Page 43 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“I’m sure it was,” I agree. “And after Tristan came along, it got worse. Tate didn’t react well to going from only child to the older brother with a baby getting all the attention.”
“He was nine years old,” Emily says, with a note of disbelief in her voice. “Surely he wasn’t jealous of an infant.”
“All I know is what I heard. And I remember one Saturday in particular when Mrs. Weakes was getting her hair cut at the same time as my mom. My mom told me to come by the salon to pick up some groceries that needed to be refrigerated. When I walked in, Tara was telling the hairdresser that her sister had sent her the money to get her hair done as a treat months earlier for her birthday, but she was afraid to make the appointment and leave the baby home with Tate and Tom. She literally said she wasn’t sure what Tate would do, and she didn’t know if Tom would stop him if he hurt the baby. I remember because Tristan was sleeping in a little bassinet at her feet.”
She looks stricken. She puts down her fork and picks up her wine glass.
She takes a sip then shakes her head. “Sibling rivalry’s not exactly a valid reason to disown your child, though.”
I’m not sure the fear of bodily harm can be chalked up to sibling rivalry but I let the comment pass and continue, “When Tom died and Tara decided to move away, Tate was finishing up his senior year. He didn’t want to go. He was eighteen, so she agreed to let him finish out the school year and graduate from Windy Rock.”
“She left him behind?”
It’s hard to explain this to a Millennial, but I try. “It wasn’t so unusual back then. Tate stayed with a friend’s family. He was supposed to, at least. He moved out of the friend’s place—or got kicked out, more likely—and dropped out of school.”
Emily processes this then asks the question I’ve been dreading. “Do you know how Tristan’s father died?”
I drain my wine glass. “He killed himself.”
Twenty-Five
Emily
* * *
We sit at the table. The food is gone. Our plates are empty, and the wine bottle is too. Alex stares at her hands while I stare at her.
I asked her to tell me about Tristan’s dad committing suicide at least five minutes ago and she hasn’t said a word in response. I shift in my seat, feeling awkward and ill at ease, and finally I leave her there, inspecting her palms, while I carry the dirty dishes out to the kitchen. As I place them in the basin and fill it with hot water and a squirt of dish soap, I look out the window over the sink. The farmhouse’s exterior lights illuminate the ground. The snow is piled at least up knee-high now and shows no sign of slowing down. I’m grateful to be in this house with heat and electricity, and even I have to admit, Alex.
The conversation hasn’t been fun—far from it—and she’s not the warmest person I’ve ever met. But I wouldn’t want to be alone in the cabin right now. Not even if it had power. So I need to draw her out. I need to pull this story out of her, in part to delay my departure, but also because I have to know what happened to Tristan’s father. And I can tell that somehow his death relates to whatever it is that drove her out of Windy Rock.
I spy a dusty bottle of table red in a wine rack near her spice cabinet and grab it. It has a screw top, so I twist off the cap and carry the bottle into the dining room.
“Why don’t we go back and sit by the fire, and you can tell me your story now?” I suggest.
Still fixated on her hands, she doesn’t answer. So I pick up her glass and mine and carry them into the living room. It’s a trick I learned from Tristan. Sometimes, when I’m lost in my thoughts and I can’t seem to break free, he’ll take a sudden action that pulls me along. Activation energy he calls it. All I know is it works. It gets me out of my head and back into my body.
Apparently, it works for Alex too, because after a minute, she pushes in her chair and joins me in the living room. I fill her glass and hand it to her. She takes a sip, then a deep breath. I steel myself, preparing to hear the circumstance of Tom Weakes’ suicide.
But instead she says, “Twenty-one years ago, during a nor’easter, I woke up in my apartment—lightning crashing, thunder crashing, rain and wind just pounding the windows. I think so, at least.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I don’t actually have a memory of waking up that night. The doctors say it’s a protective mechanism, selective amnesia.”
I know what selective amnesia is. I’ve prayed for it, to no avail. My throat is dry. I drink some wine. We probably should have switched to water, but it’s too late now.
“What’s your mind protecting you from?” I ask quietly.
“There was a man in my apartment. He attacked me—stabbed me.”
I gape at her until I find my voice. “If this is a joke, it’s fucked up.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I wouldn’t normally do this, believe me. But you and I need to put all our cards on the table, Emily.”
She unbuttons the top three buttons of her flannel shirt and pulls aside the base layer t-shirt underneath to reveal the top of a jagged, diagonal scar that starts at her collarbone.
I gasp.
