Chapter 26 Lord Edward
Being inside a gym didn’t bring back memories of pumping iron and getting ripped—those absurd phrases I’d use to motivate myself—instead, all I saw was the machinery that my physical therapists had been coaxing me onto for months.
I used to run on treadmills, my heels landing so hard the entire machine would shake; just months ago, a therapist set me on a treadmill so I could learn to walk again.
Amelia seemed ill at ease in the gym as well.
She walked on her toes, as though trying not to make a sound.
She seemed much more comfortable going through patient files, while I couldn’t so much as step inside the room.
The thought of my sister coming across my therapist’s notes, even after I’m gone, makes me shudder.
Yet I recognized something in the desperate look on Amelia’s face.
After all, I asked Anne if she could include updates on Harper’s condition in the deal she cut with Harper’s parents.
(Anne laughed at my request, refused to even ask.)
Amelia wants to know why I’m here. I can’t possibly tell her. She’d hate me. As it is, she barely seems to tolerate my touch when all I’m doing is holding her upright.
I could’ve come up with an explanation. I could have said, when she asked, that being here is the next step in my sobriety or some bullshit like that.
From what I’ve heard, sober-speak involves so many steps and numbers (how many days since your last drink?
; how many people did you hurt?) that she might have believed me.
But I didn’t want to lie. I haven’t yet lied to Amelia, though I’ve let her believe my leg will “get better” with the right treatment; I haven’t told her it’s beyond repair.
And I haven’t told her that every night, no matter how engrossing our conversation, how exciting it is to sneak around like teenagers, some part of me is always distracted, longing to go back to my room, back to the relief that’s hidden in my sock drawer.
I could’ve offered a small piece of the truth, explaining that in the deal Anne made, my sobriety seemed almost beside the point.
It was the promise that I was going to be sent away that satisfied Harper’s parents, I think, even more than the money or the therapy.
The promise that I would be out of reach.
Now, I follow Amelia through the woods, trying to put my feet exactly where she puts hers.
Her wavy hair curls—she calls it frizz, but it’s not, it’s lovely—in the moist air like magic.
She’s short and pale but freckled. Her hazel eyes turn an almost electric green in the dim light under which we’ve met these past few nights, and the gap between her front teeth makes it look like there’s always something she’s not saying, some secret she’s keeping hidden inside her mouth that makes her so intriguing I often find myself staring.
Harper must be at least six inches taller than Amelia, blond and fair, long and lithe.
Even Anne approved of that much; at least Harper looked the part.
A born and bred New Yorker, Harper wore outfits she’d found in thrift shops, somehow making mismatched, occasionally ill-fitting clothing look intentional and chic.
She’d pull her long hair back with scrunchies and banana clips, twist it into braids, knot it into buns.
My hands are so cold even in my gloves that I can’t feel my fingertips. I don’t know how Amelia manages without a proper coat. I want to offer her mine, but I don’t think she’d take it.
“Shit,” Amelia says suddenly, glancing at her phone. “It’s one fifty-eight.”
She breaks into a sprint. She’s not an athlete like I once was, but she moves with ease, assured her limbs will do as she asks.
In the dim light, I watch her take the stairs up to her terrace two at a time, rushing to open and close her sliding glass door.
I imagine her diving into bed with her shoes still on, burrowing under the covers.
Much more slowly, I limp toward my cottage.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I look at the screen; another call from that unknown number, the stranger who believes I’m on London time.
Perhaps they imagine me rolling over as the sun rises, too close to sleep to remember to be cautious before answering.
As though a creature can ever forget they’re being hunted, venturing into the open meadow without sniffing for wolves.
I think of the deer on my father’s land in Scotland; for most of the year, they live in peace.
Do they ever forget that there are apex predators out there?
Do they ever forget the brother or mother or child they lost in last year’s hunt?
My father first took me stalking when I was ten years old.
Of all the many things I’ve done wrong over the years, I don’t think anything disappointed him more than my inability to pull the trigger when the time came.
When I hesitated, he was forced to take a bad shot, and the deer—injured but not killed—fled.
We chased it, following the trail of blood it left behind, listening to it panting in anguish, its pain entirely preventable, and entirely my fault.
Later, my father set into me: Didn’t I know that culling the herd was for the good of the land? Didn’t I know that meat, killed properly, would feed the locals? Now, flooded with adrenaline because of my blunder, the deer’s meat was inedible.
What had I been thinking, he shouted. How could I be so careless?
Careless is a word that’s followed me my whole life: on teachers’ annual reports, in the media, from Anne and our father. But like accident, careless is a word with many meanings.
I had been careless that day with my father, failing to go in for the kill. And I was careless years later with Harper.
I could be careless tonight. All it would take is one little slip, one foot put wrong.
My phone would fly from my hands, out of reach before I hit the ground.
I picture myself like a turtle flipped on its back by some uncaring child, utterly helpless.
The cold would seep into my body, inch by inch, penetrating my down jacket and fleece vest.
Instead, I watch my steps, slow and painstaking, as I make my way back to my cottage, where I’ll be safe and warm. Amelia’s already inside; she didn’t want me slowing her down. For the rest of my life, my companions will grow sick of staying behind, going slow, hanging back, missing out.
Before she sent me here, Anne said it was for the best, adding, You wouldn’t have wanted Harper to be a caretaker for the rest of her life, would you?
I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear the flick of a light switch. I look up, blinking in the sudden brightness.
Dr. Rush is waiting on the terrace above, silhouetted as if there’s a halo above his head, judgmental as an angel come down to earth. His arms are crossed, one eyebrow raised. He looks pleased to discover that I’m every bit as bad as Anne surely told him I was.