THIRTY-ONE

They’re terrifying but likeable, Leah decided. Which was pretty fine for a family motto. Certainly better than the Nazir motto: Quid de mi residuals?

It was late. Angela had come back from her mysterious errand with Detective Chambers, pulled her and Archer aside, and in a low voice explained what Detective Chambers had shown her at the cemetery.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Archer hissed, mindful that the house was full of ears, even in the guest bathroom they’d crammed all three of themselves into (one of the few rooms in the house that locked). A toilet, a tiny sink, and three adults in a three-by-five bathroom made Leah grateful Jack had taken it easy on the garlic for dinner. “They wrecked your dad’s grave?”

“I’m so sorry,” Leah added. “That must have been a horrible sight.”

“Why didn’t you call us, cuz? We’d have come to help. We’ll go right now if you want.”

“Archer, it just happened. And I don’t want your pregnant fiancée scrubbing paint off a gravestone and helping us shove a two-hundred-pound stone back on its base. Jesus.”

“Okay, good point. I didn’t mean to jump on you, I was just surprised. So what’d you say? What’d you do? Are you going to tell Aunt Emma? Do you want me to?”

“Are you kidding? It’s all Mom can do to handle the mail.”

Leah had been unsurprised when the answer was nothing, nothing, no, and no. Emma Drake had a Ph.D. in a peculiar kind of grief that was, at times, more selfish than suffering.

There was a selfish side to grief, but no one talked about it because it was such tricky ground. It sounded heartless: I’m mourning. I’m suffering without him/her/it. How can you say that’s selfish?

That was true as far as it went. But when are you finished? Well, it’s different for everyone. It’s grief! You can’t put a time limit on it! Sure you can. Six months, a year? Five years, ten? When will you come back to life? When does mourning become hiding? And for how long?

I didn’t get to say good-bye! was a common theme. And it was understandable—but what they were really saying was, I wanted them awake and aware—and yes, given the injuries, he/she/it would have been in tremendous pain but I needed this, dammit! Sure, he/she/it would have been racked with pain and terrified to know death was coming, but I wanted my good-bye!

I deserve closure! was another one. An understandable instinct, but ultimately futile, since there really was no such thing. Not even in a world where you could meet up with your loved ones in another life.

Emma Drake was displaying all the symptoms of grief-turned-selfish. Even without Insight, Leah likely would have figured it out.

Be fair, she told herself. If it was Archer who went out one night and never came back? And Jack or Angela or Paul got life imprisonment for it, though you knew they were innocent? Are you sure you wouldn’t instantly morph into your mother? What makes you think you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life mourning your glory days?

But thinking about what Nellie Nazir would do just made things worse. Because in about six months, her mother would be here. There’d be no more speculating about what she would do, because Leah and Archer and the world would be able to see what she would do.

What if she wants to be an actress again?

What if she does? Is that the worst possible scenario?

Yes. And what the hell are we going to name her? Nellie 2.0? Nnnellie? Nellie Squared? Nellie “I’m Back” Drake? What? Whaaaaaaat?

Which is why Leah tried not to think about it.

After further whispered updates, and an attempt by Paul to get in the bathroom,

(“C’mon, I just need the spare tape measure! It’s right there under the sink! What are you weirdos even doing in there? You’d better all be fully clothed!”)

she and Archer agreed to meet Angela and the detective at ICC tomorrow afternoon.

Later, they were treated to another fine meal by Jack, who had little to say, despite Paul’s attempt to wriggle out of doing the dishes. As it happened, Leah was in a generous mood and was happy to clean up. The Drakes had asked nothing of her in more than a week, and if their noisy squabbles and power plays sometimes made her feel invisible, she reminded herself that once upon a time, all she’d wanted was to be invisible. There were worse things than being the quiet weirdo in the crowd.

She also thought helping in the kitchen might be a way to coax Jack into telling her what was on his mind (though she had a good idea), but he didn’t linger once the table had been cleared. So: The kid was tired or he wasn’t feeling forthcoming or both. Or it has nothing to do with you, or what you think, she reminded herself, and you’re projecting.

Now it was late, close to midnight. Archer had dropped off to sleep after a bout of energetically tender lovemaking. It had started innocently enough with Archer blowing raspberries on her belly.

“Stop that.”

“She’s gotta learn the world is a cruel place full of raspberries. Pppphhhhhhbbbttt!”

“Idiot!”

“Raspberries to the right of us! Raspberries to the left of us!”

“‘Half a league, half a league onward.’”

“What?”

“Idiot.”

Then he went lower. And stayed there for a while.

A few minutes later, she was reminded that Archer might not be up on his nineteenth-century British poetry, but he was an expert in how to make her gasp and shake and want him. Pregnancy hadn’t dampened their sex drive, though she wondered if that would be true five months from now.

She’d cleaned up, then came back to a snoring Archer; he’d dropped off before she could offer him a washcloth. Normally Leah would have followed suit, but too much had happened in too short a time. She’d start thinking about Dennis and the tombstone and then would wonder about Jack. Then she’d think about Angela, who, for all her controlling ways, was quite pleasant and to be commended, partly for her own talents but also for being the head of the family since she was a child. Then she’d start wondering if there was any juice left and what it would taste like with a tablespoon of mustard stirred in.

The cravings. They sicken me even as they delight me.

Enough. One thing she knew about insomnia: Making yourself stay in bed when you couldn’t sleep was not a good plan. All you did was lie there and think about the time. I have to get up in six hours. In four hours. In two. In ninety minutes. So she slipped into Archer’s robe and padded out of their room, kitchen-bound. For orange juice and what might be even better: If her suspicions were correct, she could finally be of some real help to this nutty, exhausting band of charmers.

That was worth some lost z’s.