Chapter 33
Erin keeps helping her breathe, and it's probably the first time Abigail puts all her effort into doing exactly as she's told.
She obeys her sister without protest, although she couldn't anyway because she's too dazed to focus on speaking, lets her guide her, and tries to match her pace.
Erin has a patience she must have inherited from her mother, because Abigail doesn't have it, so it didn't come from their father.
She has no idea how long it takes, but air starts flowing through her lungs normally again, her chest begins to rise and fall at a less forced rhythm, and she stops twisting the fabric of her own trousers in her hands.
"What happened, Abby?" Erin murmurs very calmly, but Abigail doesn't answer; she still can't form a complete sentence, much less say it out loud.
Her sister asks her a few more questions, though she doesn't press when she sees she's not ready and notices she's still sweating and her hands are shaking.
For Abigail it's like being outside her body.
Erin leaves her propped against the wall and stands, wets a towel, and runs it over her face, neck, chest, and finally her hands.
She takes off her shoes and leaves her barefoot, the way she likes to be at home.
Then she leaves the bathroom and comes back a few minutes later with a huge glass of cold water and a peanut butter sandwich.
"You have to eat," Erin says, handing her the sandwich.
Abigail can't remember the last time she ate that crap, but she forces herself to take a bite and suddenly it tastes like heaven.
She eats it slowly, chasing each bite with a sip of water because it's hard to swallow.
Erin refills her glass and also brings a tray with sweet and savory biscuits and crackers she usually has for an afternoon snack.
"Want me to make you another one?" Erin asks when she finishes it.
She shakes her head.
"At least you're not so pale anymore; there was a moment I thought you were going to faint," her sister says.
Abigail sighs. She's tired; every limb feels heavy, as if filled with concrete, but she's comfortable on the bathroom floor and doesn't want to move.
Erin stays there beside her, not smothering her, until the doorbell rings and she heads to the door.
The executive assumes it must be someone Erin was meeting; it can't be anyone coming for her.
Abigail has no friends beyond Liam and, even if she did, at this hour she's never home.
But Erin returns to the bathroom with Liam, and he's holding a bottle of whiskey.
"Well," Liam says with a serious expression, while she looks at him like he's a ghost, "you really are a wreck. I think I nailed it bringing this," he adds, lifting the bottle as he loosens his tie and sits on the floor, back against the wall across from them, right by the sink.
"What are you doing here?" Abigail manages to say.
"I called him," Erin answers from the doorway. "You need to get things off your chest and you won't talk to me, so I figure you need a friend. I'm going to bring glasses."
Something twists in Abigail's stomach at the defeated tone in Erin's voice.
"Can you cover up?" Liam asks, pointing at her half-open shirt with a teasing smile. "If my wife finds out I spent the afternoon with you half naked, locked in your bathroom with a bottle of whiskey, she'll ask for a divorce."
Abigail closes her shirt, but there's not much more she can do; she tore almost all the buttons when she tried to open it. Erin comes back with two glasses with ice and hands them to Liam.
"Where are you going?" Abigail asks.
"To the kitchen. I'll leave you two alone," Erin answers.
"Go get a damn glass for yourself and come back. Please," she says softly when she sees Erin hesitate.
Erin nods, a little confused, and returns a minute later with another glass for herself.
She sits where she was before, behind Abigail, because her older sister feels like a rag doll about to collapse if she doesn't hold her up.
And Abigail doesn't complain, doesn't ask her to move away or pull back, because she's still shaking and still doesn't fully understand what's happening to her body.
"So you've had a shitty day," Liam tosses out, with a calm that surprises Erin.
He leans forward and hands each of them a glass of whiskey before returning to his spot and raising his in a pretend toast.
"Looks like it," Abigail replies.
"Did your mother call you?" Liam probes.
Abigail nearly spits out the sip she just took, tensing under her sister's arm around her waist.
"No. I don't even remember the last time she called me," she says with a tired smile.
But she does remember—her memory is very good.
It was four years ago. Her mother got drunk and found the courage to call her like she does every so often.
She reminded her what a bad daughter she was, how much she'd disappointed her, and then hung up.
