“How is she?” he finally asked.
I turned to him, the light catching his features, sharp, tense, and I wanted to reach out to him. Wanted to have him wrap me in his arms. I just shook my head, letting the tears fall again, silent.
“Hey, hey,” he whispered, reaching for me, his hand beneath my chin, his thumb wiping away the salty droplets that clung to my chin. “It’s not your fault.”
I bristled, stepped back, knocking his hand away. He knew. He knew I cried as much for the blame that sat hot and hard and heavy in my chest, that stole my breath, clutching at my heart and holding it tight. Had I not been with him, this would not have happened. Had we returned on time, Emily would have been at the light. Emily needed me, and I had failed her. She was my life, and I was hers. I could not have both. I could not have Emily and David.
I turned and walked up the wooden steps and into the warmth, the closing door consuming the rectangle of light he was standing in, leaving him to the songs of crickets and the intermittent beam of the light sweeping overhead.
I never saw your grandfather again. He knew. We both knew. He had killed an innocent man. And while never one to hide from the consequences of his actions, to do otherwise would have meant compromising Emily. She would not have survived it. He loved her too much to do that to her.
And he loved me too much to stay, to make me choose between them. The morning after he killed Grayson, before the sun was full in the sky, the body and canoe were gone.
And so was he.
part three Sisters in Flight
41
Morgan
I’m lying in my bed. I’ve been awake for hours but I don’t feel like getting up and facing people and making stupid conversation. It’s Saturday. I usually sleep until noon on Saturdays, after a Friday night out. But I haven’t been out for days. Not since Derrick and I split and I got drunk and made an ass of myself. Not since the night I spent at the old folks’ home. Not since I learned about Grandpa shooting Grayson.
Not since I was grounded.
Miss Livingstone was about to keep going with her story. There was more, I think, that she was going to tell me, even though she never saw my grandfather again. But Marty showed up, his bushy eyebrows dancing up and down his forehead as he looked back and forth between us. He didn’t say anything, even though I’m sure he had all kinds of questions. I think that’s how he is; doesn’t poke his nose into other people’s business. Instead he looked at me and told me someone was there, asking for me.
At first I thought it was Derrick. I wish I could say I didn’t hope that it was, but I did. Damn him! I quickly pulled on my boots and hurried down the hall to the entrance. But it was Laurie, sitting in one of the leather chairs next to the fireplace, her face all scrunched up with worry and frustration and disappointment. And probably exhaustion. Shit!
We just looked at each other. She didn’t ask me for an explanation. And I didn’t give her one. I have a feeling someone had already. Marty.
“I’ll be right back,” I told her, then returned to Miss Livingstone’s room.
Elizabeth had settled herself in the bed. She looked small and tired and somehow vulnerable in a way I’d never seen her before. I realized it must have taken a lot for her to relive her past to tell me about Grandpa. And I realized, standing there in her room, looking down at her where she lay on the bed, eyes closed, that we both loved the same man.
“I gotta run,” I said. “I . . . uh . . .”
“It’s not the boy, is it?”
I couldn’t help smiling. She is so fucking observant. “No. No, not him. My foster mom. She must have been worried about me.”
“It comes with caring.”
I just nodded my head, forgetting that she couldn’t see. She was trying to tell me more with those words. She knows about worrying and caring. I looked at the journals on the table and wanted to straighten them into a pile and wrap them up again, but I left them. They didn’t hold the answers to her questions, and I was disappointed for her. I tapped my foot against the doorframe. I wasn’t used to the feeling.
“I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for in your father’s diary. That you didn’t find out who was buried in that grave or why Charlie went out to the island to find the books.”
She pressed her lips together. “Makes little difference now.”
“I’ll come back later.” It was a statement, but almost a question. I wasn’t sure she wanted me back again, now that there were no more journals to read.
“I would like that.”
I turned to leave.
“Morgan,” she continued. I paused and looked back at her. Her eyes were open, unable to see, looking instead on the past. “He was a good man. A very good man.”
I stood quietly for a moment in the doorway, remembering Grandpa the way I knew him. When I looked back at Miss Livingstone, I didn’t see a fragile old woman. Instead, I saw Elizabeth, the young woman who had loved a good man. A very good man. It made me feel happy for her, but in a sad kind of way. I turned and walked down the hall, away from the memories, hers and mine.
Marty held out my violin as I passed his office. He also handed me a doughnut wrapped in a napkin and a paper cup filled with hot liquid that smelled of ginger and honey.
“Thought you might need this.”
It helped, but not enough. The conversation with Laurie was awkward during the short car ride between the home and high school, something about calling and always there to talk to and some other shit. I mumbled an excuse for an apology before slamming the door and heading inside, late. Derrick wasn’t there, and I was glad I didn’t have to face him. I had a hard time staying awake through history class and left as soon as the last bell rang. I was dying for a cigarette, lighting up as soon as I entered the path that ran along the river toward the retirement home. I stopped on the bridge to finish the last few drags before flicking the butt into the brown water, watching it swirl and twist as the current carried it out toward Lake Superior.
Marty intercepted me in the hallway, outside Miss Livingstone’s room, where the door was closed. He shook his head.
“She’s needing her rest.”
I tried again the next day, but she wasn’t even in her room, so I did what I had to for Marty and then left.
I’ve spent the last few evenings alone in my basement room with my violin. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore when I play it. I think it helps that I know more about him, that there’s someone else who shared his songs. The music made me remember, and remembering made me feel lonely, and scared, and small.
I can smell coffee. And bacon.
Derrick hasn’t called me. I haven’t called him either. We’re both too proud. I want to, but then I don’t. What a fucking mess.
There’s a knock on my door.