it.â
âI promise,â she says.
Cooper gathers the dishes and I place them into the sink, the clanging and ringing of porcelain our only statement. He walks out of the room without a word. Gwen looks at me. âHe hates me.â
âOf course not.â
âWell, I hate him.â
âOf course not,â I say, repeating myself.
âAs if you know how I feel. Youâre not me.â
Gwen takes the keys and leaves the house, slamming the door on the way out. I stand alone in the kitchen and sink into a chair when Cooper reappears in the doorway from the family room. âI need you to support me.â His voice is deep enough to reach the center of the earth.
âWhatâs that?â
âYou canât negate me in front of Gwen. Itâs not fair to me,â he says, using the palm of his hand to punctuate every word, as if pressing against an unseen wall.
âSheâs just going to see Willa.â
Cooper comes toward me. âYou really think sheâs going to see Willa?â
âYes,â I say. âI do.â
And then, sounding as if heâs absorbed the adolescent lingo, he says, âWhatever,â and walks away.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I rest on my half of the bed with my eyes wide open. Cooper is lying next to me. Iâm on my side and I stare at the silver frame on my bedside table, which glints in the slight moonlight. The room is too dark to see the photo inside the frame, but I know whatâs there: Cooper holding Gwen on the day she was born. He looks impossibly young to have a baby, although at the time he was twenty-seven years old. I was twenty-four.
âBaby,â he says.
I roll over and place my hand on his forehead, gently, so as to avoid the bandage. âHow are you feeling?â I ask.
âPercocet says I feel fine.â He smiles, and in the dark his teeth and the whites of his eyes shine through.
The house creaks in the way it does when itâs left alone, and I try to find some words of solace. âIâm so sorry this happened. I know it was my sisterâs fault, which makes me feel like itâs also my fault. I just donât understand any of it.â
âWhat donât you understand?â He wraps an arm around me and pulls me closer, so my body runs along his, skin on skin.
Yes, I think, my husband, I can ask anything. âWhy did you make her leave the bar? I mean, what was she really doing? She wasnât drunk. Iâm trying to figure out what it ⦠could be.â
âAll I can tell you is that she seemed drunk. Other than that, I donât know what to say. I didnât ask her if sheâd taken anything. Honestly, all I wanted to do was get her out of there because Iâd been working so long with these clients that the last thing I wanted was to be embarrassed in front of them.â
âWasnât leaving them alone at the restaurant embarrassing?â
âDinner was over. I was about to go anyway.â¦â He brushes his hand through my hair. âYou know I donât blame you. So you can stop saying sorry.â
âI know.â
His hand slips from my head and his eyes close. The pain meds are doing their job and my husband slips into sleep. I set my alarm so I can get up in four hours to give him another pill. âStay ahead of the pain,â the doctor told me. Yes, stay ahead of the pain. I wish there was a way in the real world to do the very same damn thing.
Â
seven
Now, days after the accident, there are brief moments when Iâll forget what happened to Willa and Cooper. Iâll cook dinner or roll cotton paper under the press and Iâll sense a deep heaviness before I remember: The accident . In the middle of the night, Iâll sense something terrible is about to happen before I realize that it already has.
Willa is still in the hospital and is improving, thank God. In the next day or so, sheâll be allowed