Gerry opened the door of the house—he’d been waiting. Kennedy wasn’t behind him, and Carter instinctively glanced up at her old bedroom window. Gerry stepped out onto the concrete beneath the portico in his socks and closed the door behind him. Not a good sign.
She had practiced her line on the way over—It couldn’t be avoided—but she didn’t need it. Gerry was beaming.
“Kennedy’s home.”
Haley never will be, she thought, and wondered if she was becoming a Kimberson. Carter pushed past Gerry and placed her hand on the neck divot where Everett had touched her to cover it, hide it from her family.
Gerry followed after Carter, asking her, “Where’s the cake? You were supposed to bring a cake!”
“I could have done a better job of today if you hadn’t invited my ex.”
By then they were in the living room and she wasn’t sure if Alex had heard her. Alex set down his cup of coffee and came over and wrapped his arms around her. He thanked her for inviting him, even though she hadn’t. He didn’t break the hug when he should have and Carter had to step away.
Alex hadn’t worked in almost a year when she finally broke up with him. Carter told herself this again to justify her actions. Alex was a computer programmer, but after his layoff he’d mostly just played World of Warcraft late at night, or noodled on his guitar in the living room after Carter had gone to bed. Since she’d left him, she had no idea how he spent his time, though she imagined it was much the same.
The house phone rang and Gerry left the room.
When he returned he said that the Cains were sending their regrets. Something unexpected had come up. Carter watched as Gerry began to pace, looking out the window as if he expected people to arrive, though they still had an hour. His stress could take over his body, tighten it into a coil.
* * *
—
In the second-floor bathroom Carter sobbed in a quick rush of tears and snot. After she sniffed and her red cheeks faded she turned the exhaust fan off and flushed the toilet, though she had not actually used it. As she walked down the hallway she saw a light on in Kennedy’s room. The idea was as shocking as a haunting, that the room was occupied after all this time.
“Hey,” she said through the ajar door. “Sorry I’m late.”
Kennedy lay on top of the purple comforter, her black flats on the floor beside her, making an L shape just the way she’d toed them off. She was wearing one of the dresses Carter had tried on for her—black with a pleated front, almost like a tuxedo shirt through the chest. There was a design of small white and red twists or squiggles along the bottom and the sleeves. It fit a bit looser than Carter had expected. The diet in the jail had left Kennedy slim in the waist but puffy in the face, and pale. She was looking more and more like their mother. And a little less like her, Carter realized.
“Don’t worry,” Kennedy said, “I’m fourteen years late.”
Carter saw that her sister stared up at a photo of the heavily lined eyes of Robert Smith: black hair that blossomed out around his head, lipstick red as fire. There was a disturbing beauty in the red smear. Carter remembered, vaguely, the waxy taste from an era when she’d kissed boys who wore makeup.
When Carter didn’t respond, Kennedy raised herself up on her elbows and said, “That was a joke.”
Carter walked inside for the first time since Kennedy had gone to prison. She wanted to be close to her, to see her as her sister and twin, but now they were alone—no guards and no tables bolted to the floor—and Carter felt suddenly apprehensive. She looked at the tennis racket standing in one corner of the room and remembered how much stronger Kennedy had always seemed on the court. Strong enough to hurt someone, she thought, then blinked the idea away. Carter gazed around at the posters, the dusty books and CDs, a shelf full of stuffed animals left over from childhood. “He wouldn’t touch this room. I told him he should. It would be better for you.”
She turned and sat down on the desk chair across from the bed.
“Have you ever heard about the Cotard delusion?” Kennedy asked. Carter noticed she spoke softly and low. A jail habit. She’d noticed it there but thought it was just to keep their conversations private. “It’s a psychological condition where you’re convinced you’re dead, that your body is already decaying.”
Carter bit her lip. “Can we not talk about death? It’s not healthy.”
“Are you glad I’m home? You don’t look glad.”
Carter managed a fake smile. “Of course! It’s so fucked up that Dad invited Alex.”
Kennedy got up and grabbed Carter by the hand. She pulled her onto the bed beside her. “Sit with me. We’ll have to go downstairs soon.”
Carter crab-walked back over the queen mattress so she could lean against the wall. She could feel an ache in her neck, and her hand crept up to massage it. All her muscles were stiff from the morning spent with Everett. Either that, or they’d locked up the second she saw Kennedy and her father afterward. Guilt came in a spasm.
“Are you in trouble?” Kennedy asked, her gaze locking on the hand that was massaging Carter’s neck.
“Of course not.” Carter let her hand fall, aware she must have looked stressed.
“You stopped coming out to see me.”
She took a moment, pulled her hair to the nape of her neck, fastened it with an elastic she pried from her wrist. She knew she should cut it out; her sister knew she only pulled on her hair when she was anxious. “I’ve been seeing a therapist, but sometimes I think I’m happier not talking about things.”
“You mean the murder?”
“Don’t call it that.”
“I have to call it that. I wasn’t charged with a euphemism.”
“But you didn’t do it. You had to take the plea. Right?”
Carter remembered the morning Haley went missing, Kennedy bursting into her room just after she’d returned from the hospital with Laine, having been up all night. Gerry had driven them home in the big white Cadillac DeVille instead of his usual Acura, as if finding out about the possibility of cancer were a formal event. Both their parents were shut in the bedroom, sleeping, when Kennedy came in, whispering again and again, “I have no idea what happened.”
Now Kennedy didn’t respond. She pulled her knees up against her chin. Carter watched Kennedy watching her, her mouth suddenly firm. There was no arguing with Kennedy. There never had been, really. Carter always knew what she would say, so an argument was pointless. Carter heard the breath come hard through her nostrils.
“I’m not a violent person,” Kennedy said finally, as if she’d had to assess all angles of the statement before deciding on its truth.