Burn Our Bodies Down(58)

I snort, and catch a glimmer of triumph at the corner of Tess’s mouth, despite the tightness that’s lingering there. She wanted me to laugh. Too bad there isn’t anything remotely funny about this.

I don’t know how to explain it, really, but I do my best to describe it to Tess. The eyes, how they spilled down her cheeks. The odd scarring on her leg. “Connors asked me if I’ve ever seen anything like it before,” I say, “and of course I haven’t, but he just kept looking at me. And waiting. God, everybody here thinks I know something they don’t.”

“Well,” Tess says slowly, “somebody has to know something.”

“Sure, but—”

“I mean, Vera has to.” There’s a light in her eyes, one that sparks dread in my stomach. “You said she told you Katherine died, right? How does she know that for sure if they never found a body?”

It’s the same question I have. But I don’t sound like that when I ask it—entertained, excited.

“She just does,” I say. It’s the eager way Tess is looking at me that makes me say it. Makes me come to Gram’s defense, whether she’s earned it or not. “She saw the fire happen, after all. Maybe the body burned to ash, or—”

“Or maybe there was never any body at all,” Tess cuts in. “Maybe Katherine really did run away. Maybe—”

“Stop,” I say. A warning. This isn’t a story. This isn’t yours.

“No, maybe Josephine is the one who died,” she says, picking up steam, “and your mom is actually Katherine.”

I almost laugh, but the anger is too thick in my throat. Stop playing games, Tess. This is real for me.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay. You’ve had some fun, but really, stop.”

“I thought we were trying to figure this out.”

“Yeah, figure it out,” I snap. “Not make shit up.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, nudging my arm. “You don’t have to get pissed over—”

“Over what?” I stand up, and she looks at me with wide, almost fearful eyes. “You picking my family apart?”

She holds up her hands. Like surrender, and it should calm me down. But it just leaves me even angrier.

“Why bring it up if you weren’t serious about it? Is this fun for you?”

Because it isn’t for me. It’s my life. I don’t have anything but this. Take it apart and I’m left with nothing.

“I’m just trying to help,” Tess says. It’s almost satisfying, how dismayed she sounds. “I don’t understand, Margot. Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?” I say.

“Like…” She hesitates, drawing herself in close. Shoulders up, hands curled over her stomach. “I don’t know. Like your grandmother.”

It’s not what I expected. And it hits me so hard I can’t breathe. Like my grandmother. Like Mom. Is that how I am? Fighting with Tess the same way those women have fought with me?

“I…,” I start, but I can’t find anything to say. She’s right.

“Yeah,” Tess says, getting up. “So. You want to apologize?”

I should. Should admit this day got inside me, made me overreact. Made me something else. But I think it just showed me who I’ve always been. I stay quiet. Shut my eyes to keep tears from welling up.

“Fine.” Disappointment heavy in her voice. I hear Tess get up, hear the door open, and she sighs. “Go home, Margot.”

I don’t want to. But I don’t have anywhere else.





twenty-one





i follow the road back to Fairhaven, dust coating my tongue. Finally, the reach of the back porch, where Gram is standing, leaning against the post, her arms crossed over her chest. I wonder how long she’s been waiting for me.

“Welcome back,” she says. A few feet away, her face impassive. For a moment we just watch each other. Will she scold me for leaving? Or will we pretend nothing happened?

“You hungry?” she asks then. “Or did Sarah feed you?”

I think of the lunch I missed at the Millers’. It’d be better by a mile than whatever Gram’s got ready. But my stomach is empty, and Gram’s offering me something. I’ll take it.

“I could eat,” I say.

She sits me down at the kitchen table, and I watch her at the stove as she cracks two eggs into a frying pan and scrambles them. We don’t say anything. Maybe she’s surprised I came back.

Gram scrapes the scrambled egg onto a plate. As it steams, she swings the freezer open and fishes an apricot out of a plastic bag stacked there. I frown, remember how she said it wasn’t for me. But then the freezer is shut and her back is to me as she splits the apricot and palms the pit before dropping it into the trash in the cabinet under the sink.

Finally, she turns and sets the plate of food down in front of me. The eggs, with a fork speared in them, and the two apricot halves lying open next to them. It makes me feel almost sick. I’m not sure why.

The fruit is still frozen. I ignore it in favor of the eggs. Gram watches as I take a bite, and then another.

“Clean your plate,” she says. “You look unsteady.”

That’s one word for it.