Dear Edward(38)

“Hey,” Bruce says, rearing from his seat, out of sleep, like a startled walrus. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

The brothers are still looking at each other. Jordan’s insides turn peaceful. The change is abrupt but welcome. He wants, suddenly, to lean forward and whisper all the details about his relationship with Mahira into Eddie’s ear. He’s wanted to do this for weeks; he’s never kept a secret from his brother until now, and this is a secret that has shaped his daily life and mapped his thoughts. But somehow, from the first kiss, the secret has acted as a wedge. It’s created space between him and Eddie where none has ever existed.

Jordan wants to cup his hands around Eddie’s ear and start talking, but he doesn’t open his mouth. He and his brother pull apart, and he knows the division, however slight, hurts them both. They’re two toddlers rolling around on the rug, then two boys shape-shifting into men. One amorphous mass, then two boulders on opposite sides of the room.

“Oh, Dad,” Eddie says, and he sounds sympathetic, as if soothing a child who could never possibly understand, “we’re fine.”





January 2014

On January 1, Edward dresses in as many layers of Jordan’s clothes as he can manage: underwear, long johns, socks, long-sleeve T-shirt, short-sleeve T-shirt, zip-up sweatshirt, woolen hat, too-big red Converse sneakers. When he enters the kitchen, Lacey and John have their backs to him. They’re standing by the window, talking in quiet voices. Quiet, but not calm. Shoving voices, Edward’s brain decides. Lacey’s tone shoves at John, then he, more weakly, shoves back.

“You didn’t even ask if I wanted to come to the hearing.”

“It didn’t occur to me,” John says. “Do you?”

A hard headshake. “I don’t even know if he wants to be there, really. This is about you, and it’s not healthy. Why are you going?”

John is leaning against the kitchen counter as if he requires the structural support. “It’s my responsibility to gather all the information, so I can protect him. I need to know what’s coming his way. If I don’t know everything—”

“You said you were protecting me. Last year.” Lacey takes a choppy breath. “Which basically meant you stopped talking to me until I agreed to stop.”

“This is different. There was no information then, no knowable reason. They didn’t know why your body wasn’t accepting the baby. There is knowable information now, though. That’s why the NTSB is holding a hearing.” He pauses, then says, “I wanted you to stop because the doctor said you might die.”

“I did stop.”

“Only because of what happened.”

“But your protection didn’t help me.” Lacey bites off the last word, then turns quickly and sees Edward in the doorway. Her face shifts from darkness to surprise to a fake smile.

“Goodness!” she says. “Did you sleep all right?”

The false brightness on his aunt’s face makes Edward feel terrible. He nods, even though he didn’t sleep all right. He never does, and she must know that, but she wants everything to be different in this moment, and he wants to help her.

“John,” Lacey says, “do you see how many clothes he’s wearing?”

John shudders, like a toy robot coming out of sleep mode. He plays along, but his voice isn’t full strength. “Maybe he’s going out on an expedition.”

Edward thinks: This is the first day of a year that my parents and brother will never see. Don’t you know that? He looks carefully from his aunt to his uncle and sees that they haven’t remembered. They haven’t had this thought. Which means he’s alone, skating on black ice that exists beneath only his feet.

“We actually wanted to talk to you,” John says. “Just to fill you in on some news from the lawyers.”

Lacey stands by the window, holding a hard-boiled egg; John is by the calendar on the far wall. Edward thinks, Geometrically, in this room, I am in the middle of their argument. He feels himself bend, like a reedy limb, under the weight.

“Would you like a piece of toast?” Lacey asks.

“No, thanks.”

“So, the lawyers,” John says. “Most of the logistics have been finalized, with the insurance companies, plural.” He grimaces. “The majority of the victims’ families will receive approximately one million dollars in recognition of their loss and suffering. You’ll receive five million, because—” He stops for a second. “You get more. It will be put in trust for you until you’re twenty-one.”

Lacey lowers the egg to the table and taps it twice. Edward watches tiny cracks spread across the shell.

“This kind of talk reminds me of the hospital,” she says. “Everything sounded absurd then too.”

“It’s a lot of money,” John says.

Edward leans away from the table, as if the money has been physically piled in front of him. He remembers the hospital too—his bright sock elevated, a deep voice filling the air, and wondering why the president of the United States thought it was a good idea to have a conversation with a boy who’d recently fallen out of the sky.

“What I recommend,” John says, “is that you put it out of your mind. You just turned thirteen.” They had marked the occasion a few weeks earlier, by eating cake. It had been a quiet celebration; no one sang the birthday song, because Edward had implored them with his eyes not to do so. If the birthday had to happen, it needed to be quick, and muted.