“I got you, babe.”
“Thanks.” I examine her face and can see the hollowness under her eyes. “How are you doing?”
She sits down opposite me and picks up her pen. The square in front of her has little dots arranged in rows, and she begins to connect them mindfully. “Not that great. I know you guys were at war, but I saw him almost every day, and the world is really empty without him.”
Neither Meadow nor Rory seems to hold any anger at him, and for a moment that tension shimmers in my spine. “Weren’t you ever mad at him, all his infidelities, letting our family down?”
She raises her head, and I see her working through ways to answer. “I don’t know. I mean, I was heartbroken when they broke up, but my relationship stayed strong. It didn’t change, really.”
I look down. Pick up one of the pens, aware of some rumbling, distant truth.
“But weren’t you mad that he betrayed Meadow?”
“Yes, of course I was. But . . .” She pauses. One shoulder lifts as she draws a perfect oval on the square. “I mean, who knows what goes on in a marriage?”
I’m silent.
She pushes little squares of paper over the table toward me, along with a coffee table–size book of patterns. “You should try it.”
I open the book.
“The first pages have the starter patterns,” she says. “Just look for one that appeals to you.”
“Can we eat while we do this? I have to be at work at one.”
“Yeah. I’m hungry, too.” She touches her stomach. “I keep forgetting to eat, which is not really my MO. I just can’t seem to feel anything except grief. It’s like this constant roar in my head.” She braces her forehead on her palms, hiding her face, but I see the tears.
“Oh, Rory-Bear.” I round the table and put my arms around her. She falls sideways into me, and makes real noise as she cries. It feels good to be the comforter instead of the comforted, and I let her cry as long as she wants, which is a pretty long time. I wish I could feel something other than anger. I wish I could grieve like this, but there’s nothing, except a wish to help my sister feel better.
Finally, her tears shudder and slow, and she sits up, grabbing a cloth napkin from the table to wipe her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Let me get lunch. Is it tuna? In the fridge?”
“Yes. The blue bowl. Bread is on the counter. Plates in—”
“I remember.” I open the cupboard by the sink and take out two plates, hand painted in a cheery pattern of flowers, and carry everything back to the table. “Do you want some tea?”
She looks at my glass. “Sure. What the hell.”
I grin. “That’s the spirit.”
We eat tuna sandwiches with dill pickles, and potato chips, and sweet tea, and talk about nothing much. The flowers Rory is going to plant, the pleasure I’ve found in the new job, Polly’s progress at swim lessons. As we sit with our plates in front of us, finishing our tea, she asks, “Have the police been out to talk to you?”
“No. Why? Should they?” I lean forward and plant my elbows on the table. “Did they come talk to you?”
“Yes. Both of us.”
“But about what?”
“Dad’s death.”
“I thought it was a heart attack.”
“I thought so, too, but they asked where we were and the last time we saw him, all those kinds of things, and they still haven’t released the body.”
“That’s weird.” I frown, looking over her shoulder to the garden I can see through the open door. “So, what, like somebody killed him?”
She lifts her shoulders. “That seems a little dramatic.”
“Not like they would want for suspects,” I say dryly, and she has the grace to smile.
“Not you.”
“Airtight alibi,” I say, and glance at the clock. “Damn. I have to go right now.” I kiss her head. “Thanks for lunch and the company.”
“You too. It really helped.”
“Good.”
“Do you want to come to dinner tonight?”
“Um . . .” I pause. “Honestly, no. I asked Meadow to go home for real today, and she’s going to, so maybe I’d just like to be on my own.”
“Okay.” She sounds uncertain.
I take a breath. “Look, I can’t promise you that I will never relapse, but I swear I’m doing everything I can to stay sober, and you don’t need to babysit me. I have a program and a sponsor and lots of support”—not strictly true, all of it, but I’m working on it—“so you don’t have to hold up the tent, okay?”