Page 99 of We Fell Apart
“As of about six months ago, yes. He stopped talking to Gabe. I promise you, Matilda. Kingsley would never want his dementia in the news, never want it known on the island. He hates authority figures and regulatory institutions. We should find him on our own if we possibly can.”
“And if we can’t?”
Tatum sighs. “If we can’t, like if we know he’s gone off the property or he takes a vehicle, we’ll call the police. Okay?”
“Okay.”
When we reach the top of the driveway, we can hear voices on the pool deck, so we head in that direction. When we’re near, Meer comes running toward us. His face is a mask of horror. He throws his arms around me, and I realize he is crying. He’s much taller than I am, but he buries his face in my shoulder and holds on tight.
“What happened?” I whisper. “Meer, my brother. What happened?”
He cannot answer.
Tatum is off, running up the steps to the pool deck. I can see Brock and June standing there, their silhouettes against the starlitsky.
“What happened?” I ask again.
“Go away!” barks June. “Matilda, you should leave, now.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” I ask. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Wherever you went before,” she snaps. “Just go. Meer, make her go.”
“No, Mom,” says Meer, still sobbing into my neck. “Stop sayingthat.”
Up on the deck, Tatum puts his hand over his face and staggers back a few steps.
June grabs Tatum’s arm urgently. “Make her leave. She’s been in our business too long. She let him out.” She points at me and stamps her foot. “It’s Matilda’s fault. Not mine. Not ours. None of you boys. It’s her fault, and what happens next is not her concern.”
“Shhhh,” says Brock, kindly. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
Meer lets out an anguished moan. “What is it?” I ask him again.
“He wanted out. All the time, he wanted out,” Meer whispers.“He used to beg me but I wouldn’t let him. But I could have set him free, almost any day. I thought about it, just like you did.”
I remember Kingsley saying Meer didn’t always shoot the bolt. “Did you find him?” I whisper back. “Did he get hurt?”
Meer’s answer is muffled. His face is pressed in my hair. “It’s not your fault. Nothing is. You did what I wanted to do.”
“What happened?”
“June found him.” Meer lifts his head and wipes his eyes. “We found him but he’s dead.”
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I hold mybrother’s hand and we walk together slowly up the steps to the pool deck.
Kingsley is face down in the swimming pool. His arms drift out from his sides. His shoes are still on. His gray hair floats around his head, stringy. His shirt is wet and transparent.
He is drowned.
Our father,
who painted me on a raft at the mercy of a raging ocean,
he has found
a watery grave
