“I’m sure he would have come home to you,” says my mother. “He was just having a break, that’s all. Finding himself. A good boy like that wouldn’t really run away.”
Mrs. Pfefferman wipes her eyes. She puts the book back in her satchel. “You girls are very lucky,” she says to me. “You have a wonderful mom.”
I smile. “I know I do.”
“Don’t make her sad, you hear me?” Mrs. Pfefferman says. “You be sweet to her, always. When she’s old and her hair is gray, you be good to her then, as well as now. When you go to college, always call and write.”
“Okay.”
Harris stands up slowly, as if waking from a dream.
“Look at the time,” says Mrs. Pfefferman. “I’m sorry I took up so much of your evening.”
“Oh, it was lovely to see the pictures,” says Tipper. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Let me help you wash up.”
Tipper laughs and puts her hand on her chest in mock horror. “I would never let you,” she says. “After all you’ve been through.” Her voice is suddenly bright and hostessy. “Go on, the two of you. Head up to Pevensie. The coffee maker is loaded and there are some breakfast things in the fridge, but you come see me around seven and I’ll have the muffins out of the oven by then, juice and all that. Or come later, if you need to sleep in. The police promised to visit before noon.”
The Pfeffermans depart. Tipper gives herself a shake and heads to the kitchen.
“I’ll do it,” I tell her, following. “Let me do it. You go to bed.”
She pauses. “Is this because she told you to be sweet to me?”
“Maybe.”
Tipper has never left any of us to clean the kitchen without her. But she hugs me and nods. “I am missing our Rosemary,” she tells me, her voice choked. “God, I miss her.”
“Me too.” So much, so much.
“Every day,” she says. “My little girl. Each morning I listen for the sound of her footsteps and I realize she’s never coming down the stairs again. And I walk by her room when I’m heading up to bed, and I poke my head in to check—and remember she won’t be there. You know, one night I thought I saw Rosemary. When we first got to the island this summer, she came into my bedroom. She looked like she had crawled up from the sea, just crawled out of it, as if to tell me I hadn’t kept her safe. I couldn’t bear looking at her tiny face, with that wet hair around it. I was looking at my worst mistake, my most tragic failing, and I felt so desperately sad and helpless that I ran away. It was just a dream, or my imagination, of course, but I told myself I couldn’t let my mind play tricks on me like that. I mustn’t think of Rosemary and how I failed her, or I’d fall apart. Sometimes I feel like I can’t live without her,” says my mother. “Like how on earth can I keep existing when my baby is dead? How can I?” Tears are coming down her face again. “But I have to, Carrie. I have to go on. People depend on me. There’s always another pie to bake, or someone needs something. Right? It’s better that way. Your dad needs me, you girls need me, the dryer’s on the fritz or something else is broken. People need to eat supper, every day of the week, rain or shine. It’s better to be busy. To be useful. That’s how I get by.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if it is better to be busy and never talk of things.
“I’m sorry.” Tipper wipes the corners of her eyes. “It just gets to me sometimes. I do think perhaps I should lie down. I’ll be better in the morning, I promise. One hundred percent. Back to normal.” She smiles at me.
Impulsively, I hug her again. I am taller than she is, and she seems frail in my arms. She is brave and in denial, limited and powerless, generous always, my mother.
“Come on, Tipper,” says Harris, coming to stand in the kitchen doorway. “I’ll take you up.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she says.
“Tipper.”
“I don’t need help, Harris. I’m just a little headachy, is all. It’s been a real week.”
“Neither of us is fine,” says my father. “Let’s go upstairs.”
66.
I CLEAN THE kitchen, putting leftover food in stacking containers, loading the plates and cooking utensils into the dishwasher. The tablecloth and napkins go into the laundry. The wineglasses must be washed by hand, and so must the cast-iron pan.