Chương 7
“You stopped visiting.”
Celia’s face changed. “That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
“I came when Mom could drive me.”
“You were twenty-nine.”
“I was terrified.”
“So was I.”
The words sharpened too quickly. Sophie looked up from the carpet.
Ethan lowered his voice.
Celia put the toy horse down. “There. That’s what you do.”
“What?”
“You make one true statement and use it to end the conversation.”
He leaned back.
She was right again, and he resented her for the accuracy.
During Claire’s final months, Celia had visited four times. On the last visit, she spent twenty minutes in the driveway because Margaret called and demanded to know whether Ethan had asked her for money. Claire watched from the bedroom window. After Celia left, she removed the silver butterfly pin from a scarf and dropped it into Ethan’s palm.
Keep this away from Mom, she had said.
Ethan assumed she meant the jewelry.
Later he wondered whether Claire had meant the sister too.
“She loved you,” he said.
“Did she say that?”
“Often.”
“Did she ask for me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell me?”
“You knew she was sick.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Ethan looked at Sophie. She had turned her horses away from them, a child’s attempt at privacy.
“No,” he said.
Celia’s chin moved once.
“I thought Claire didn’t want the tension,” he continued. “She was tired. Every visit became a negotiation with Margaret before it happened.”
“So you stopped negotiating.”
“I was taking care of my wife.”
“And I was losing my sister.”
“I know.”
“No, you know now because it’s convenient to be sorry.”
The sentence was cruel. Celia looked ashamed immediately, but she did not take it back.
Ethan stood and carried both mugs to the kitchen. His anger needed a task. He rinsed them though they were still half full.
Behind him, Celia said, “Do you have anything she wrote to me?”
The water continued running.
He shut it off.
There was a letter in his bedroom closet, sealed inside a blue envelope. Claire had written it three weeks before she died. She gave it to Ethan with contradictory instructions over several days.
Send it when Celia is ready.
Don’t send it if Mom can use it against her.
Maybe burn it.
No, don’t burn it.
Promise you’ll wait.
Promise you won’t wait forever.
Grief had turned those sentences into a lock Ethan could not open without betraying one version of Claire.
He had told himself silence honored her caution.
Sometimes, late at night, he admitted it also punished Celia for not coming back.
“There’s a letter,” he said.
Celia did not move.
“Where?”
“Here.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Three years.”
Sophie turned around.
Celia rose slowly. “You had a letter from my dying sister for three years?”
“She wasn’t sure she wanted you to have it.”
“Then why write it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always know when the answer makes you look noble.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was letting me think she died angry.”
“I never told you that.”
“You didn’t tell me anything.”
Sophie stood between the plastic horses. “Stop.”
They both stopped.
Her eyes moved from Ethan to Celia. “You’re being wedding people.”
Ethan rubbed a hand over his mouth.
Celia sat down.
“Sorry,” she said.
Sophie picked up Pickle. “He says you need a break.”
“That horse is very wise.”
“He’s not a horse. He’s a lawyer.”
Celia laughed once, badly, and began crying.
She turned her face away, pressing her fingers beneath her eyes as if tears were an administrative problem she could correct. Sophie approached and placed Pickle on her knee.
Ethan went upstairs.
The blue envelope lay in the back of a cedar box beneath Claire’s winter scarves. Her handwriting crossed the front in slanted black ink.
Celia.
No last name. No instructions.
He held it for a long time.
When he returned downstairs, Celia had stopped crying. Sophie was explaining the legal system of the horse village.
Ethan placed the envelope on the coffee table.
“I should have given it to you earlier.”
Celia stared at her name.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“No.”
“Did Mom know about it?”
“Claire told her there was a letter. Margaret demanded it after the funeral. I said I couldn’t find it.”
Celia looked up. “You lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother had spent the week choosing which photographs of Claire made the family look closest.”
Celia picked up the envelope but did not open it.
Ethan sat across from her. “Take it home.”
“No.”
“It’s yours.”
“I don’t want to read Claire’s last words in an empty apartment while Daniel sleeps off our wedding.”
“That makes sense.”
“I want to read it here.”
Sophie climbed onto the sofa beside her.
Celia ran one finger beneath the seal, then stopped.
“What if Mom was right?”
“About what?”
“What if Claire blamed me?”
Ethan considered offering reassurance. He had offered it for years without evidence, the same way he told Sophie Margaret loved her. Comfort could become another form of deciding what someone else was allowed to know.
“Then you’ll know,” he said.
Celia opened the envelope.
The letter was six pages long. She read silently. Halfway through the second page, her shoulders began to shake. On the fourth, she covered her mouth. Sophie leaned against her arm without asking questions.
When Celia finished, she returned to the first page and read it again.
Ethan waited.
“She didn’t blame me.”
“No.”
“She blamed you a little.”
“That sounds like Claire.”
Celia let out a wet, surprised laugh.
“What did she say?”
“That you use silence like a locked door and then act confused when people stop knocking.”
Ethan looked toward the window.
Sophie nodded solemnly. “Mommy was smart.”
“She was annoying,” Ethan said.
Celia folded the pages along their existing creases. “She said Mom told her I didn’t want to visit.”
May you like
Ethan turned back.
“She said Mom told her I was having panic attacks because of the hospital, and that seeing her would make them worse. She said she didn’t believe it at first. Then I kept canceling.”
