“Abigail,” my father said, his voice rising with alarm. “What happened?”
I watched as she held out her palms, blood still drooling and dripping from each, as her mouth moved open and closed but made no sound. First my father, then my mother, rushed toward her. In a moment, they had whisked her off to the kitchen, where I could hear water running and my mother praying too.
Meanwhile, Rose and I had been left alone in the living room. There was a little blood on her hand as well from when she ran it over her scalp. But nothing she couldn’t wipe away on her jeans, which she did just then. “Well, squirt,” she said. “I can see things have really normalized while I’ve been gone.”
How could I tell her that in their own strange way, things had seemed normal—happy even—all those months? There was the ice cream. There were those late-night trips to the pond. There were the conversations Abigail and I had through the bedroom wall.
Instead, I said, “I’m glad you’re back. Are they going to let you stay?”
“They’re not happy about it, but I’m not giving them a choice. No way am I heading back to that place. And I’m not going back to school again either. I’m going to stay here through the fall and winter, save my money then get an apartment of my own.”
I thought of that globe up in her room, the way she used to spin it, plunking her finger down on random locations. Warsaw. Buenos Aires. Sydney. “Get a place where?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t figured that out yet. But it won’t be Dundalk or even Baltimore. It’ll be someplace a safe distance from this madhouse.”
I stood there, saying nothing. All summer long, I had wanted the same things as my mother: for Rose to come home, for Abigail to be gone, for things to return to normal. But I realized then that things would never go back to the way they had been. When Rose left that morning months before, she may as well have left for good.
“Sylvie,” my mother called from the kitchen. “Can you run to our bathroom upstairs and get some bandages and peroxide?”
I turned away from my sister and did what our mother asked. When I stepped into the kitchen moments later, Abigail held her hands above her head to slow the bleeding. “Does she need stitches?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” my father answered, then looked to Abigail and asked her, “How did this happen?”
Her mouth moved up and down again, but no words came. You’re good at this, I thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d have been fooled too.
“You were with her, Sylvie,” my mother said at last. “Tell us.”
Abigail’s eyes caught mine then. I thought of that morning when I spoke the truth for Rose and how badly that had turned out despite my intentions. Let them believe what they want, I decided before answering only with, “I don’t know what happened to her.”
Abigail’s eyes were on mine still as my parents walked her to the basement door. Her mouth was no longer moving, though I could imagine words slipping out anyway, saying: “The money. Tonight, after I’m down there asleep, don’t forget to bring me the money.”
“And then what?” Lynch said. He was not exactly leaning forward at the table, but he was sitting up at last, his spindly fingers pressed to the surface. “You went down there and gave her the money?”
“Your turn,” I told him. “Tell me about the deal you made with my sister.”