Chương 6
“You came to the church.”
“I stood across the street.”
Sloane looked at her.
“Mom said she thought she saw you.”
“She did.”
“Why didn’t you come inside?”
“Dad had two police officers near the entrance.”
“They were directing traffic.”
“He told me they would remove me.”
Sloane sat on the desk chair.
For a while neither spoke.
A vending machine hummed in the hallway. Somewhere above them, a child ran across a room and an adult told him to stop.
Sloane picked a hairpin from her scalp and placed it on the desk.
“Nathan left with his brother,” she said.
Hannah remained standing.
“He won’t answer my calls.”
“He said he needed time.”
“He was supposed to be my husband by now.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to sound so calm.”
“I am trying not to sound pleased.”
Sloane stared at her.
“Are you?”
“A little.”
The admission was ugly. Hannah let it remain between them.
Sloane’s mouth tightened. “At least you’re honest now.”
“At least.”
“You destroyed my wedding.”
“Dad did that before dinner.”
“You came knowing it could happen.”
“I came intending to sit at table twelve, eat something disappointing, congratulate Evelyn, and leave.”
“You expected Dad to welcome you?”
“No.”
“Then what did you expect?”
“I expected him to pretend he didn’t know me.”
Sloane laughed once, without humor. “You really don’t know him anymore.”
“I knew he would choose the room over the truth. I miscalculated how loudly.”
Sloane removed another pin.
“Nathan wants me to tell him everything.”
“You should.”
“I don’t know what everything is.”
Hannah looked at her.
Sloane raised her voice. “I was seventeen. I had a concussion. I remember pieces.”
“You remember grabbing my arm.”
“I remember you yanking the phone away.”
“You reached across the wheel.”
“You keep saying that like it was deliberate.”
“I never said it was deliberate.”
“You say it like I killed Owen.”
Hannah sat on the edge of the bed.
“I was driving.”
“That’s what everyone said.”
“I was driving,” Hannah repeated. “That part was never a lie.”
Sloane looked down at the pin between her fingers.
“Dad said your blood alcohol test was positive.”
“It was below the legal limit.”
“He said the prosecutor could still charge you.”
“He was right.”
“He said if I admitted distracting you, they would charge me too.”
“He may have been right about that.”
Sloane looked up, surprised.
“You expected me to confess?”
“I expected us to tell the truth.”
“What would that have changed? Owen would still be dead.”
“It would have changed what happened afterward.”
“For you.”
“For all of us.”
Sloane shook her head. “You left. Dad didn’t make you take the bus to Chicago.”
“No. I chose that.”
“You didn’t call when I graduated.”
“No.”
“You didn’t call when Mom had surgery.”
“I sent flowers.”
“She threw them away before Dad saw them.”
Hannah looked toward the window.
“I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“No.”
Sloane stood and walked to the air conditioner. Cold air lifted the hem of her shirt.
“I kept waiting for you to come back and tell me what to do,” she said. “You always told me what to do.”
“I was two years older.”
“You acted twenty years older.”
“That sounds unpleasant.”
“It was.”
Despite herself, Hannah smiled faintly.
Sloane noticed and almost smiled too. The impulse disappeared.
“Nathan told me about the doctor who stayed with him,” she said. “He didn’t say your first name.”
“He may not have remembered it.”
“He remembered later. He said Hannah once. Months ago.”
Hannah waited.
“I told him it couldn’t be you.”
“Why?”
“Because the Hannah I knew wouldn’t sit beside a stranger all night.”
The statement landed softly.
Hannah looked at her sister’s bare feet in hotel slippers.
“You knew me when I was nineteen.”
“I knew you better than anyone.”
“No one knows anyone better than anyone at seventeen.”
“I knew you hated hospitals.”
“I did.”
“You fainted when Owen split his chin.”
“I sat down quickly.”
“You hit the floor.”
“I became accustomed to blood.”
Sloane’s gaze moved to the clutch.
“Did Owen suffer?”
Hannah’s breath stopped.
The question had never been asked directly.
“He was unconscious when I reached him.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“It is what I know.”
“You were with him.”
“I was trapped by the seat belt. I could hear him breathing for a while.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he scared?”
“I don’t know.”
Sloane pressed her hand to her mouth, mimicking their mother without realizing it.
Hannah looked at the carpet.
“I told him help was coming,” she said. “I told him not to move. I kept saying his name.”
“Did he answer?”
“Once.”
“What did he say?”
Hannah had carried the word for ten years.
“Stop.”
Sloane’s hand dropped.
“I don’t know whether he meant stop talking, stop moving, or stop fighting. I don’t know whether he was talking to me.”
Sloane sat back down.
For the first time since entering the room, she cried. Not loudly. Tears collected beneath her eyes and slipped through makeup that had survived professional preparation, photographs, and the destruction of her wedding.
Hannah reached for the tissue box and discovered it was empty.
She went to the bathroom, returned with a folded strip of toilet paper, and handed it to her sister.
Sloane looked at it.
“This hotel costs three hundred dollars a night.”
“They spent the tissue budget on the lobby fountain.”
A broken laugh escaped Sloane. She wiped her face.
The moment was so ordinary that Hannah nearly resented it.
Sloane said, “Dad told Nathan you died.”
Hannah’s head lifted.
“Not exactly. He said they had another daughter once, but she was gone after Owen’s accident. Nathan thought he meant dead. Dad didn’t correct him.”
“And you?”
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“You told Nathan you had no sister.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because every version made me terrible.”
May you like
Hannah waited.
“If I said you were alive, he would ask why we didn’t speak. If I told him about the accident, I would have to tell him what Dad said you did. Nathan hates drunk drivers.”
