The Unmaking of June Farrow(23)

“Well, what do you mean it’s happening. What’s happening exactly?”

“I’m seeing things. Hearing things. Getting mixed up about what’s real.”

“What kinds of things?”

“I don’t know.” I flung a hand in the air between us. “Everything!”

Mason looked at me a long time before he picked up his glass and drank. I was glad I couldn’t hear what he was thinking. Besides Birdie, he was the only person I had in the world, and that filled me with a tremendous amount of guilt.

“Have you made an appointment with Dr. Jennings?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve been going every month.”

“Well, I’d like to go with you next time. Talk to him about what kind of plans we need to make.”

“It doesn’t have to be we,” I whispered.

He waited for me to look at him, and when he spoke, he didn’t hesitate on the words. “It’s always been we.”

An acute pain bloomed inside of me, unfurling beneath my skin. This was exactly what I didn’t want, and it was also maybe my only option. The truth was, if the roles were reversed, I’d do the same for him.

“It’s one thing to say you’ll be there every step of the way when you’re an eighteen-year-old idiot who doesn’t know anything about life. It’s another to be us, now.”

“Have things really changed that much?” He was trying to make me laugh, but I couldn’t feel any warmth inside of me.

“Don’t you . . .” I turned the glass on the table. “Don’t you want something more? A family? A different life outside of the farm and Jasper?” It had been years since I’d asked him that question.

Mason shrugged. “Maybe one day. That’s not what I want now, though.”

I caught a tear at the corner of my eye before it could fall.

“Maybe I’m still waiting for you to suddenly realize you’re in love with me.”

I did laugh then, because it was tragically funny and sadly, somewhat true. I could imagine a life where we were together, married, maybe even with children. But that life could only belong to a June who wasn’t born a Farrow. And I’d somehow managed to keep my heart from getting broken by Mason Caldwell. He’d managed to do the same with me.

“Have you told Birdie?”

I shook my head. “I will. Soon.”

It was all settling. Not just what I’d told him, but what it meant. This was the beginning of the end, and even if we’d known it was coming our whole lives, it was still terrifying.

“And what’s going on in there?” He gestured to the sitting room. “Really.”

“You don’t want to know,” I muttered.

His eyebrows raised again.

I sighed, getting to my feet, and walked around the corner of the wall. I took the photograph Gran had sent me from the mantel of the fireplace and the one of my mother from the table. When I came back into the kitchen, Mason’s glass was empty for the second time. I set the picture from 1911 down in front of him, sinking back into my chair.

“I was opening a stack of mail yesterday and there was an envelope from Gran. It was posted a few days before she died, and this was the only thing inside.”

He studied the faces in the photograph before flipping it over and reading the name. “Who is that?”

“Nathaniel Rutherford,” I said, watching his eyes widen.

“The guy who—”

“Was murdered,” I said. “Yes. And that woman is his wife.”

I placed the second photo beside it, and he leaned in closer. “Okay, so it’s the same woman. What of it?”

I set a finger on the one of my mother. “Only, it can’t be. That’s my mother, Susanna.”

He looked confused now, trying to track.

I reached across the table, turning the first photo over so he could read the inscription on the back. “This was taken in 1911. This one”—I pointed to the other photo—“was sometime in the eighties.”

“So, it’s not the same woman.” He looked up at me.

I said nothing, silently hoping he was about to offer some kind of explanation I hadn’t yet thought of.

“Then they just look alike. But why would Margaret mail this to you?”

“I have no idea. So, I started digging, trying to figure out who Nathaniel Rutherford was married to.” I paused. “Mason, her name was Susanna Farrow.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me.

“She has the same birth date as my mother, except for the year, obviously. And she had a daughter named June.”

I couldn’t read the look on his face now. It was as misplaced as I felt.

“Her daughter was born around the same day and month as the birthday you chose for me. And she died the exact same day and month I was found in Jasper—October 2nd.”

“June . . .”

“I mean, isn’t that weird?” I was looking for reassurance now.

“Yeah. It’s weird.”

“But . . . I don’t know. There’s also something wrong about it.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s her,” he said.

I bit down on my lip, pulse skipping.

“Wait.” He set his elbows on the table, his face turning serious again. “You actually think it’s her?”