The Day She Died

by S. M. Freedman

  “He has your eyes, sweetheart,” Button said softly. “Having a newborn is a challenge for anyone. And the doctors warned us that the hormonal changes and lack of sleep could make the symptoms of your head injury more acute. But it’s only temporary. Babies grow. Before you know it he’ll be sleeping through the night, and it will all be easier.”

  “What if I lose time or forget about him, and he gets hurt?”

  “Leigh and I are here to help.”

  “What if it’s never safe for me to be alone with him?”

  Button shook her head, sighing. “You worry too much. One day at a time, okay?”

  She swallowed back a wellspring of tears and nodded.

  “I think he’s ready for the other side.” Button helped her get the baby nursing properly on the other breast, and then turned to leave. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

  “Please stay.”

  Button shook her head. “You need to start trusting yourself more. You may have problems with your memory, but there’s nothing broken about your mothering instincts.”

  Button left before Eve could argue.

  The baby’s mouth grew slack and he released his hold. She lifted him to her shoulder and rubbed his back until he gave a juicy burp. “That’s better, huh?”

  She laid him against her legs and they looked at each other with curiosity. He did indeed have her eyes, amber in colour and with a pronounced downturn at the outer edges. She wondered if he’d end up with her dark curls, too, or whether he’d be fair-haired like Leigh.

  She stroked a finger up over the snub of his nose, along the red skin at his eyebrow, down the soft roundness of his cheek, and into the damp fold between his chin and neck. He squeaked and wiggled madly, making her smile.

  “Does that tickle? Sorry.”

  His gaze locked on hers, full of innocence and trust — clearly he was unaware of the mess he’d chosen for his mother.

  A while later, Button took him away, dimming the lights as she left.

  Eve pulled the covers up to her chin, trying to get warm, and let her mind drift into the fuzzy place between sleep and waking. She heard Leigh come home, heard the brief and stilted conversation between him and Button, and then the sound of a football game playing on the television in the living room. She drifted deeper into the blackness of her mind, following the voice that called to her from beyond the quicksilver.

  Eventually, the smell of Button’s chicken cacciatore motivated her to get moving.

  “Bad dream?” Leigh asked when she stumbled into the dining room. “I thought I heard you call out.”

  “The usual,” she said.

  “What’s the usual?” Button moved to get up.

  Eve stopped her with a wave of the hand, grabbed a plate off the sideboard, and ladled food onto it.

  “The accident,” Leigh said, and she didn’t correct him. He sorted through a stack of papers on the table beside him. He placed bills and other important mail into a small pile, while old grocery lists and coupon mailers went into a recycling bin by his feet. He paused once in a while to take a forkful of food.

  Plate in hand, she paused to look down at the sweet bundle in the bassinet. He was wrapped in a fuzzy green blanket, his eyes closed and mouth slack with sleep. His hair was a fringe of dark fuzz. She wondered what colour his eyes were.

  Leigh held up a scrap of paper. “You writing poetry now?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s your handwriting,” he said.

  “Let’s see it.” Button took it from him and slid her reading glasses onto the bridge of her nose. Her fork dropped with a clatter.

  “Are you okay?” Leigh asked.

  Without a word Button stood up and carried her nearly full plate of food back into the kitchen, leaving the scrap of paper on the table.

  “What —” Leigh said, but his words were cut off by a loud crash from the kitchen.

  “Zol es brennen!”

  Eve dropped her plate on the table and ran for the kitchen, Leigh not far behind.

  “Button! Are you okay?”

  “Just clumsy.”

  The plate had smashed at her feet, splattering chicken, pasta, and tomato sauce across the linoleum floor. She reached for the roll of paper towel and bent forward.

  “I’ll clean it up.” Leigh grabbed the roll from her hands.

  “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

  Without looking in her direction, Button said, “I’m feeling a bit fertummelt. I think I’ll go lie down.”

  “Do you need help?”

  Button pulled away from her touch. “I’m fine. You see to the baby.”

  She followed Button back into the dining room, where Gabriel mewled in his bassinet. He’d kicked free of his blanket. She lifted him into her arms and followed her grandmother down the hall toward her bedroom. When Button closed the door firmly behind her, Eve turned and carried Gabriel back to the kitchen.

  “What was that about, do you think?” Leigh asked.

  “I don’t know.” She bit her bottom lip. “Do you think she’s maybe losing it a little?”

  “That grandma of yours is as sharp as a tack.”

  “Sharper than me, right?”

  He gave her a sideways grin. “I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Would you go talk to her?”

  “Should I burst into her bedroom with my medical bag? She’ll love that.”

  “I just want to make sure she’s okay. What if she’s having a stroke or something?”

  “She’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “All right,” he said with a sigh. He put the broken shards of Button’s plate in the garbage and dropped the dirty paper towels on top. “But have my medical bag ready. I’ll need it when she bites my head off.”

