My family practiced mourning me for nearly two decades. I never thought any of them would be first.
Elle says nothing. She walks to the embers of the fire and throws the paper in. It curls inward like a coral that’s been touched, then it’s gone.
“Why did you—” I try to say, but Elle’s already returning to boarding up one of the back windows. I hadn’t realized she was holding a hammer. “Elle. Did you read it? They’re—”
“It was an accident,” she whispers, barely in earshot and still turned away.
I come closer. I want to wrap my arms around her and sob until I can’t feel anything. Elle doesn’t like to be touched without warning, though.
“Did you know?” I ask, praying it’s not true. Could I have misheard her? What else sounds likeaccident? I wait for Elle to elaborate. I’ll stay here until the storm passes over us if I must.
A flash of light creates a veined afterimage. Seconds later the thunderclap booms out, rattling the windowpane. Elle faces me, a face so mixed in emotions as to become unreadable.
“I’ve known for a few months,” she says, biting her lip. “On a supply run, I made a shortcut through the cemetery near St. Mary’s. The nice one.”
“How?” I ask. “What accident?”
Elle blows a long breath out. The air has a static tinge to it, from either the lightning or the tension. “A gas leak,” she whispers, looking down. “It was painless. In their sleep.”
“Where did you find out?”
Elle’s cheeks hollow as she chews them. This shouldn’t be a hard question.
“Are you lying?” I ask, harsher than I should be.
Elle’s eyes snap up to mine with a flash that I could swear is anger. “What?”
The static grows into a painful pressure. She’s staring at me likeI’vedone something wrong. Chamomile appears behind her, peering around her shoulder.
“Is that how they died? Truly?” Tears stream freely down my face, and I can’t believe the words I’m saying. “I’m sure we broke their hearts when we left. I couldn’t live with myself if…” I can’t say it. What if our escape created too vast a loss?
Elle’s shoulders lower, and she rushes forward, embracing me. I smother myself in her arms. While I wish she’d told me, I understand wanting to protect me from such terrible news.
“I promise, Liney. They felt nothing. Just dreams. I found an old newspaper that profiled it after I saw their names on a gravestone.”
I make myself stop questioning the hows and whys. Litigating Elle’s poor choice as betrayal instead of mistake will only open further the wounds grief has cut into my heart.
“They loved you,” she says softly against my hair. “So much. I’m sure they’re relieved they didn’t find you on the other side.”
She holds me through another four lightning strikes. That’s the amount of time my sister deems appropriate to mourn before she sets to the next task.
“I’m going to go through the stores for some cheese. Finish this window for me.”
“Cheese?” Something so mundane in the wake of life-changing news seems wrong.
Elle’s mouth grows into a smile. The warmth returns to her face like a kerosene lamp flickering to life. “It’s to celebrate our first year here.Your favorite,cheesy chod. Remember?”
The remaining supper preparations are quiet. Elle tuts and sighs at the stove, and the room fills with the smell of sizzling cod. When I finish hammering extra boards on the window, I rekindle the fireplace. With nothing else to do and wary of Elle’s state no matter how normal she seems, I sit in the armchair. I pretend I’m a doll, as I used to with our parents. Sit stone-still with the most pleasant, easy smile I can muster. Exist as little as possible.
Elle serves dinner. There was only enough cheese for one serving, so she adds a butter-based sauce that bubbles atop the cod, accompanied by pickled asparagus and week-old bread rolls. I can’t help longing for the lush spreads back home. Pheasant arranged delicately among tiny eggs and herbs, melt-in-your-mouth slices of fatty beef with pureed potatoes, and veal cutlets rolled in bacon with light salads of pears and walnuts. Evenings were a feast for every sense.
Chamomile paces in the kitchen, behind Elle. She was silent through the chores, watchful as a guard dog.
The cod flakes beneath my fork tines. Its exposed layers drown as the sauce seeps in. I take my first bite, all too aware of Elle’s eyes on my expression.
“Delicious.” I cover my mouth delicately with one hand. “The butter’s perfect with the fish.”
Elle settles and begins eating. She wears a sliver of a smile between bites. The flame of conflict between us is extinguished, for now. Behind her back, Chamomile rolls her eyes at me.
