All the Dangerous Things(70)

Every single time, I dream of her.

I dream of the two of us outside, the glow of the moon making our nightgowns shine as we stand at the edge of the water. I dream of her hand in mine, fingers tight, her neck twisting as she stares at me in the darkness.

Her eyes wide, trusting, before she turns back around, faces the marsh.

And then she takes a slow step forward, her toes sending a ripple through the water as I stand back and watch her go.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


NOW

I’ve grown used to uncomfortable silence in this house. After Margaret, that’s all there ever was.

Dad offered me a drink when I first walked in. “We have whiskey, wine…” His voice trailed off before he could finish. He was embarrassed, I think, when he realized it wasn’t yet noon.

“Coffee,” I said. “Please. Thanks.”

We’re in the living room now, the three of us sitting in opposite corners. I’m perched on the edge of the couch—the kind of couch that’s purchased for aesthetic alone, the cushions the consistency of cardboard, and the upholstery a clean, crisp white—while my parents are in two armchairs on either side of the fireplace. There’s a tray of cookies between us arranged in an ornate circle. My mom brought them out—mostly, I think, to give her hands something to do, an excuse not to touch me. I know they’re just going to sit there, growing stale. That she’ll brush them all into the trash once I leave, slap the lid shut, like my presence alone somehow rendered them spoiled.

“I got your card,” I say at last. “And the check. Thank you.”

“Sure,” my dad says, smiling. “It’s the least we could do.”

“You didn’t have to, though. I mean, I don’t need it—”

He waves his hand as if brushing off a gnat.

“How’s Ben?”

I look at him and notice his set lips and clenched jaw. He’s uncomfortable, grasping for conversation, a mad scramble in his mind that I’m sure began the moment he opened the door and saw me standing on the other side of it. He’s never liked to talk about problems; neither of my parents have. Politics and religion were always welcome in our house, but emotions and feelings and all those other sticky subjects were simply buried beneath piles of money and presents until they disappeared altogether.

“He’s fine,” I say at last. Of course, they don’t know we’re separated. I never told them. “Busy with work.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “That’s good.”

I set my coffee on the side table. I haven’t taken a sip since I sat down. I’m too afraid of sloshing the liquid over the side, staining the couch. Old habits die hard. Then I glance at my mother, at the way she’s sitting rigid in her chair like she’s strapped into a straight jacket. Her hands are clenched tight in her lap, one ankle hooked around the other the way we learned in cotillion. They’ve changed so much since Margaret died. My mother used to see the world in such vibrant colors. I remember the way she would look at me with such wonder in her eyes—her head lolled to the side, fingers tickling at her chin, like I had come into this world as a piece of artwork, commissioned by her steady hand, and somehow sprung myself from the canvas. Took on a life of my own. But now it’s like her world has faded into black and white.

Whenever she looks in my direction, those same eyes skip over me completely, like I’m nothing but empty space.

“So what can we do for you, Izzy?”

My dad squirms in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He’s changed, too. His booming voice has withered into a whisper, jittery and unsure. He used to command attention every time he walked into a room, but now it’s like he looks for the nearest corner and hides there, tries to blend into the wallpaper.

“I was actually in the neighborhood,” I lie. “For work. I’m writing a story.”

“Oh, that’s great, sweetie.”

He doesn’t ask what it’s about; I knew he wouldn’t. Sometimes, I wonder if it bothers them: the fact that my life moves forward when Margaret’s came to such an abrupt and violent ending, like a car careening into a wall. My job, my husband, my son. All reminders of what she wouldn’t have. What I took from her.

But then again, maybe it brings them some semblance of comfort that I’ve managed to destroy those things on my own.

“How are you, honey?” my mother finally asks, the addition of her voice both sudden and startling. “How are you holding up?”

I look over at her. There’s that question again. The question nobody really wants you to answer.

“I’m … you know,” I say, giving her a pinched smile. “Not great, honestly.”

“Any updates with the case?”

My dad cuts in, and I can feel the shift of power in the room again, almost like the way a storm cloud alters the pressure in the air, making it harder to breathe. They had met Mason, of course—I would never keep my parents from meeting their grandson—but by the time he came into this world, the distance between us had grown so vast, there was nothing we could do to cross it. I remember them stepping into my home for the first and last time, glancing around as if they were in a museum, too afraid to touch anything. Tiptoeing around rogue toys and dirty laundry the same way I had always navigated their antique vases and breakable things with a sense of acute awareness, though that sharp tang of irony seemed to have gone over their heads completely. Ben had ushered them toward me as I nursed Mason on the couch, my old button-up stained and sour, and I’ll never forget the way my mother blushed when she saw me like that, her eyes darting to the ground like she was embarrassed for us both. The entire visit, my father had been the one to hold him, smelling his head and pinching his cheeks, while she sat silently by his side. At one point, he had thrust Mason toward her, gesturing for her to take him, and I felt a spasm in my chest as she looked at him, then up at me, muttering a quiet Excuse me before standing up and walking back outside.