Chương 8
“Daniel.”
“Daniel.”
“What did she say?”
“She said his family would destroy you to make sense of losing him.”
Tori looked toward the dark window over the sink.
“And you believed her.”
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because if she was right, doing nothing was protection.”
“And if she was wrong?”
“Then doing nothing was still easier.”
He stopped folding the bag.
“I knew she had thrown the letter away. I looked for it in the trash after she left. She had torn it into pieces and poured coffee grounds over it.”
Tori pictured her mother standing at the kitchen counter in the house where Tori grew up, destroying Daniel’s final words beneath damp brown grounds.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you would hate her.”
“I did that anyway.”
“I thought you would hate me.”
She looked at him.
Robert’s eyes were wet, but he made no move to wipe them.
“You were always the person in the family who could survive things,” he said. “Wes needed help. Your mother needed agreement. You needed—”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I don’t know. That became the excuse. We treated your competence as evidence that you required nothing.”
Tori stood and carried her cup to the sink.
The basil plant’s soil was dry. She poured a little water into it from the tap.
Behind her, Robert said, “I watched the ceremony online when you received the medal.”
She turned.
“You said the feed didn’t work.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Your mother wouldn’t watch. I thought admitting I did would start another fight.”
Tori stared at him.
“I was proud of you,” he said. “And ashamed. Both at once.”
“Ashamed of me?”
“Of how little I knew about what the medal meant.”
She leaned against the counter.
He took an envelope from inside his jacket and placed it on the table.
For one wild second, she thought it was the original letter.
It was newer, white, sealed, and addressed in Robert’s handwriting to Rebecca Whitfield.
“What is that?”
“My account of what I did.”
Tori did not touch it.
“I’m giving it to her tomorrow,” he said.
“She asked me to come alone.”
“Then give it to her for me.”
“No.”
Robert nodded slowly.
“Good.”
She frowned.
“I wrote it because writing is easier than looking at someone you hurt,” he said. “That is exactly why I should not send it.”
He picked up the envelope and tore it in half.
Tori watched.
“What will you do?”
“Ask her whether she is willing to speak with me. If she isn’t, I’ll leave.”
“And Mom?”
“She went to your brother’s apartment.”
“Of course she did.”
“She believes Claire’s family orchestrated the recognition to embarrass her.”
Tori closed her eyes.
Robert gave a tired shrug. “The battery has been swallowed.”
She stared at him.
“Staff Sergeant Cole called me,” he said.
Despite herself, Tori laughed.
The laugh became a sharp breath, and the breath became something close to crying. She pressed her fingers against her eyes.
Robert remained in the unstable chair. He did not approach her. For once, he did not attempt to improve the emotion by controlling it.
After a minute, Tori said, “I’m not ready to forgive you.”
“I know.”
“I may never trust you with anything important.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I’m practicing not defending myself.”
She lowered her hands.
He looked small at her dining table, beside the bag of spinach and the torn envelope.
“Stay for coffee,” she said.
Robert glanced at the pot.
“Is that the kind people under forty drink?”
“No. This is the kind people in pain forget to turn off.”
He stayed.
At ten the next morning, Tori stood outside Rebecca Whitfield’s townhouse in Alexandria with no uniform, no medal, and no coin. She wore dark slacks and a gray sweater. The absence of the coin in her pocket felt more noticeable than its presence ever had.
Rebecca opened the door before Tori knocked.
She had changed since the wedding. Her hair was tied back, and the skin beneath her eyes was swollen. She wore jeans and a college sweatshirt that had probably belonged to Daniel.
“Come in.”
The townhouse smelled faintly of toast and furniture polish. Family photographs crowded the entry table. Daniel appeared at every age: missing front teeth, holding a fish, wearing a high school football jersey two sizes too large, squinting beneath a graduation cap. In one picture, Graham stood behind him with both hands on the boy’s shoulders.
Tori stopped in front of it.
“He hated that photograph,” Rebecca said.
“Why?”
“My father made him change shirts. Daniel wanted to wear one with a band logo. Dad said he looked unserious.”
Tori examined Daniel’s expression. He was smiling, but his shoulders were raised almost to his ears.
Rebecca led her to the kitchen.
Graham was already there.
Tori paused.
“I asked him,” Rebecca said. “He is not in charge.”
Graham sat at the far end of the table. A legal pad lay in front of him, covered with questions in precise block letters.
Tori chose the chair opposite Rebecca.
On the table rested the challenge coin.
Rebecca placed a small digital recorder beside it.
“I want to record this.”
Tori looked at Graham. “For whom?”
“For me,” Rebecca said. “Because I won’t remember everything.”
Tori nodded. “All right.”
Rebecca turned on the recorder.
For nearly three hours, they asked questions.
Some were practical. What had Daniel eaten that morning? Had he received mail? Was he wearing the watch Rebecca sent him? Had he been conscious the entire time? Did anyone attempt recovery after the collapse? How many times? On what days? Who had confirmed the location?
Others came from places no report could reach.
Had Daniel made friends?
Did he complain?
Did he still bite the inside of his cheek when nervous?
Had he mentioned a girl named Abby?
Did he talk about home?
May you like
Tori answered what she could and refused to invent what she could not remember.
“He traded most of his care packages,” she said. “He kept the sour candy and gave away the socks.”
