long ago to the little things Mom did. For one thing, she hadn’t been around the house much to be observed. For another, Eileen hadn’t wanted to look at her closely since the letters. Now, she was taking in everything: the creases around Mom’s mouth, the freckles on her hands, the chapped state of her lips. Here was her own mother, yet she felt so much like a stranger.
Kerry and Bonnie had also asked the sisters questions—little inquiries about life in Emmet, which they had answered with vague, distant answers. Eileen knew Murphy and Claire were as dazed as she was, processing in the face of sudden news. There was no denying it: This was the most awkward Christmas brunch in the history of Christmas brunches. Eileen would stake her life on that. Sure, she didn’t have an experience to compare it to; “brunch” wasn’t in the Sullivan’s vocabulary. But what could be weirder than eating the food of the sheriff of a tiny town you’d only discovered a few days ago, courtesy of a letter from your heretofore unknown dead uncle’s attorney?
And to top it off, Eileen had been wrong.
How the hell could she be capable of small talk?
All she was able to offer, when Bonnie asked if Eileen had enjoyed high school was, “Not really, but that’s kind of the norm, huh?” And then, “Could you tell me where your bathroom is?”
An obliging Bonnie pointed down the hallway, telling Eileen it was two doors to the left.
Eileen escaped and did her business. When she was through, though, she didn’t leave. She stood facing the oval mirror, studying herself as hard as she’d been studying Mom.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall frame. Different from her sisters and her mother, from the memories and the photos of her father. She’d first thought they were unique parts of herself. Then she’d thought they were signs of a murderer’s blood in her veins. The pieces seemed to have fit, so she’d insisted they would, ramming them together to support her truth.
Now who was facing her in the glass? Her parents’ eldest daughter. Probably a surprise to them both, but not in the way she’d believed. She was just her parents’ kid. She was herself: Eileen Sullivan, who once upon a time had loved to make art.
She needed a drink. She craved fire in her belly, fuel that could lift her brain above reality. She eyed the mouthwash sitting on the counter: LISTERINE FRESH BURST.
What she’d give for a fresh burst of anything.
She caught her reflection again, desperation etched on her bony face.
God, Eileen, she thought. You’ve had a fucking revelation, and you remain goddamn predictable.
She could say the word with more resigned conviction than she had this morning.
“Alcoholic,” accused the girl in the mirror.
She’d finally admitted the truth.
The knock on the bathroom door sent Eileen stumbling away from the counter.
“Occupied!” she called, reaching over to flush the already flushed toilet.
“Eileen?”
The door cracked open, and Mom’s face appeared, nose first. Aquiline, like Eileen’s. They shared that in common, at least.
“Jesus, shit,” said Eileen.
Mom opened the door wider, then stepped inside and closed it behind her.
She said, “I wanted to be sure you’re okay.”
“What, now you do?”
The words came out involuntarily, and the moment they did, Eileen threw a hand over her mouth, cementing her lips. Like she was a little girl who’d said a bad word. She felt like a child, suddenly.
If Mom was hurt by the words, she didn’t show it. She looked reflective, and then said, “No, actually. That’s not why I came. I thought, maybe, we need to talk.”
“Do we?”
“Eileen.”
“What?”
“You haven’t been doing well. I think … I’ve known. You haven’t been doing well for a while.”
Did she know about the alcohol?
Eileen could study Mom, but she couldn’t read her. And she didn’t want to talk about whiskey or wine right now. Instead, she blurted, “I read the letters. The ones you kept in the closet.”
Mom’s eyes were unblinking. She didn’t look startled, and to her credit she didn’t say something banal, like, “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”
She said, “I shouldn’t have kept them there. To be honest, I’d forgotten.”
“Why did you keep them in the first place?”
Mom lowered her gaze to the pink bathroom tile. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted evidence, if some vigilante tracked us to Emmet. Maybe a part of me wanted a reminder of Rockport—of what it had been, or a reason to stay away. I don’t know, Eileen. I don’t have a good answer.”