  She plucked the scrap of paper from the table and tucked it in her pocket before carrying Gabriel, who kicked and bellowed complaints, into the bedroom she now shared with Leigh. Rocking the baby back and forth, she pulled the paper out of her pocket and sat down on the bed. There were four lines of poetry, written in her distinctly elegant script.

  Bloodroot is red

  Sara turned blue

  The roses aren’t real

  And neither are you

  Gabriel shrieked and went stiff in her arms. She rocked him faster.

  There’d been a vase of roses on the dresser, right next to the baby monitor. She was sure of it. But now there was nothing else on the glossy wood surface except her hairbrush, a bottle of nail polish, a tube of nipple cream, and a package of baby wipes.

  When Leigh entered the room, his head still in its rightful place on top of his neck, she asked, “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Good.”

  “Is he hungry?” Leigh asked.

  “What? Oh, yeah, maybe that’s the problem.” She pulled her shirt open and settled back against the pillows. Gabriel latched onto her nipple with ferocious hunger. “Ouch.”

  Leigh lifted the baby off her breast and resettled him in a more comfortable position. “Like this.”

  “How come everyone’s better at this than me?”

  “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

  “Maybe. Hey, did you throw out those flowers? They were barely wilted.”

  “What flowers?” Leigh asked, pulling off his shirt as he moved to the closet.

  “The ones on the dresser.”

  He looked puzzled, then shrugged. “I don’t remember them. Maybe Button threw them out.”

  “But …”

  “But what?” His pants dropped to his ankles, and he kicked them into the corner of the room.

  “Never mind.”

  He climbed under the blankets and laid his hand gently against the curve of Gabriel’s fuzzy head. “Is seven-thirty too early for bed?”

  “Not anymore, it’s not.”

  “That’s good, because I’m exhausted.” He was snoring a minute later.


  TWENTY-TWO

  Eve’s Sixteenth Birthday

  “WHAT’S THAT SMELL?”

  Leigh pushed through the kitchen door as though it was still something he did every day, causing Eve to jump and drop the spatula she’d been holding.

  His hair was cut short, with stiff spikes gelled up at the front. He wore track pants and a tank top, which showed off a V of golden chest hair. Most dismaying was the baby caterpillar crawling across his upper lip.

  “Who do you think you are, Tom Selleck?” She bent to pick up the spatula and dump it in the sink.

  He stroked his moustache self-consciously, then leaned against the door. Wrinkling his nose, he said, “Seriously, what are you making?”

  “It’s supposed to be linguini. But I think it’s going to end up being garbage.”

  “Oh. It smells good.”

  Wiping sweat off her face with a dishcloth, she said, “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  He grinned. “Fine, it smells like farts.”

  “When did you get in?” She moved to him without thought, but stopped while there was still several feet between them.

  “Late last night,” he said. “Mom picked me up.”

  “You didn’t call.” Eve winced at the plaintive tone in her voice. Clearing her throat, she added, “I didn’t think you were coming this year.”

  “Neither did I until I got on the plane.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I have a paper due on Friday, so I need to get back.”

  “Short trip,” she said, trying to hide the mixture of relief and disappointment in her voice.

  “Are you coming to the celebration my parents are having this evening?”

  “No.”

  As though she hadn’t spoken, he said, “They’re releasing balloons from the pier at dusk. It seems kind of stupid to me, but I’m not going to tell them that. We all have to do whatever we can to get through the day.”

  “I can’t go,” she said through numb lips.

  “Do you know what people think, when you’re not there?”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  “Do you care what they say?” he asked.

  “Just what do they say?”

  He gave her a pointed look, as though she should know perfectly well what people were saying. She did know, and it didn’t help that they were right.

  Motioning to the sink where Donna’s good stockpot sat smoldering, he said, “That doesn’t look good.”

  She was grateful for the change of subject. “I didn’t put enough water in with the noodles. I think the pot is ruined. Donna is going to be pissed.”

  “What else is new. Is she home?” The question was asked far too casually.

  She debated not answering, but only for a moment. “She and Button are out getting the cake. I said I’d make dinner.”

  “How long do you think they’ll be gone?” She knew the look in his eyes very well.

  “I need to start dinner from scratch.”

  “This is salvageable. Do you have more noodles?”

  “No.”

  He pulled the lid off the pot of sauce that sat bubbling on the stovetop and then quickly dropped it back in place, recoiling from the pungent steam that fogged up around his face.

  “What the hell is that?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Clam sauce.”

  “I stand corrected. It’s not salvageable.” He turned off the burner.

  “Why not?”

  “Did you clean and sort the clams first?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “It smells like at least one of them has gone bad. And your sauce is gritty.”

  “Gritty? What would make it gritty?” She moved over to the stove and lifted the lid. She had to admit that the smell was atrocious.

  “I’m guessing it’s the sand.”

  “Shit.” She put the lid back on the pot. “Now what am I going to do?”

