The Identicals(110)

“We most certainly are,” Eleanor says. “Ainsley is more than old enough to know what happened.” Eleanor lifts her drink to her lips, then slowly, carefully sets her glass down. She looks at Ainsley. “Your brother was born prematurely. It’s a miracle he lived at all, frankly. But his lungs never caught up to the rest of him.”

Ainsley nods. This much she knows, or thinks she knows. She can count on one hand the number of times Julian’s name has come up in conversation, but his ghost is always hovering around, haunting them. His death is the foundation of her mother’s personality—her sorrow, her impatience, her indifference.

“Please stop, Mother,” Tabitha says softly.

“Your mother blames your aunt for Julian’s death,” Eleanor says without taking her eyes off Ainsley. “That’s why they didn’t speak for so many years.”

“Blames her why?” Ainsley says. “If he just stopped breathing?”

“She—” Tabitha says.

“I—” Harper says.

“Your aunt came to Nantucket to help,” Eleanor says. “And on her last night here, she persuaded your mother to go out to dinner, to go out dancing. And that was the night that Julian died.”

“I wasn’t home,” Tabitha says. “If I had been home, it wouldn’t have happened!”

“Nonsense!” Eleanor says. “That is complete nonsense, Tabitha Frost, and you know it!” Eleanor’s voice is louder and sharper than Ainsley has ever heard it. Eleanor’s anger is usually expressed by her choice of words, not by the volume at which she speaks them. “Your father and I could never figure it out,” Eleanor says. “We used to puzzle over it. What had happened? Why the discord? Billy thought one thing, I thought another.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Harper says.

“That was between Billy and me, and I’m certainly not going to share our private conversations with you now,” Eleanor says. “I brought you here so I could apologize. I need to say I’m sorry.”

“For what, Mother?” Tabitha says.

“I blame myself for Julian’s death,” Eleanor says. “First off, I should have insisted on paying for a longer stay in the hospital—”

“Wyatt would never have accepted your charity,” Tabitha says.

“Will you please let me finish?” Eleanor says.

They’re all quiet, and Eleanor takes the opportunity to enjoy a dramatic pause. She takes a prolonged sip of her drink. They all watch as her hands tremble, and the ice does a nervous dance in the glass.

“We opened the boutique at the Candle Street location that summer,” Eleanor says. “Remember?”

“Yes,” Tabitha says.

“I was desperate to have it ready for Memorial Day weekend,” Eleanor says. “And we had that unseasonably warm weather.” She looks at Tabitha, and her eyes brim with tears. “I worked you to the bone. There you were, six and a half months pregnant, and I was asking you to carry boxes and move racks of dresses down sidewalks and up and down curbs in the sweltering sun. I barely let you sit down, and when you did, do you remember what I gave you to drink? Do you remember, Tabitha?”

“An espresso,” Tabitha says.

“I gave you espresso,” Eleanor says. “I thought it would pep you up.” She shakes her head, and one tear drops. “I had such a trial carrying the two of you that as far as I was concerned, being pregnant with one baby was no big deal. Part of me, I’m sure, thought you were getting off easy.” Eleanor stares at her hands in her lap. “I was monstrous. You started complaining of pains, and the next thing I knew you were in full-blown labor at twenty-eight weeks.” She takes another sip of her drink. “I’m responsible for Julian’s premature birth. And therefore I’m responsible for his dying. Why you’ve been blaming your sister is beyond me.”

Everyone is quiet for a while, processing Eleanor’s confession. Ainsley is in awe of the many ways that parents are able to screw up their children’s lives. She had thought she was nearly out of Tabitha’s grip—in a couple of years she will be eighteen, an adult—but now she realizes a mother’s rule can last one’s entire life.

“I’m confused about this so-called puzzling you and Daddy used to do,” Harper says. “These private conversations. You and Daddy never even spoke, did you?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Tabitha says. She turns on Eleanor. “You’re only taking the blame now to protect Harper.”

At that moment, Eleanor drops her glass. It glances off the edge of the cigar table, hits the floor, and shatters. There are glass shards and ice everywhere. The drink splashes all over the Tabriz rug and the bottom of Eleanor’s kimono. But Eleanor barely bats an eye, making Ainsley think her grandmother dropped it on purpose.

“Just let it be my fault!” Eleanor says. “I want the two of you to kiss and make up! I want you to do what siblings are supposed to do—hate your parents but love each other! Flossie and I both despised my mother; even now, sixty years later, we talk about how awful she was. I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have Flossie to commiserate with. She’s my sister. But you, Tabitha Winford Frost, and you, Harper Vivian Frost, are more than sisters.”