“I need to go,” says Gus reluctantly, putting his glass down. “But this has been great. Really.”
“You can’t go!” I exclaim. “What are we going to do about Krista and the furniture and all that?”
“OK,” says Gus seriously. “If anyone sees Krista and Lacey manhandling a chandelier out of the front door, text the others, code word glassware. Repeat, glassware. Otherwise, regroup tomorrow?” He lifts a hand in farewell and pulls up the trapdoor.
“Wait, Gus,” says Bean with fervor. “Before you leave.” She grabs one of his hands and one of mine, then pulls them together. “We’re not broken. We’re not.”
For a few silent moments, we look at one another over our clasped hands. My brother. My sister. These familiar, beloved faces. Grown up now…but in my head, never grown up. Always children, knocking around the attic, wondering how to make life work.
“Yup, well,” says Gus at last, breaking the spell. “Good night, all. See you for another fun day of carnage tomorrow. Aren’t family reunions the best?”
Getting ready for bed in Bean’s room is like going back in time. We always used to be made to share when there were guests, and we used to squabble over everything: What time to turn the light out. Who was shuffling their duvet “too loudly.” Who was being “really annoying.” （Probably me, to be fair.）
But now we’re all grown up and polite and civilized. Bean even finds me a fresh toothbrush in an airline pouch and a sample pack of moisturizer. I wander round the room, in an old pair of her pajamas, trailing my hand fondly over her Peter Rabbit furniture. The two wooden beds with their hand-painted rabbits on the bedheads. The wardrobe, decorated with trailing leaves. The dressing table with its dinky little drawer handles shaped like carrots.
“Where did this furniture even come from?” I say, opening the glass-fronted cabinet to examine Bean’s collection of pottery nestling on leaf-decorated shelves. “It’s incredible.”
“There was a local furniture maker who built bespoke pieces,” she says, brushing her hair. “He’s died now. Apparently it was Mum’s idea to put carrots on the dressing-table drawers.”
“I never knew that,” I say after a pause. I’m feeling that slightly weird sensation that I always have of being out of the loop when people speak about Alison. （I can’t think of her as Mum.）
“Do you want to read or anything?” Bean asks politely.
“No, I’m whacked. Let’s just go to sleep.”
We both get into bed and Bean turns off the lamp, and I stare up into the darkness. I did not expect to be spending another night under this roof. It’s surreal.
Without thinking, I reach out for my Russian dolls to soothe myself—then, with a sinking feeling, remember. And I don’t even know where to look for them.
What if I can’t—
No. Don’t think that. I will find them. I just have to persevere.
As a distraction, I count off the members of the family, which is another thing I did as a child. I’d say good night to them in my mind, almost as though to reassure myself that everyone was OK. Dad…Gus…Bean…then, as I reach Mimi, I can’t help it, I heave a huge sigh.
“You OK, Effie?” says Bean through the darkness.
“Just thinking about…things.”
“Hmm.” Bean is quiet for a moment, then she says gently, “Ephelant, you keep saying the family’s broken. But look at us. I’m here. You’re here. Gus is here.”
“I know.” I stare up through the darkness. “It’s not the same, though, is it? We don’t talk like we used to. Dad’s all weird and false. And now we won’t even have Greenoaks to gather at. We’re all just going to…drift apart.”
“No we’re not,” says Bean stoutly. “We’ll still gather. We’ll just do it somewhere else.”
“Krista doesn’t want to gather with us. She wants to gather Dad off to Portugal.”
“Well, if he wants to go and he’ll be happy there, then we need to respect that,” says Bean. “Maybe it’ll be a fun new chapter in all our lives. We’ll visit them. Go to the beach!”
“Maybe,” I say, although the idea of visiting the beach with Krista makes me want to hurl.
There’s silence for a bit, then Bean draws breath.
“Effie, I’ve been reading,” she says. “You know it’s a form of grief? We’re called ‘ACOD.’ Adult children of divorce. Apparently it’s really common, there are so many silver splitters. I even found…a group,” she adds hesitantly. “We could go, maybe.”