The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [75]
Agitated, Eddie checks his watch. Almost nine. Yet another cartoon. Lyra eats her popcorn one kernel at a time. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. Jesus. Her snot is running green. Usually Robin lets her fall asleep down here, then carries her up to bed. Otherwise, she has to lie down with Lyra. A bad habit, Robin admits, but it's the only way she can fall asleep now. He asks how far away Abbeyton is. He'd like some time alone with her. Not too far, she says. Ten or twelve miles. This reminds her of something. She frowns. His brother, she says, did he call him yet? He looks at her. Blankly. A beat. Then remembers. The troubled brother in California, his dead wives. He can't remember his name, though, but it's different this time; he doesn't always have to be on guard. Her easy acceptance and infectious enthusiasm bring out the best in him. She is so positive about everyone and everything, as quick to laugh as she is moved to tears, that he can almost believe he has a brother. He did call, he says, but no one answered.
“Maybe he's in the hospital again,” she says.
“Maybe.” He slips his arm over the back of the couch, his fingertips so near her shoulder he can feel her heat.
“I don't know,” she sighs. “This is Bob's fourth rehab. The problem is, it's always about something else. First, was to keep his job. Then, because of me—my ultimatum: what's it gonna be, drinking or me? Catchy, huh? I like that.” She tilts her head from side to side in silent rhythm. “Maybe we could do that, an Al-Anon theme song. Anyway.” Sighing, she stares dismally at the television.
Now he remembers. Woody, the invented brother, short for Woodruff Yeah. Poor Woody, born that way, same as him, too intense. Sensitive. He knows what people are thinking without them saying a word. Like right now, she wants to tell him something. He can feel it, something important. She has yet to discuss her affair with him. Every time he mentions running into her that night with Hammond, she goes silent. For all her openness, that is the one subject off limits.
Lyra sneezes and snuggles closer to her mother. Robin pulls a tattered plaid throw from the arm of the couch and covers her with it. Lyra coughs, a deep, tight cough. “You feel all right, baby?” Robin murmurs, laying her cheek against Lyra's brow.
“My head hurts,” Lyra whines, then lies down with her head in her mother's lap, her knees to her chin. She is asleep in minutes.
Smiling, Robin continues stroking her face, her love for this child so intense that he stirs with anger. If she cares too much, what will be left for him? Her kindness to others leaves him feeling bereft, deprived. He offers to carry Lyra upstairs. She's fine right here, Robin says, stroking her forehead.
“No!” he says, and Robin looks at him, startled. “She should be in her own bed. It's so late.”
“I know. You're right. It's me. I just love having her near,” she says, picking her up. The child's limbs dangle from her mother's arms and her head hangs back, limply. Lifeless, he thinks with a rush, watching her being carried away.
The phone rings. Robin's voice. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, but can't make out what she's saying. It's him. The boyfriend. Ken. He knows by her tone. Tender, intimate, a voice in the dark, in bed, fucking. His throat burns.
She returns, frowning. She thinks Lyra has a temperature but can't bear waking her up. Lyra hates taking medicine. She gags on everything, poor baby. Her voice quavers as she picks up a large plastic doll-house and carries it across the room. She walks carefully but the furniture inside rattles as she sets it down on the hearth.
“Or maybe it's me. I'm such a bad mother,” she sighs, looking back at the stairs.
“No you're not. She's probably not even sick. She looked fine to me.” He doesn't want her back down here.
“I don't know, it's just everything lately, it's all so … so messed up.” Face flushed, she takes a deep breath. “I just wish he wouldn't call me like that,” she whispers, then drops down in the opposite chair. “It gets me so upset.”
“Tell him not to. Tell him it's