  He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contact list. “You’re going to order a pizza because you shouldn’t be cooking dinner on your birthday. Besides, Button won’t eat shellfish; I don’t know what you were thinking. Don’t worry, I’m paying,” he said when she opened her mouth to protest. “Happy birthday.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “You can pay me back, then.”

  “Donna won’t let me have a job, remember? No job, no cellphone, and no freedom.”

  “You’ll think of some other way. You always do.”

  “And what does that make me?”

  Instead of answering, he put the phone to his ear. As he placed the order, she took stock of him, noting how tall he was, how broad his shoulders had become, and how big the hand was that wrapped around her wrist like a shackle. She wondered what he would do if she ever said no, then she reminded herself why she couldn’t.

  He stuffed the phone into his back pocket, smiling down at her. “Forty-five minutes to an hour, they said. Plenty of time for me to give you your present.”

  “Leigh.” It was a weak protest.

  “Come on.” He pulled her to the bedroom.

  “I’m doubling my course load to graduate a year early,” she told him afterward. “Donna said she’ll pay two years of college tuition if I do, and Button promised to send me to an artists’ retreat in Paris next summer.”

  “That’s great,” he said sleepily. “I always said you were smarter than you gave yourself credit for.”

  This rankled for some reason, and she shrugged away from him. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, I’ll miss you next year,” he said.

  “Why? Where am I going?”

  “Whichever school you choose, they’ll be lucky to have you.” He yawned widely. “Oh man, I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

  “But …” She shifted to look at him. His eyes were closed, lashes a dark fan against his cheeks. His breathing deepened as though he was falling asleep.

  “Leigh?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I thought … I mean …” she trailed off, unable to find the words. The silence stretched, and, eventually, she managed to ask the question. “Aren’t you moving back here this summer? Once you graduate?”

  His eyes opened, and he looked at her blearily.

  “Wasn’t that the plan?” she prodded. “You’d move back, and I’d go to Emily Carr, and we’d both be living here?”

  “My plan is medical school.”

  “I know, but …”

  “Damn! I better get going,” he said, looking at his watch. He rolled away from her and sat up. “I told Mom I was going for a run. She’ll be wondering why I’m not back yet. And your mom could be home any time.”

  “You were going to apply to medical schools around here.”

  He found his shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “Leigh?”

  “Is that really what you want? I’m never sure with you.”

  “Don’t throw this back on me. That was the plan.” She felt like a broken record. “Your plan.”

  “Right,” he said. “I know it was.”

  “So where are you applying?” she asked.

  “Five different schools,” he said. “On the east coast. I think I have a shot at getting into at least one of them. My grades are excellent, and I scored well on my MCATs.”

  “But why not here?”

  “Those are better schools.”

  “But what about me?” She hated the hurt that infused her words, hated the sting of tears she felt in her eyes — hated him most of all. After all these years, after all of his demands and promises, after all the secrets she’d kept and lies she’d told …

  “I’m doing this for us. How can you doubt that? I promise we’ll be together.”

  “You promised you’d come back after you graduated.”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “Not today, of all days.”

  “The
n when? I never see you!” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Is there someone else?”

  “You know, I came here today because I needed comfort. I needed to be with someone who understands everything that happened to me, someone who knew Sara — and someone who knew me before she died.”

  “Someone?”

  “You! Of course I mean you. What was it that you said last year? Accomplices until the end, remember?”

  “Which one of us is dying, Leigh?”

  He flushed, but looked her square in the eye. “Enough people have died already, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do. Now I really have to go.” Leigh stood, pulling up and zipping his pants. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “When?”

  “Soon. We’ll figure it out.”

  It felt like a dismissal. Pulling her shirt over her head, she followed him from the room. He’d entered through the kitchen, like a friend. But he was leaving through the front door, like a stranger — and she realized that this might be the last time she ever saw him.

  He turned from the front porch to look at her. Moths danced in the light above his head. His eyes were full of tears. “Eve.”

  Her stomach clenched with anticipation. Maybe he’d changed his mind, decided he really couldn’t live without her any longer.

  Instead, he pulled money out of his pocket and held it out to her. “For the pizza.”

  She stared at him, mouth dropping open.

  “Go on, take it.”

  She could barely see him through the blur of tears. “Two years ago,” she told him. “I killed our baby.”

  Before he could react, she closed the door in his face.

  TWENTY-THREE

  EVE STOOD IN the kitchen when the fog lifted, her hand on the cozy that covered Button’s prized teapot. It warmed her palm, highlighting the chill in the rest of her body.

  “Say Nana,” Button said.

  Her grandmother sat on the bench by the kitchen table, and a baby waved his arms at her from a high chair. Button dropped a few Cheerios onto the tray, which was already smeared with banana and cheese. The baby wore a plastic bib with a giant cartoon tractor on the front. His hair was a sprout of dark curls, his round cheeks shiny with food.