Page 46 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

He had half a mind to call up Maureen, tell her to send Olivia for a couple weeks as well, but they all thought he was crazy, and a request like that wouldn’t go very far toward correcting that belief.

Was he crazy?

Augustus had spent considerable time ruminating over this very question. Sometimes it took him to dark places, others it assuaged him. But his only strong conclusion, no matter which road he turned down, was that crazy was relative. Craziness was a wheel, like time, and depending on where you were, in relation to others, to different places, circumstances, the result of that question varied considerably. Then he’d laugh when he realized “crazy is relative,” could be so easily translated to “crazy is a relative,” because ha-ha-ha family did drive you crazy!

Of course, when you laughed at your own words, which weren’t so much funny as ironic, you found yourself on a part of the wheel you might consider quickly exiting.

Grief was a path to madness. That he did understand, both objectively and how he was now, sunken in the mud keeping him from advancing to the next stage of the process. Evangeline had explained to him, clearly believing science was the only way to dredge him from the recesses of suffering, that a Swiss-American psychiatrist had recently come up with something called the Kübler-Ross model, which explained that grief was a seven-stage cycle. He’d moved quickly from the shock and denial phase into guilt, but he also, sometimes felt anger, which was supposed to come next, but seeped into his everyday tasks. And then there were days where he thought he’d imagined it all and slipped back into denial. Then there were days the depression swallowed him whole, which was supposed to be farther down the list, and others where he thought he was pulling out of it altogether. He experienced all seven stages, sometimes in the same day, so Augustus wasn’t so sure about this new-fangled philosophy on grief.

But most of the time, it was guilt. Guilt that his sadness of losing Ekatherina had faded more quickly than any hurt of his life thus far. Guilt that he was, sometimes, even relieved she was gone. Guilt that he’d prioritized the life of their child over her. Guilt that he struggled to understand her, but truly could’ve tried harder, had he really wanted to. Guilt that she was, somehow, another Maddy. Another failure of his inability to be human.

Guilt that the child he’d do anything for, that he’d die for, was stuck with him.

Earlier that day, he’d overheard Elizabeth talking to Connor.

“Both my brothers are descending into madness,” she’d said. “Only different kinds.”

As Augustus watched Nicolas playing with Anasofiya, he thought to himself that he’d take his madness over his brother’s any day.

“What do you mean you sent our son to your brother’s?”

“You repeated it, so you heard it.” Charles rifled through the pantry, searching for where he’d hidden the Goldfish crackers. If he didn’t hide them, Lisette would eat them, and while he didn’t mind indulging her pregnant whims, this was the one thing off-limits.

“I heard what you said. What I’m struggling with is what you intended by it.”

“I intended to take Augustus up on his offer to take Nicolas.”

“For how long?”

“However long he wants him.”

“Charles.”

Charles slammed his hand against the shelf. “Cordelia.”

“As with many things in your life, you’ve lost interest in our son. It’s tragic, but not shocking, given your history,” Cordelia said. “But I have not lost interest. It might surprise you to know I’m actually quite fond of him.”

“Fond.” Charles snorted. “As if you were talking about snack food.”

“I ate the last of your Goldfish. Your hiding places are predictable. Will you get a grip?” Cordelia replied with a whiff of exasperation. “Call Augustus. I want Nicolas back here by tonight.”

“Call him yourself.”

“I’ll do no such thing. You started this mess. You fix it.”

“What mess?”

“Going cold on our son.”

“I haven’t gone cold on him.”

“What started it?” Cordelia put a hand on his arm. Her tone had softened. “Seriously, Charles. It’s just us here. Tell me.”

Charles shrugged off her icy touch and started to launch into a tirade of barbs and curse words, but something stopped him. Why not tell her? So what if it gave her power? So what? She had so little, and he could take away whatever she did possess with a snap of his fingers.

“You abandoned him at birth, and you come back and his first fucking word is Mama.”

Cordelia’s face shifted swiftly from kindness to amusement. Her lips played with her choice of words. Then, she started laughing.

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