“Uh-huh, yeah. I’m sorry about that, but this is a disproportionate response, and you know it. An overreaction, which may be normal for you. I don’t know. One of the letters wasn’t even finished. The one to Brenna. Who is Brenna?”
“Because I forgive you, by the way. I’m not angry with you. I understand why you would think to do that,” Rye said.
“Em—Ryland, Rye…whatever. Answer the question or get out of here.”
Rye’s bottom lip wobbled at how easily she could be rid of him, how easily he could be rid of himself. He blinked and clawed himself from the edge.
“Brenna is my daughter,” he said slowly.
“Great. Awesome. So you lied about that, too! You said you didn’t have kids!” Tallie spat out.
“I didn’t lie. I don’t have a kid. Those butterfly wings in my backpack, they were for Halloween three years ago, but I couldn’t give them to her because…” He stopped. What he was about to say made his tongue feel as if it were someone else’s, even still. “Because…Brenna’s dead.”
*
All the fighting with Christine—the word tired didn’t do it justice. He was exhausted.
Weary.
Weary enough in their kitchen to loosen his grip on Christine and let her go after she’d threatened to call the cops. He’d turned his phone off, put it on the nightstand. Left in the middle of their row, wandered like a new Adam whom God had left alone without instruction. He went for a long walk through the October evening, first heading down the muddy path leading to the forest behind their house. He walked, breaking through the hedges and continuing onto the sidewalk next to the road that led the truck factory workers to and from the warehouse. He walked and walked and walked, thinking of the reasons he’d fallen in love with Christine, the memories and hope for the future that kept them stuck together. Thinking about how Brenna was such a glowing orb between them, proof of life and light. But Christine needed to take her meds. Had to. He couldn’t do this on his own; he needed breaks sometimes, too. He had to stop feeling guilty about it. He was going to tell her that gently when he got back, and eventually, when the dust had settled, he’d have to tell her sternly.
Rye walked, turning around only when the light ended. When he returned to the house, it was full dark and the garage door was closed. Had Christine closed it? Had he? When? And what was that sound? Was the car running? Why was the car running? Had he left the car running? How long had he disappeared to the sky and leaves?
Eleanor Christina, his Ophelia.
He’d snatched the garage door up and choked, realizing. Held his jacket collar over his face and opened the car door, reached across a slumped Christine and turned the engine off. He said her name, couldn’t stop saying it. He hollered for Brenna. He hollered for help. And then again. He looked up to see his neighbor holding his phone in the driveway, asking what else he could do. Rye ran inside the house, calling for Brenna. Silence.
And then.
He found her in her bed—tender as a kitten, still and pale and breathless. He covered his crying mouth and sputtered out carrying her. Their Briar Anna, limp and cooling in her nightgown as he gently placed her—and the fleece she was wrapped in—onto the leaves and front grass. He carried Christine’s lissome body, placed it beside Brenna’s. Desperately choked and coughed and attempted CPR on them. The lights swirled through the eternity-black doom as first responders showed up to help. Christine and Brenna were incontrovertibly beyond. Gone, gone, gone. Christine, who should’ve lived well past twenty-six; Brenna, who should’ve outlived him, who would never grow older than three.
The EMTs had to pull him away from them. He was on his hands and knees, sobbing as the rest of the neighbors peeked through their curtains and stepped out into the moonlight.
Eleanor Christina, his Bertha Mason, his wild one in the garage, not the attic. Eleanor Christina, his Sylvia Plath, who forgot the courtesy of sealing off the children’s door. Eleanor Christina, his Medea per accidens.
*
Rye talked. Tallie listened, finished her cigarette, kept crying and sniffing. “How do I know any of this is true?” she asked.
“Look it up,” Rye said. And Tallie sat on the bench, pulled out her phone with trembling fingers. “R-y-l-a-n-d. K-i-p-l-i-n-g.”
Tallie typed and scrolled as Rye lit his own smoke. He sat on the far end of the bench, staring at his boots.
“You were arrested for this? You went to prison for this? Because they thought you killed your wife and daughter?” Tallie asked after a moment of quiet reading. She looked up at him, her deep brown eyes wide and wet under the dusk.