Rambling On Eden
Rambling On
Eden
We are all so very worried about Brooklyn.
Brain injuries are unpredictable at best. The doctors are baffled.
She was improving so well, ready to come home, and then this happened.
Poor girl. She doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t, and that’s a dangerous place for her.
And for the children. I am reluctant to let them visit, because we just never know what we’re going to get.
Is she rational, aware, in the now? Or is she seeing things?
She’s been muttering names of people who are unfamiliar to all of us, and a few who aren’t.
A man she calls Alex, in particular, seems to be a regular visitor.
Margot assures me he is long dead, but Brooklyn insists he tried to hurt her.
The nurse on duty said Brook was having one of her episodes, and when she entered the room, she found her alone, squeezing her neck. The bruises were gruesome.
Poor Brooklyn is unhinged, and that’s frightening for everyone.
Margot tells me over dinner about the man her twin was once in love with.
“It was an unhealthy relationship. He was volatile but incredibly charming. Brook wanted out, she just didn’t know how. When he died, it was a blessing, truly. She probably doesn’t see it that way, but trust me, Alex was troubled.”
“They were close, though?”
“For a while, very. When she got hired by Bandolier, that’s when things got complicated.
Alex didn’t like the relationship Brooklyn had with Roger.
All the travel intimacy. They were just friends, but Roger liked her, had a little crush, and that upset Alex.
There were lots of fights, things got tense.
And then, of course, Bandolier died, and Alex, too, and Brooklyn came home a shell of the woman she was before she met him.
Trey fixed her. He loved her back to herself. ”
We are drinking a lovely pinot noir from the Burgundy region—Brooklyn and Andrew have an extensive wine cellar that I’ve been raiding with impunity.
I like wine; I’ve just never known much about it.
I’ve been studying Brooklyn’s wine atlas, learning what’s what.
There are so many videos online from sommeliers sharing their knowledge.
It’s a new hobby, a wonderful pastime, when I have a quiet moment, that is. The children take so much of my time.
Margot enjoys seeing what I’ve picked to accompany our evening meal.
Tonight, I’ve made a beef bourguignon, which is fitting for the pairing.
The children loved it, though Four was reluctant to try his pearl onions.
We’re working on his palate; it needs a level up in sophistication.
Neve will eat anything I put in front of her like a starving animal.
I’ve already had to take out the waistband of her tutu.
Her teacher sent a note suggesting that perhaps we should consider a small diet, but that’s nonsense in my mind.
She’s a growing girl, about to hit a spurt.
I remember when Chloe was her age and I fed her my leftovers.
It made her chubby for a minute, and then she grew four inches in a single summer. Young bodies need sustenance.
The children are in bed now, happily tucked in after a small ice cream snack and a bedtime story. We’re definitely in a good groove. They’ve come to accept me as a new part of their daily lives. It was easy, really, to step in and lend a hand. It’s a calling, a duty, a pleasure.
I used to care for Chloe like this. When our parents decided I was old enough to babysit, I was thrilled to be in charge. To protect, to nurture. She wasn’t always obedient, but at the end of the night, after her bath, when she was warm and sleepy, she loved a bedtime story.
I tell the children all of their aunt Chloe’s favorites: Snow White, Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood.
How they have never heard these tales . .
. They ask for more modern fare, but it’s important for children to be educated in the classics.
Neve especially loves Cinderella. She wants to choreograph a ballet to the story.
Next week I’ll start them on mythology. They’re clever creatures; they’ll love hearing these tales of immortal bravery and courage.
They often ask about their father when he was a child their age, and I tell them all the stories I remember.
How he stole the flag from the school’s pole and draped it over the principal’s front door so when he walked out, he got tangled up in it.
How he used to run every morning in the summers before school started to keep himself in shape in between seasons.
How he used to look at Chloe like she was the sun and the moon and the stars.
They love to hear about Chloe. About how kind and sweet she was.
How close we were. How their father adored her.
She is a real princess in a real tower who was trapped by a real monster.
They want to meet her, but I tell them she’s gone to heaven.
I don’t tell them how. They won’t understand.
I show them pictures instead. I have many on my phone to choose from.
Margot sips her wine and hums appreciatively. We’re halfway through the bottle now, and her eyes have taken on a glowy sheen. “I had no idea how French wines do well with onion-heavy dishes, and Italian wines with garlic. You’re a genius.”
I can’t help but dimple at the compliment, though it’s not my victory to claim.
“Simple terroir common sense. What grows in the ground regionally is usually the best pairing. I’ve been reading all of Brooklyn’s articles.
She’s the one who mentioned it. I’m learning from her.
She’s so talented at all of this! I can’t wait for her to come home so we can get to know one another better.
I already feel like she’s a good friend. ”
Margot is tipsy, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. I top her off.
“Don’t tell her,” she says, whispering as if Brooklyn is in the next room, not across town in the hospital, “but I don’t usually read her work.
Just like she doesn’t offer her opinion on my designs.
Our parents made it a point when we were growing up to help us cultivate different interests so we weren’t in each other’s pockets all the time.
It rubbed off. We’ve always stayed out of each other’s way professionally, and that allows us to socialize and hang out.
If we were in the same fields, or even giving input, we’d get competitive.
We both want to be right, we both want to win.
It was smart of them to encourage us to move on separate paths so we could be sisters instead of rivals. ”
I lean forward conspiratorially. “Well, I’ll say this. She’s an incredibly talented photographer, but her writing isn’t quite as good. It’s still excellent, but you can tell where her real passion lies. Her photos are impeccable.”
Margot nods gravely. If she is upset by my criticism, it doesn’t show.
“She always had an eye. When we were little, our parents took us all over the country. I was in a touring ballet company, and Brook would bring her camera, and we’d go on all kinds of adventures.
There are tons of old photo albums upstairs in the cabinet with pictures from all of our trips. ”
“Oh, how nice. I will have to look at them. Here, have some more.”
The bottle is empty now, and I sip at my glass genteelly. This new life of mine has taken on such shape and texture so quickly that it’s almost hard to remember the before, when I was alone in Atlanta, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
I run a finger along Margot’s forearm. She watches me, eyes full of longing.
“Aunt Margot?”
I jerk back. Four is standing in the dining room doorway, pale and sweaty.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Margot hurries to Four’s side. The wine—and me—forgotten.
“Don’t feel good. Neve too.”
Our quiet evening is over. Margot attends to the children, and I clear the table and scrub down the kitchen until it sparkles.
Upstairs, I hear disgusting noises, and Margot calls down. “Eden, a little help here?”
Both are throwing up, poor things: Neve in the shared bath, Four in his mother’s toilet.
I bring trash bags and buckets, and we spend the night with them, ferrying out sick, until their stomachs are empty and raw.
I make peppermint tea, which helps, and milkshakes, which don’t, then we put them back to bed and tuck them in for a nap.
Margot wakes me an hour later. She’s feeling poorly now, too. I bring her some Sprite and put her to bed.
Three sick ducklings. What a shame.
It’s a miracle I don’t come down with it.
I stay home and care for them. They need me.
And I don’t want to drag anything to the hospital, so we leave Brooklyn to her own devices.
I hate to do it, but the nurse on call tells me it’s better for us to stay away now.
They’re doing a new assessment, trying a new protocol, to see if it helps her come back to herself.
It’s a whole day before my little family can stomach real food again. We are rewarded with chicken soup and wonderful news.
Brooklyn is coming home.