I didn’t go with your dad to Austin for Christmas. My wrist hurt, my fingers hurt, and what I was calling my period was heavier and longer than usual. There was so much blood. Plus I couldn’t play piano. I was too miserable to meet his family, too sad to be on stage, too busy blaming myself to enjoy being with anyone. Instead, I curled up in my childhood bed and reread all ninety-seven of the Baby-Sitters Club books that were still in my bedroom, along with three super specials and six Baby-Sitters Club mysteries. Then I read The Red Tent, which is the book I was reading to your grandmother when she died. I read it through twice.
Your dad got a friend from high school to sub in on keys for all of our gigs in Texas. They didn’t perform our “Elephant Love Medley”–inspired closing. He said that was just for us.
Ari stayed home, too, even though she was living in Connecticut, getting her master’s degree. She brought me my favorite foods, set up screenings of our favorite movies in the rec room in the basement, bought me new sweaters with arms baggy enough to fit my cast, and kept telling me that everything that happened was the way it was supposed to happen. I was grateful she was there, but I longed for my mother. Not that she was able to really take care of us in the end, but being able to talk to her, being able to hear her words, feel her next to me, was always comforting.
Jack came over sometimes—he and Ari had just started dating the month before—bringing an arsenal of board games with him. He, Ari, and I would play Settlers of Catan and Balderdash and Scattergories until way after dark. And then I would say I was tired so that Ari and Jack could spend some time alone. I felt bad that she was spending her whole winter break in the house with me, but she said she didn’t mind. And Jack honestly didn’t seem to mind hanging out at our house, either. As long as he was with Ari, he was happy.
When Ari tried to bring you up, to ask if she could take me to the gynecologist, to be sure everything was okay, I stopped her. “The pregnancy test must’ve been wrong.” I said. She looked at me like she didn’t believe me; she was my sister, she knew what my period was usually like, how this time I’d bled through my pajama pants, through the overnight maxi pads she’d gotten for me. But she closed her mouth and never asked again. I wonder, now, if your grandma had still been alive, if she’d have made me talk more. Asked more questions. If I would’ve felt comfortable telling her in a way I didn’t with your grandpa. Regardless, my body did what it was supposed to in that situation. After ten days, I’d stopped cramping, stopped bleeding. I didn’t talk about you for six months. Until I had to. Until I thought I’d crumble to pieces if I didn’t.
While Ari and I were inside the house, cocooning ourselves in blankets, our father put on his winter coat, took his chain saw and his goggles, and cut down the oak, tree house and all.
He didn’t buy any more dura logs all winter.