William nodded, because Kent was being honest. The doctor rarely voiced uncertainty. “I don’t know her at all,” William said, and pictured the image of his daughter from the mural wall. A ten-year-old girl with a shy smile. “I don’t know one thing about her.” He felt like he was explaining that Alice was a test he hadn’t studied for and that he’d never had access to the necessary papers or books to begin to prepare.
But he also thought: Sylvie wanted Alice. William knew that Sylvie had loved Alice as a baby. She’d spent her adulthood longing for Julia and her niece. Alice had now arrived, and the person who’d wanted her wasn’t here. William shuddered. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, and stood up.
“I think it does matter,” Kent said. He looked down at his phone and said, with a tinge of amusement, “Emeline says Alice is six foot one. She’s not a baby you can drop or harm anymore, William. She’s a grown woman.”
William pictured a giant gleaming lamp and had to squint his eyes against the light. He was standing in a foggy darkness. Something in him didn’t turn away from the light, though. He was done running away.
They stopped at a coffee shop on the way to the super-duplex, and Gus and Washington met them there. They patted William on the back but didn’t say anything except hello. When they were closer to the twins’ houses, Arash climbed out of a nearby cab. It was a mild November day; the men all wore coats but left them unzipped. William was unaware of the temperature or the bright sky overhead. He took in his friends’ presence with a nod. Kent had clearly summoned these men so William could be part of a team on a day when he was no longer part of a marriage. Sylvie would have loved that Kent had done that, William thought, while the men took long strides together down the sidewalk.
Kent opened the door to Cecelia’s house, and they walked inside. Only Cecelia was there, and because William’s senses were heightened to all the machinations that were being performed on his behalf, he realized this was intentional too. This was a briefing stop and a moment for him to catch his breath. Cecelia told them that Rose was on a flight headed to Chicago and would arrive that afternoon. Alice and Julia were next door, with Emeline, Josie, and Izzy.
William nodded, because he couldn’t say, No, thank you, and leave. Sylvie wouldn’t want him to. He followed his friends and Cecelia out the back door, across the yard, and through the back door of Emeline’s house. The air inside smelled of coffee and baby powder. They were in the hallway, surrounded by Cecelia’s portraits, when the doorbell rang, and so all the women were in motion when the men entered the open living room and kitchen. A baby was crying, and a teenage boy was in the doorway, holding a giant paper bag with the word Bagels written on the side, and Emeline was searching in her purse for cash. At one edge of his view, William registered a very tall, blond young woman, and on the other side of the room, his ex-wife. He found himself walking toward Julia, perhaps because he knew what to say to her and because she played a small role in his distress. He said, “Could we talk?”
She seemed startled but nodded, and they moved to the kitchen area. It was strange to stand so close to Julia. He hadn’t seen her for twenty-five years, and although she looked familiar, Julia no longer resembled his memory of the woman he’d married. Was it possible that her face had changed? Not hardened but solidified. He’d known her in the softness of her youth. Her curls were still the most ferocious of any of the sisters, but there was no wildness in them, even with her hair down. William was aware that he was looking at her partly because he wasn’t yet ready to look at his daughter. Sylvie had left every room in his life, and Alice was here; the shuffle of bodies was almost unbearable.
He said, “Why didn’t you come? I told you that she needed you.”
“I did,” Julia said. “I saw her twice.”
He tried to register this. Sylvie had seen Julia? He felt a pressure on his chest, as if he were being tackled by relief. He sat down in the nearest kitchen chair. The pressure was behind his eyes too. He hadn’t seen this coming, but he hadn’t seen any of this coming. He’d known his wife was dying, but he hadn’t expected her to die.
“Do you need some water?” Julia said.
He found a glass of water in his hand. He was aware that everyone was watching him now. This wasn’t a private conversation. Everyone in this room, except perhaps Alice, was wrecked and breathless with grief. They were unable to pretend to chat with one another. They could only listen and hope that he would be okay, because if that was possible, anything was.
“She wanted to keep our visits a secret,” Julia said. “I’m sure she would have told you eventually, but it seemed to tickle her that we could see each other without anyone knowing. We went to a movie together not that long ago. I flew in and out of the city for a few hours each time. Emeline and Cecelia didn’t know either, until this morning.”
Long ago, William had written into his manuscript: It should have been me, not her. He’d been thinking of his sister at the time, but he would have willingly died yesterday, or this minute, if it could have saved Sylvie. A strangled longing filled him. If he had died, perhaps Sylvie would still be here. Or, perhaps, he could be with her wherever she was. William wanted to cup his hands again, to hold close his love for his wife, to hold close her love for him.
That wasn’t possible, though. It was too late. He’d opened his hands weeks ago and let everything out. All three of his wife’s sisters were near him now, their foreheads furrowed with concern, their curls untamed. William knew that Sylvie had spent time with Julia. The two sisters had reconciled; they’d loved each other not only in the past but in Sylvie’s final days. They’d fixed what had been broken between them, which meant his wife had found wholeness. Sylvie had gotten what she needed, and this made it possible for him to take another breath.
Alice
NOVEMBER 2008
ALICE FELT LIKE AN ASTRONAUT in her aunts’ house, as if she had to wear a clunky suit and helmet because she couldn’t breathe the native atmosphere and had to pay attention while she walked to make sure she didn’t fall over. Her normal, safe life had been stripped away, and she had no idea how to act, think, or feel. Her aunts kept pulling her close for hugs. Emeline and Cecelia looked both similar and dissimilar to her mother. Emeline kissed Alice’s cheek the same way Julia did, and Cecelia’s voice sounded almost exactly like her mother’s. Izzy was so excited about Alice’s arrival, it was clear that she’d been waiting for her cousin her entire life. Izzy talked a lot, and Alice wondered if, in her distress about her aunt, Izzy was talking more than usual to try to quell her sadness. She told Alice stories about their family and chatted about the future as if Alice was going to be part of it. Alice’s aunts, too, spoke as if her presence was inevitable, as if she’d gone out on an errand and been terrifically delayed but had finally returned home.
Alice had spent the night in the same bedroom as Izzy, each of them in a single bed. “We shouldn’t be alone,” Izzy had said to her, “after what’s happened.” What has happened? Alice wanted to say, because she would have liked to hear it as a list, in a form she could try to comprehend. She had arrived in Chicago to meet her father, and on the same day, his wife had died. Now Alice’s mother and Rose were on their way here, and she was surrounded by devastated people she’d only just met. Alice had slept with her cousin in side-by-side beds, in a world where two side-by-side houses were shared by all of the inhabitants, most of whom Alice was related to. There was a tiny baby living in Emeline’s house—another mysterious development, because apparently the baby was staying there only temporarily. The infant erupted into cries sometimes, and Alice wished it were appropriate for her to do the same. She was alone only when she was in the bathroom. Every time she entered a room, the people there were obviously delighted to see her, even if they’d just seen her a few moments earlier.