Abigail was with Liam that night, having dinner with him and his wife, Vanessa, in the house they'd just bought.
She couldn't keep eating, or talking, or thinking.
She just got up and went out to the patio because she needed some air.
Liam came out a while later with a bottle like the one he brought now; they finished it, and that night she slept on his couch.
That's how it always is—he shows up when she needs him, because Liam is her friend, the only one she has.
Erin takes a hair tie off her wrist, which she always wears like a bracelet, and gathers her sister's hair into a simple updo that bares her neck. Abigail is grateful because she's hot, although she doesn't say anything.
"So what was it?" Liam asks.
Abigail shrugs. She knows she can talk to him about anything, but she doesn't know how to talk to him about Taylor. Her head is still too jumbled for that.
"You worry me, Abby," he says. "And I'm serious. Lately you've been really irritable."
"It'll pass," she replies.
"Is it because of me, Abby?" Erin asks suddenly. "Is it because I'm here? Because I remind you of our father? If that's it, tell me and I'll go. I won't be mad, I promise."
Abigail's eyes go wide, her mouth too, and her pulse picks up again. She feels like she hurts everyone. She's been hurting Taylor since she got to New York, and she's been hurting her sister her whole life.
"No, I don't want you to go," Abigail admits, and she's surprised because she truly means it.
"But I remind you of him," Erin says.
"Fuck, of course you remind me of him, Erin," she snaps, then sighs, "but that's not your fault."
Liam watches them without stepping in, refilling the glasses in silence.
"Yes, it is. I saw it..." Erin murmurs.
Abigail turns enough to look at her.
"What did you see?" she asks, thrown.
"I saw how he treated you. Not when I was little, but later, yeah, I noticed how he ignored you, how he didn't include you in anything. You'd come spend Christmas and he acted like you weren't even there." Abigail goes completely rigid. "I noticed and I never said anything."
"It wasn't your responsibility, Erin," Abigail says, settling back against her.
She picks up her glass and drinks, takes a good swallow, and feels the liquid burn her throat, finally making her feel something besides the shaking.
"Yes, it was. You're my sister. No wonder you hated all of us," Erin murmurs.
Abigail sighs.
"I hated that house," she starts reciting, eyes fixed on her glass.
"I hated that he forced me to visit every Christmas to get his damn family photo.
I hated that my mother allowed it. I hated him for abandoning us and turning her into a control freak who robbed me of a childhood.
I hated him because when he left, he left me alone.
I lost him and I lost my mother. But I didn't hate you, even if you were a pain in the ass who wouldn't get out of my room when I was there," Abigail says.
Erin wipes away her tears with her fingers.
"It's just that you never left your room," she explains, sniffling.
Abigail smiles and snorts.
"And where the hell did you want me to be, Erin?"
Erin sniffles again while nodding. All her memories of the Christmases Abigail spent at her parents' house are like that, her sister shut in her room, reading books or listening to music while Erin played with her dolls sitting on the rug by her bed.
Abigail never kicked her out of the room.
She didn't play much with her either. Eight years between them was too much, but she helped her with homework and taught her to play chess.
That only lasted a few years, because once Abigail turned eighteen, she never set foot in that house again, and her father never lifted a finger to try to see her.
He just kept signing checks for her education and support and, beyond that, forgot he had another daughter.
"What happened with your mother?" Erin ventures to ask.
She's always wanted to know and wants to seize this moment, the only one in which her sister has opened up to her.
"Good old Brigitte Stone," Liam snorts with a grimace.
He and Abigail burst out laughing.
"What a twisted witch," Liam goes on, seeing Erin's bewildered expression.
Abigail massages her neck with her hand and closes her eyes for a second; it's so stiff she's sure if she presses the wrong spot she'll end up with a knot that lasts for days.
"Tell me," Erin insists, her voice tight, a desperate attempt to understand her sister's behavior.
Abigail doesn't feel like talking about her mother—in fact, she doesn't feel like talking about anything—but she feels she owes it to Erin, because her sister, or stepsister as she cruelly insists on reminding her, has always been there for her, trying to get into her life even though Abigail has barely allowed it.
And Erin has never given up; now she's here, holding her when she needs it most, when she feels most lost.