She’s been watching her children so closely all these years. So how is it possible that they’ve changed so much without her realizing?
She’s still standing there when she hears footsteps pounding up the landing. Her heart jackrabbits. Something’s wrong. She’s on her feet when Jack bursts through the door, his face white.
She rushes across the room to him, already scanning for signs of damage.
“What’s happened?” she asks, grasping his arm. “Are you hurt?”
He shakes her off. “Ed got a call when we were on the field. From Nan. She was in tears. She said you’d tried to fire her.”
“That’s an exaggeration. But she shouldn’t have sent you off with Ed to play lacrosse. What if you got hurt? I talked to you about this last night, Jack.”
“You told me not to drink. You didn’t tell me I couldn’t play lacrosse. What am I supposed to do, live in some kind of bubble for the rest of my life?”
Yes, Holly wants to say. It’s so close to what she’s been thinking. But she doesn’t.
“God, Mom. You should have heard Ed trying to calm Nan down.”
He’s pacing about the room like a caged animal.
“I’m doing what I think is right for you,” Holly says sharply. This conversation isn’t going the way she wants it to.
“When do I get to start making my own decisions? When do I get to start living my life?” He’s moving back and forth, back and forth, closer and closer to the open nursery window. The window Michael fell from. The same window Peter came through. It’s irrational, Holly knows, but she doesn’t want him near it.
“Come away from there, please,” Holly says, striving for calm.
“That’s another thing. What is your crazy fear of . . .” His voice dies off.
“Jack?”
He doesn’t answer. There’s a small round table to the left of the window. There’s a lamp on it and a tableau of silver frames. Jane has pictures everywhere, and Holly hasn’t paid attention to these, not in years, not since she insisted her mother move the sketch of Wendy and her brothers from the nursery. But one of the pictures has caught Jack’s eye. He picks it up, his back to the window, his body leaning against the sill.
“Come away from there,” she says again. “Please.” But Jack isn’t listening. He’s staring at the photograph with the strangest expression on his face.
“Jack, what is it?”
He turns to her, still holding the picture. She moves closer. The photo is of a very young Eden, holding onto a wheelchair. In the chair is Jack.
“This is the girl I told you about. The one I thought was imaginary. Who is she? And why am I in a wheelchair?”
All the air leaves Holly. She’s trying to speak, struggling for the right words, for a story that will work, but her mouth keeps opening and closing with no sound. So when Jack hears the truth, it’s not from her.
“That would be your sister.” Jane, standing in the open doorway, delivers the news in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Stop,” Holly hisses, fear and anger cutting through her paralysis. But it is too late.
“My sister?” Jack repeats, bewildered.
“Yes,” Jane says with a glance at Holly. “Her name is Eden.”
Holly has boxed up or destroyed all of her own photos of Eden, all except the one hidden in her suitcase. She hasn’t wanted to take the chance Jack might stumble across them. It had never occurred to her that Jane, of all people, would not only keep but display one.
Jane reads her face, shrugs. “Despite what you may think, she is my granddaughter.”
“You hid that I had a sister from me?” Jack says incredulously. “Why?”
“I was trying to protect you,” Holly says. “You were so young, you’d already suffered so much loss, and your sister had been sick for such a long time.” She pauses. She’s tempted, so tempted, to add that Eden is dead. But it feels like bad luck, as if saying it might make it come true. Besides, Jane is right here, and Holly isn’t certain she’d let the lie stand. But Jack’s mind gets there all on its own.
“Where is she?” His eyes widen. “The house, right? The one in Cornwall. With all the medical equipment. I saw it through the window. When you told me someone who lived there was sick, she’s who you meant. Did she die? Is that why you’re selling it? I had a sister you never even told me about, and now she’s dead?”
Jane opens her mouth to speak. “Don’t,” Holly says. “You’ve done enough.” She takes a step toward Jack, but he backs away, clutching the photo to his chest. She reaches for him. “Jack,” she says, coaxingly. “Listen.”
“Don’t touch me.” He pushes her hands away. “Leave me alone.” He bolts across the room and is out the door before she can even try to stop him.
Jane grabs Holly by the shoulder. “Let him go.”
“Are you joking?” Holly shakes her off. “He’s all alone!”
“You’ve tried everything else. Give him some time and see what happens.”
“And if Peter finds him first?” She turns on her heel, intending to go after Jack, but she’s too late. She’s just reaching the stairs when she hears the front door bang shut. By the time she gets there and opens the door, he’s gone.
A part of her—a small part—knows Jane is right. She should give him time to cool off. But she can’t leave it alone. She’s afraid of what he’ll do, of the chances he’ll take. And despite everything, she still knows her son. She knows where he’ll go when he’s upset. She finds the scrap of paper Nan scribbled on in the kitchen. Bingo.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At the lacrosse field, Holly spots Jack at once. He’s racing down the field in a scrum of players and wears an exhilarated look she hasn’t seen since . . . she can’t remember when. She’s always been nervous about his playing, about seeing him surrounded by players both larger and heavier than he. It was Barry who suggested she give Jack some space, let him have one area of his life she wasn’t involved in. He’d teased her about micromanaging her son the way she did the office and she’d backed off, a little hurt but also secretly relieved. Watching Jack play was always nail-bitingly intense for her. But her fear has made her forget how much he loves the sport.
She gets out of the car and crosses over to the field. Nan is sitting alone on the sidelines. She’s spread out a blanket and arranged what looks like a small feast: oranges, cheese, crackers, and bottles of water. When she sees Holly, she visibly flinches.
“Hi,” Holly says. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Suit yourself,” Nan says. But she moves over slightly.
“Which one is your brother?” Holly asks. It’s hard to tell with the helmets. Nan points without comment. Ed is taller and broader than Jack, but he doesn’t have Jack’s speed or agility. Still, Holly tries to be generous. “Nice shot,” she says when he tries to score from the left side of the crease.
“He loves it,” Nan says. “Your son does too.”
Holly is quiet for a moment. She’s going to need allies with Jack; she can see that. He’s pulling away from her, more and more every day, his face eagerly turned toward a future that doesn’t include her. Rationally, she knows this was bound to happen, that to some degree it’s normal, even good, but still it leaves her stunned that hormones and adolescence can separate her from this child she’s built her life around. Stunned, and a little hurt. “I’m sorry about this morning,” she says finally. “I was upset and worried. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“It’s all right,” Nan says. “Jack told my brother you had another son, a twin to Jack, and he died?”