Page 87 of The Identicals
“Absolutely,” Ainsley says.
“You can just follow the path around the house,” Edie says.
Ainsley leads Fish down the porch steps and around a robust pink hydrangea bush—the Strawberry Sundae variety, Harper notes, because she still has a landscaper’s sensibility.
“Shall we walk to Mytoi?” Edie asks.
Harper nods, then holds Edie’s arm as they descend the stairs.
“This is no one’s fault,” Edie says. “Not mine and certainly not yours, so if you’re harboring any guilt, I want you to let it go.”
“I should have been here,” Harper says. “I should have come when you called.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Edie says. “Brendan’s accident left him damaged, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he was still intact enough to realize how damaged he was. He knew he was limited, and he hated it. He said it was like his mind was in a straitjacket. He would look at his feet and know what movements he needed to make to tie his shoes, but he couldn’t get his hands to cooperate. We were lucky he lasted as long as he did.”
“Where did he get the pills?” Harper asks.
“One of his friends,” Edie says. “Or former friends. They all did drugs, those surf boys.”
Harper nods. True enough. “I didn’t know that Brendan still talked to any of those guys.”
“Every once in a while, one of them would check in,” Edie says. “Spyder and Doobie, mostly. They would call after I’d bumped into them at Cronig’s. Seeing me made them feel guilty.”
“They loved Brendan,” Harper says. “We all loved Brendan. Worshipped him, back in the day. He was so much better than anyone else. He was a demigod. I remember being so flattered that he even knew my name, years and years ago, back when I worked at Mad Martha’s. And then…” Here Harper censors herself. She wants to be honest with Edie, but not so honest that she ruins the moment. “And then after his accident… I mean, I knew he wasn’t the same, but I was still… I don’t know… I guess you’d saystarstruckat first. Here was Brendan Donegal, who had won so many titles and traveled to so many countries, who had surfed with Kelly Slater and John John Florence, and he was suddenly accessible to me.” Harper swallows. Does this sound awful? Does it sound like she was somehow happy that Brendan had his accident because it gave her a chance to be close to him? “I soon came to love and appreciate the person Brendan had become. After a while, I forgot that Brendan the surfer even existed. His past didn’t matter. My past didn’t matter. That was the gift of being with Brendan. He kept you in the moment.” Harper closes her eyes.It’s hot; the pond is still; the coffee is strong; your eyes are sad.Every Wednesday afternoon and every Sunday morning were theirs, together.
Come back. Please.
They are at the entrance to Mytoi now, and both of them hesitate.
“I donated money here in his name,” Edie says. “There will be a bench or a sculpture—I haven’t decided what exactly. But I wanted something here on Chappy that would honor him, that I can visit, that you can visit.”
“That’s a beautiful idea,” Harper says. “Have you changed your mind about a service?”
“No,” Edie says. “I had the body cremated. I’ll bury the ashes in the family plot, next to his father. The priest will come, but no service.”
Harper nods. They have entered the garden, and they automatically fall quiet. It’s the blessing of Mytoi—the possibility of silence, of stillness, of contemplation. They cross the footbridge. Harper gazes down at the koi swimming, then she and Edie sit down side by side on the red bench. Harper’s pain will never be greater than it is right now. She had never imagined coming to Mytoi without Brendan. The place and the man and their relationship were three strands, braided together. She knows she should feel grateful. After all, what if she had never found him? His friendship was such a gift. He appeared to her when everyone else on the island had forsaken her; when she felt wicked and cheap, he arrived to make her feel valued and worthwhile.
Suddenly the tears fall. She is crying, and there is no stopping her; she wishes she had the stiff upper lip of Edie and Eleanor’s generation, but oh, well. Possibly Edie isn’t too reserved to cry—simply too sad, her grief so deep and embedded that it won’t break loose.
Edie pulls a handkerchief out of the pocket of her pants and hands it to Harper, who accepts it gratefully and blows her nose.
“I’m pregnant,” Harper says.
Edie, who is already sitting ramrod straight, seems to grow an inch. “Is the child… Brendan’s?”
“No,” Harper says. “It’s not. Brendan and I never…”
“Oh,” Edie says. “I wasn’t sure.”
“I wish it were his,” Harper says, then realizes this is the utter truth. But of course the baby is Reed’s, conceived that fateful night at Lucy Vincent, when Reed recklessly made love to her without protection. “More than anything, I wish it were.”
Edie stands on the porch and waves as Harper backs out of the driveway.
“Was it as bad as you thought?” Ainsley asks, once they are back on Chappy Road, headed for the ferry.
“No,” Harper says.
Walking back from Mytoi, Edie had said, “If you need a place to stay, before or after the baby is born… I don’t want to assume anything… but if you need a place, the cottage, Brendan’s cottage, is yours free of charge for as long as you want it.”
