minute passed after that, Guinevere said, “Where the heck is the finger?”

“Where’s the blood?” Ennis was staring at the door like they might come back and tell him.

She patted her head gingerly. “There’s some in my hair.”

“Ew! Oh.” He looked disappointed. “That’s not very much. There should be more. Like, a lot more. Maybe she . . .”

“What?”

He gave a frustrated shrug. Who knew what their mother was capable of? And did it even matter? She lost a finger. Probably these things just happened, out here in the woods. Maybe lots of grown-ups lost a finger at some point, what did they know? A frustrated understanding passed between them. Not the what of it but the color, the green unknowable murk.

“I’ll make waffles,” Ennis said. “You go wash your hair.”



* * *




The finger. The finger. For a long time afterward, they would crook one of their own into a menacing hook and use it to tap each other’s shoulders. Boo! I’m ba-ack. They made sure not to do it when Llewellyn was watching.

On that first night the finger wasn’t a gallows joke yet, and they were alone for the first time in their lives.

The shower went screeeech, the pipes popped and ticked as they heated. The porthole window over the tub was a staring eye over which a cataract of steam crawled, edges in.

Scritch scratch. The finger wasn’t out there, its nail marking messages into the glass. Nor was it tip-tapping along the hall when Guinevere stepped timidly out. It wasn’t waiting on the third-floor landing or plumped up on her pillow like a twisted gift. Yet she imagined all of these things, and felt as if she’d lived them.

Ennis burned the waffles and forgot the syrup, but neither of them wanted to go back downstairs. Splitting up had been a mistake in the first place. They ate sitting on the edge of his bed. Once the door was closed and locked, they didn’t open it again. Their dominion over the house had shrunk to a single room.

Ennis slept deeply, as Guinevere moved in and out of consciousness. The seven-windowed room was above them, long and airless and stinking like pennies in a pocket. A faint pattering sound came through the ceiling right as she began to tip toward sleep. If the rain had feet it would sound like that, running over the floor.

But, Guinevere thought in the morning—waking early to find their parents home, Edith in bed and their dad bearing a bag of cold McDonald’s—maybe she’d imagined that, too.





Twelve

Five days until Mother




The Hoxton lobby smelled of butter and coffee and sun-hot leather. Guin ordered tea and sat beneath a bank of windows.

She’d pulled herself together in an adrenalized rush, glad to have a cover story for the nerves ringing through her. Now that she was sitting all that panic pooled in odd places. Her feet and fingers tingled. Her head beat with the sense that she was needed elsewhere, should be doing something that wasn’t this.

It was a familiar feeling. That sense of leaning forward, hands already on her knees, ready at any moment to rise and depart. From what, going where?

She burned her top lip on her tea, pushed the cup away. At least today she could name her restlessness. Ennis was here. In the city somewhere, prepping for his show. Thinking of her, speaking to her. Mother. Less a title than a provocation, pointed straight at Guin.

How much do you remember?

Candy had the nerve to ask her that, to try to drag her backward. There were memories that took bites out of you, that would strip you to the bone if you let them. So you didn’t. Guin shoved a thumb in her mouth and ripped a crescent of nail free, drawing a bright blood-point of pain: a banishment.

“Guinevere? Sharpe?”

Guin looked up, dropping her hand out of sight. The journalist was approaching her table, arms open in an attitude of delight. A fortyish Black woman with a marcelled pixie, sharp lipstick, incongruously tired eyes. She wore a sleeveless cream linen shirtdress and leather high-tops.

“Yes!” Guin said. “Hi! It’s me!”

A headache tapped at her temples, intensifying with every exclamation point. Was this a hug situation? Before she could decide, the woman put a hand out to shake. “It’s so good to meet you. I’m Penelope Shirk, from The Cut.”

“I’m Guin! Or, you know that.”

A deathly few seconds ensued, as Penelope pulled out a chair, hung her bag from its back, smoothed her dress, and sat. Guin watched, reaching deeply into her well of small talk and coming up dry.

“Pretty,” Penelope said, looking around.

“Gorgeous!” Jesus. Guin pressed a subtle fingertip into her aching head, then used it to scoop back her hair. “Thanks so much for making the time.”

Penelope laughed. “Regina Coleman isn’t easy to say no to. And I’m happy to be here. I’ve been a fan of your mother’s since high school. Her books made me want to be a novelist, for about a minute. Luckily for everyone involved, I never finished my plagiaristic masterpiece, Dream Town.”