Watson:
Statue is George Canterbury. Died in 2008. Mom wouldn’t say more, just that Peter Vale led the fundraising for the memorial.
George. The name tickles the inside of my brain, like a feather dragged against the soft skin of a palm. Then all at once, it’s like someone flips that feather around and jabs me with the pointy end.
George and Daphne, 1994.
The photo in the library at the Pembrokes’ house. Whitney’s friend Daphne was a Canterbury before she was a Pembroke.
I glance up from my phone to find Peter staring lovingly at Isla, all the ire of a moment before replaced with worry and fear. “Does the name George Canterbury mean something to you?”
The effect is immediate. Peter drops his head, and his shoulders start to shake. Is he laughing at me and my incompetence?
But then he makes a weird noise in his throat before quietly saying, “George Canterbury. I should have known it would come back to him eventually. Why are you asking?” He presses his fingers to his forehead and starts rubbing at his temple, his sharp features in shadow.
“Isla was making notes in the back of her yearbook, about the llamas from 1998. Canterbury was one of the names on her list, and it took me until just now to figure out who he was.” Sophia’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect. “The statue in the alumni garden, and … he knew Mom, right? There’s a photo of your class, and his arm is around her shoulders.”
Peter lets out a ragged sigh, his head still bent. When he finally looks up at me, I see he wasn’t laughing at all. His eyes are red and filled with tears, and he looks at least twenty years older. It’s not just the softened jaw. Now I see what I missed before: bruise-colored circles under his eyes, salt-and-pepper stubble on his hollow cheeks. “Maybe this is my punishment.” He gestures toward Isla. “Maybe when you keep a secret for such a long time, the universe decides to keep one from you in return.”
I’m confused. Is he all right? “What are you talking about? Should I get … a doctor or something?”
“No. A doctor won’t fix this. Sit down.”
I fall into a nearby chair, apprehension making me shiver. I scoot closer to the bed and take Isla’s hand, imagining her giving mine a comforting squeeze. As if to say,we’re in this together no matter what. But of course, Isla can’t squeeze my hand. The machines that surround her bed continue to beep their steady, unchanging rhythms. I want to scream in frustration, but I restrain myself.
On the other side of the bed, Peter drags another chair close to Isla. He sits, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed and clasping his fingers together loosely. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks like he’s preparing to pray.
“George was in my class at Wickham—mine and your mother’s. He was popular. An athlete, a scholar. Bit of a ladies’ man, though he never dated anyone seriously. Your mother … She had the biggest crush on him. Got all moony-eyed and flustered whenever he was around. I used to tease her about it. But oh, I was jealous.” Peter stares into the distance, shaking his head.
Peter, jealous? I can’t imagine it.
“Some of us stayed in touch after graduation,” Peter continues. “Me, Jonathan, and William; Samantha, of course, though she was at the University of the Arts London and I was at Oxford. George took to the wind a bit. I heard he took a gap year, deferred his university acceptance. I didn’t give him much thought, if I’m being honest. But … your mother did.”
My mind is racing. What is he trying to tell me, and what does it all mean? He’s talking like this is a deathbed confession, and the morbidness of it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Because Peter is still here, and Isla … Isla hasn’t woken up yet. With every day that passes, the possibility thatshe never will looms larger and larger on the horizon.
“As it turns out, George and your mother reconnected about three months before the ten-year reunion for the Class of 1998. She was working at a gallery in London by then, and he just walked into her local one night. Pure coincidence. They had a pint together. After that, they went to dinner and, well. I’ve never asked for the details, as you might imagine. But things happened, as they do.” Peter grimaces while I sit still in the chair, hanging on to his every word.
“It was wonderful seeing everyone at the reunion again. It was just like old times, all of us in the dorms. Of course, plenty of our classmates were married by then, starting families, thinking about the future. I myself had gone into the weekend hoping to reconnect with the woman I’d had a crush on since our school days. We’d been such good friends for so many years, and it seemed like we’d make a good team for whatever life had in store for us.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “I’m referring to Samantha, of course. She was always the one for me, your mother.”
I stare back at him, my mouth dry. My mind is awhirl with all the details he’s confessing. I want to know more, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want to hear it. Like once I know everything, I’ll be haunted, too. Like Peter. Like Mom.
“There was a dinner-dance the last night of the reunion weekend. And when I saw Samantha heading outside—for fresh air, I assumed, because it was hot as the devil’s kitchen in that ballroom—I followed her. She took the path to the cliffs. It’s a wonderful view, and I … Well, it seems so silly now. I thought it would make for a perfect backdrop to propose, you know? But when I got there, she wasn’t alone. George waswith her. We’d exchanged the usual niceties when we saw each other earlier that day. I met his fiancée, though for the life of me I’ve forgotten her name.”
Alarm bells start to peal in my brain. They sound so real, I glance up at the machines hooked up to Isla to make sure my sister isn’t completely crashing out.
But no, it’s all just in my head. My heart is racing, too. I try to take a deep breath to calm down, but that doesn’t help, either. It feels like something is coming for me—something big, with sharp teeth and sharper claws. I try to fight back the rising panic and terror by focusing on the scene out the window, but the quickly darkening sky offers no comfort.
Peter clears his throat. “At first I thought it was a coincidence—that they’d both had the same idea to visit the cliff and take in the view. I remember thinking it was strange that George’s fiancée wasn’t with him, but there was such a chill in the air, I decided she must have stayed inside. But then—oh, but then, your mother took his hands in hers. And the gesture was sointimate, Belinda. So tender. I had been waiting years for her to look at me the way she was looking at George.”
The anguish in Peter’s voice is obvious, and I feel terrible for him. I do. Seeing the two of them together must’ve been devastating.
“She pulled his hands to her stomach. And the smile on her face, it could have lit up the night sky, it was so bright. She was happy. Thrilled. George wasn’t, though. He looked furious. Pulled his hands away like touching her was revolting. Even from where I stood by the tree, I could hear him clearly—that’s how loud he yelled at her.I’ll pay for an abortion, butthat’s it. I’m engaged, Samantha. You can’t think I’d blow up my whole life to what—raise a family with a starving artist no one’s ever heard of? Absolutely not.”
