Page 41 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“I don’t … what?”
I realize my mother has never mentioned another son to Jessica. The apple doesn’t fall far, does it?
“Mom, hand the phone to Jessica, please,” I say.
A moment later, my mother’s friend’s voice is in my ear. “Tristan, what’s going on? Your mother said her son is dead. You have a brother?”
“It’s a really long story, and I’m sure my mom will share it when she’s ready,” I hedge. “Please tell me you’ll take care of her because I can’t get out there for a while.”
Confusion still clouds Jessica’s voice, but she reacts as I know she will.
“Of course. She’ll stay with me. I wouldn’t hear of anything else. I’ll take good care of her.”
“Thank you.”
“Tristan you know you don’t need to thank me. You and Tara are like family. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Right. My loss. I roll my eyes but murmur something appreciative.
She passes the phone back to my mother.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her.
“What do I tell Jessica about Tate?” she whispers, although I’m sure the woman is standing right there and can hear her.
“You should tell her as much as you’re comfortable sharing.”
“Oh, that’s not?—”
“Mom, it’s time,” I say as gently as I can. “She’s your friend. She’ll understand and support you.”
“I don’t know,” she hedges.
I’m sure the idea terrifies her. I know it terrifies me. My mother and I have been keeping secrets for as long as I can remember. I equate secrets with safety. No doubt she does, too.
“You don’t have to decide right now, but promise you’ll think about it. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay, baby. Thank you.”
“Of course, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you more,” she says, as she always does, and we end the call.
I drop my head into my hands and stare down at the table trying to work out my next move. And Tate’s.
Twenty-Four
Alex
* * *
After our second glasses of wine, I suggest we eat. Emily’s looking glassy-eyed, and I don’t know her well enough to know whether it’s the effect of the wine or the aftermath of telling her story. Either way, food can’t hurt. And if I’m being honest, her comment about always being identified with her past—being defined by it—hit me hard. I know I need to tell her my story, but I want to put it off a while longer.
So we move into the kitchen and I slide the lasagna out of the container and into a casserole dish then place it on the counter while the oven preheats. She aims a pointed look at my microwave, and I shrug.
“Things taste better this way,” I say. “Besides, it won’t take long to heat this.”
She removes the bread from its brown paper bag and scans the counters. “Cutting board?”
