I wave my hands to cut her off, assuming she has misspoken. “Excuse me?”
Annabel slants her head. “Earlier this year? After he stayed at the resort for that wedding? He offered to work with your mom?” She must see the shock on my face. “He didn’t tell you that.”
“He said it was my mom’s idea.” I put a hand on the counter, feeling light-headed.
“Well, I’ll leave that mess for him to explain. But I think it was his way of making things right with you, at least at first. It took me a while to put it all together. That you’re the girl, the one from that day ten years ago.”
I nod.
“Will couldn’t stop talking about you the morning after he met you—how he showed you around the city, how you were different from everyone else. I’d never heard him speak about someone like that before.”
It takes a second for my memory to kick in. “He was meeting you that morning for breakfast,” I say. “Before his flight back to Vancouver.”
Annabel presses her lips together. “I’ll never forget it,” she says. “I threw up halfway through our waffles. It’s when I told Will I was pregnant.”
“He didn’t tell me that,” I whisper. He didn’t tell me a lot of things.
“Our dad found the pregnancy test in the garbage a few days before. He assumed I wouldn’t have the baby, and honestly, I thought that, too. But then he started saying how I couldn’t take care of myself, never mind a child, and I snapped. When I told Will, he offered to stay in the city and come to the clinic with me, but I’d already made up my mind to prove Dad wrong. I was going to have the baby and become the best mom ever.” Annabel shakes her head. “Stubbornness and pride run in the Baxter family, FYI.” She glances at the drawing on the counter.
“Will gave up a lot for me. I didn’t realize how much he was giving up at the time; neither of us did. But I’ve learned a lot since I was nineteen.” Annabel’s eyes move to where my fingers grip the edge of the counter and then she peers around the space. “Is there somewhere we can sit? There’s more.”
* * *
—
Annabel and I go out to the front steps. It’s humid in the city, the sun smudged out by fat clouds. A spotted white cat is sprawled on the walkway. Colonel Mustard belongs to the next-door neighbor.
Annabel sets her purse between her sandaled feet and fidgets with the shoulder strap. “Does he talk very much about our mother?” she asks.
I shake my head. I know she still lives in Italy and that Will hasn’t visited her for a couple of years. Other than what he told me ten years ago, he hasn’t said much more.
“I’m not surprised,” Annabel says. “He doesn’t like to. She’s a very gifted artist. And gorgeous and smart and over-the-top charming when she wants to be. But she was kind of an absent parent. Even before she left, she was never totally there. It wasn’t all her fault—I know that now. Her depression could be debilitating. During a bad spell, she’d be in bed for days. And when she was well, she was hyperfocused on her work, like she needed to use every drop of her creativity in case it ran out.” Annabel gives me a look to make sure I’m following, and something about the steadiness of her gaze reminds me so much of Will, my chest squeezes. But then she notices Colonel Mustard.
“I’m sorry. Does that cat have a mustache?”
“Yep.” I click my tongue and the Colonel turns his head, the black patch of fur under his nose on full display.
Annabel squeals and the cat, spotting a mark, stretches, then sashays over, wrapping himself around her ankles.
“We never had pets,” she says, stroking his fur. “Will is allergic to almost anything with four legs. Itchy eyes, asthma, the whole thing.”
It pokes at me like a pebble in a shoe. I didn’t know Will has asthma. The list of things I didn’t know about Will grows with almost every word from Annabel’s lips.
“Anyway,” she says as the Colonel settles by her feet, “when our mother was working, she could shut out everything. Her studio was above the garage, and I remember stomping up the stairs like an elephant. I’d stand right in front of her and have to try four or five times to get her attention before she’d notice I was there. After I became a parent, I wondered if she moved so far away because she felt guilty for not spending enough time with us. Like, if she put an ocean between us, she wouldn’t have to attempt some kind of balance. She couldn’t fail.”
It reminds me of something Peter said about Mom—how one of the reasons she worked so much was because it was the one area of her life where she felt successful.
“Will idolized her when we were growing up,” Annabel continues. “Everyone always said how alike they were. He was so proud of that. The two artists. He looks like Mom, too. And he seemed to understand her. When she was suffering, he’d sit beside her in bed, sketching. It used to scare me when she was like that, but Will would just be with her in the quiet.”
I can picture it clearly, a young Will trying to comfort his mom with nothing more than his solid presence. I think of how he was when we first met—the way he let me speak when I was ready, how he lay across from me in the dark, assuring me everything would be okay.
“Are you all right?” Annabel asks, looking down at my arm. I’ve been scratching.
“Yeah,” I lie, putting my hands around my shins to hold them in place. The more Annabel tells me about Will, the wider the canyon inside me splits. He’s a river, pushing and eroding, and my banks are sand, not granite.
Annabel makes a dubious hum, but she goes on. “When our mom left, Will took it the hardest. We lived with my grandma that summer, and I remember one day, he was drawing out in the backyard. I wanted his help putting a basket on my bike, and I had to call his name a bunch of times to get him to hear me. I said something about him being like Mom, and he got so mad. He told me he’d never be like her. Sometimes I think he’s made it his life’s mission to prove it.”
I stay quiet, watching Annabel’s profile.
“The thing is,” Annabel says, “Will is a lot like our mother. Not in the ways that count—he’s the least self-centered person I know, and his heart is too large for his chest. But he’s creative and passionate, and when he decides he wants to do something, his commitment is unbreakable.” She pulls in a deep breath. “When Sofia was born, he had a hard time. It was different from our mom’s depression, and it’s not my place to tell you what he went through, but I think it only confirmed his belief that deep down he’s the same as her. He stopped drawing altogether. He got an MBA while working full-time. To him, being a responsible adult meant being like our dad—having a steady job, a big paycheck, owning a home—and so that’s what he did. But he gave up this huge part of himself, and I don’t think he’s been truly happy.” She looks at me expectantly. “That’s where you come in.”
“I don’t see how,” I murmur.
Annabel gives me a look of sheer pity. “No? He said you were smart.”
I blink in surprise, and she smiles. “God, you’re both so serious.” She turns so she can face me. “I haven’t heard my brother sound more alive than he has this summer. When he told me he was sketching again, I was so relieved. I thought he was finally starting to take his life back.”
I think of the drawing I found at his cabin, and I wonder if Annabel knows what I know.
“He was so mad at himself that he wasn’t home when Sofia got sick, and I’m sure he sees it as evidence that he isn’t allowed to have all the things.” Annabel stares into the clouds. “And that I’m not ready to live on my own with Sofia. But he’s wrong about both. Just like he was wrong to break up with you.” She looks back down at me, piercing me with her copper eyes. “Although maybe you shouldn’t have dumped all your feelings on him when his niece was in the hospital.”