The Cousins(89)

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—

Hours later, after Aubrey’s gone to bed and Jonah is locked into some multiplayer video game with friends from home, I wander outside and see my mother and Uncle Archer sitting on two Adirondack chairs arranged on a strip of beach near the house. I almost go back inside, not wanting to bother them, but my mother catches sight of me and waves me over.



“Let me get you a chair.” Uncle Archer half rises before I motion for him to stop.

“It’s okay. I don’t like those chairs anyway.” There’s a towel draped over the edge of my mother’s seat, and I spread it on the ground to sit at their feet.

“I was just telling Archer how happy I am that you and Aubrey have gotten close,” Mom says. There’s a table between her and Uncle Archer, holding a single glass of wine. Mom lifts it and takes a sip before adding, “She’s a gem. It’s hard to believe now how little effort I expended over the years to help you know your cousins.”

I put on a breezy tone, because I’m trying not to think about Aubrey flying across the country. Our long-distance chats are going to be nonstop. “Well, in JT’s case, that was a good call.”

Uncle Archer shakes his head. “I’m still holding out hope for that kid. He was just trying to do his own thing this summer. I’ll bet part of him is sorry for what happened.”

“A very small part,” I say. “An earlobe, maybe.”

“You always did refuse to see the worst in people, Archer,” Mom says.

It’s been strange watching her and Uncle Archer slip into old patterns this week—very old patterns, from their teenage years—as opposed to the strained politeness I remember from my childhood. I’d observed closeness between the two of them in old videos, but never in real life, and I almost believed it was a trick of the camera. But it’s not.

“I guess we have that in common,” Archer says. He makes a fist with one hand and bops it gently against my mother’s arm. “Couldn’t even see it in our own brothers.”



Mom stirs restlessly in her chair. “Have I used up all my let’s discuss that later chips?”

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” Uncle Archer says. “But I do want to tell you that I’m sorry for what you went through that summer, with the pregnancy and all. I knew something was wrong, but I had no idea it was that.”

“Well, how could you?” Mom asks. “I didn’t tell you. And it was over almost before it started.” She takes another sip of wine. “I was both sad and relieved. I felt for a while like I hated Matt, but I didn’t, really. I was just angry about how he acted. And then Anders told me what he’d done, and Matt died so horribly, and I just—I had no idea what to do.”

Uncle Archer waits a beat, and when my mother doesn’t continue, he asks quietly, “Did you ever think about telling anyone?”

“Every day.” Mom grips the stem of her wineglass so hard that I’m afraid it might break. “I was so conflicted. I felt guilty, because I’d provoked Anders by telling him about Kayla and Matt. And because Anders almost made it sound as though he’d done it for me, and all I could think was—did I communicate, in some way, that I’d wanted this? Was it my fault? It took more than a year for me to understand that Anders was, as always, acting in his own self-interest. By that point I couldn’t think how to bring it up again, or what good it could possibly do. And then Donald Camden sent that letter.”

Mom finishes her wine and sets the glass down with a trembling hand. “It felt like we deserved it. Well, all of us except you. Even though I thought Mother couldn’t possibly have known about Matt. And of course, she didn’t.” Mom huffs out the least mirthful laugh I’ve ever heard. “Now all I can think is—what if I had said something back then? Would everything be different now? Maybe Mother would still be with us and—”



“Allison,” Uncle Archer interrupts. “She wouldn’t. She had a heart condition.”

“I don’t know. It feels like the butterfly effect.” Mom’s voice gets thick. “Especially now, knowing that Kayla’s gone because of what I did—”

“Kayla’s gone because Donald Camden is a greedy, soulless bastard,” Uncle Archer corrects. For the first time all night, he sounds angry. “And if anyone set that particular butterfly effect in motion, it was Anders. Which is horribly ironic. I think he really did love Kayla, as much as Anders is capable of loving anyone. It has to hurt, knowing that what he did to Matt ultimately caused her death.” Uncle Archer taps his fingers rhythmically against the wooden arm of his chair, one after the other. From his index finger to his pinkie, then in reverse. One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one. “I don’t judge you, Allison. I’m angry at Adam for not saying something when it would have made a difference, but not at you for keeping quiet after it wouldn’t. I’m not sure what I would have done in that situation. You know what Father used to say. Family first, always.”

Mom still sounds on the verge of tears. “Father would have been horrified.”

“At them.” Uncle Archer’s voice softens. “You didn’t set out to deliberately hurt anyone. Forgive yourself, Allison. Twenty-five years is a long time to hang on to guilt.”