Will, as Abe, cut straight to the part he knew his mother would like best. “When I was nine, my mom drank bad milk and puked herself to death,” he said. “I used to tell people, ‘All that I am, all that I hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.’”
Josephine’s eyes went slushy and sad in the corners. She gave a weak smile and touched the hand splint Will got at the ER last night. Then she leaned in and kissed the bandage on his chin. Somehow, it made Will’s stitches hurt less.
Will decided to leave a few things out of that morning’s tea. He didn’t tell his mother about Abe Lincoln’s older sister, Sarah, who raised him after his mother died. He also omitted the part about Abe’s younger brother, Thomas, who died in his cradle. No one likes to talk about dead babies. And his mom definitely didn’t like to speak about older sisters.
Shame and defensiveness hung, like skunk spray, around Josephine whenever someone mentioned Will’s oldest sister, Rose. Most people in town wouldn’t touch the topic with a ten-foot pole, knowing precisely how much pain it caused the Hursts. But every so often, one of the well-meaning but half-demented old ladies at Saint Peter’s Church would ask whether thespian Rose was in the latest production at Ulster Performing Arts Center. Josephine usually responded with something polite and evasive like, “No such luck,” and quickly moved on to praise the play’s actual female lead. But Will knew she wished the rest of Stone Ridge would get with the program and forget Rose at least half as quickly as she’d forgotten all of them.
A little more than a year ago Rose had run away with her boyfriend and disowned the Hursts. “Just give her space,” Violet had said when Josephine told the family about the hateful details of Rose’s final phone call. “You all talk about Rose like she’s so much younger than she is. She’s twenty. When you reach adulthood, ‘running away from home’ is generally known as ‘moving out.’”
Rose was so self-absorbed or cowardly (or both) that she hadn’t even told the Hursts she was leaving. Will’s parents had reported her missing twenty-four hours after she didn’t come home from her morning class at SUNY New Paltz. A week had gone by before Rose could be bothered to call her mother, and the Hursts had been painfully aware of every passing hour and what it said about the chances police would find her alive. Josephine had organized ground searches of the creek. Douglas had created a “Find Rose Hurst” Facebook group. Will had helped his mother post flyers in the storefronts around town; they featured Rose’s angelic face beneath the pleading question “Have You Seen This Girl?”
The details read:
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue/Gray
Rose was last seen wearing jeans, a peach sweater, and a fur-trimmed white puffer coat. Other identifying characteristics include a mole under her right eye and a dime-sized birthmark behind her left ear.
At the time, Will thought his mother should have given a different photo to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“Why?” Josephine asked.
“Because Rose’s smiling in it,” Will had said. “No one will be able to recognize her.”
These days, wherever Rose was, she was probably grinning. Whereas Will’s mother was the one who wore the frown Will couldn’t erase no matter how hard he tried.
These days, monanthous was a word that seemed to apply. It meant having only a single flower. And that was all the Hursts had. One Violet. No Rose.
Now, during tea, Josephine, with a middle part and her doily bonnet in place, was much too convincing as Florence Nightingale. With tired, downcast eyes, she read the words that supposedly proved Flo’s bipolar disorder. It was an open letter to God, in which she asked him why she couldn’t be happy no matter how hard she tried. “Why can I not be satisfied with the life that satisfies so many people?” Josephine croaked. “Why am I starving, desperate, and diseased on it?”
The real answer, which Will didn’t dare say, was Rose. Before Rose ran away, Douglas hadn’t worked odd hours. Will hadn’t been bullied. Violet hadn’t been nearly as vengeful and nuts. Rose had left Will’s family with a deficit, and every single day she seemed to drain more out of them. The gap between what the Hursts were and what they’d once been was widening by the day. Will knew the difference pained Josephine most of all. Rose had turned their mother’s perfect family into a perfect wreck, and Will couldn’t shake the feeling that she wouldn’t stop there.
THE NURSE WHEELED Violet into a stark room containing a grated window, metal lockers, and a roommate, a corpse-still back-sleeper who made her cot look more like an autopsy table.
Violet had barely choked down a pink sleeping pill and laid her head on the mattress when a flashlight beamed across her still-teary face. “Check,” said the orderly silhouetted in the door. When it happened again fifteen minutes later, it dawned on Violet that she was on the kind of suicide watch she had read about in Girl, Interrupted.
For the first time, Violet wondered if she really was crazy, not just deliriously hungry and high. Maybe morning glory seeds had brought out some kind of latent schizophrenia. Where acid was concerned, some people—maybe Violet included—left reality and never quite made it back. Was that why she had no recollection of what she’d done to Will? She sometimes had difficulty remembering all the insightful parts of an acid trip, but she’d never had an entire memory slip through her fingers. LSD didn’t make people black out. Maybe schizophrenia or some other mental disorder did.
Violet knew, of course, that there was a chance she’d hallucinated Rose. Her sister could have been a trick of the light, a trick of Violet’s drugged or possibly diseased mind. Even before morning glory seeds, Violet had been ill-fed and ill-rested. The thinner she got, the more sitting or lying down hurt, so she’d been spending most nights doing walking meditations, pacing around and around her room, trying to drum up some forgiveness for Rose. Sleep-deprived, Violet had been having basic distortions. Colors seemed brighter. She’d been feeling like she had less control over her angry thoughts, which just kept returning to the Hurst who got away.
In the final months before Rose fled the scene, Violet had watched her sister closely. She’d seen Rose say no to drugs, no to dating, no to saying no, and she’d thought, What if I pick the opposite for myself? Because what’s the point of being good when Rose ended up miserable all the same? Although the Hurst daughters had never been close, their mother had made life equally difficult for them. Violet believed that her sister left because it was the only solution to a long-standing problem. The problem was this: Josephine had made it very clear that no man, woman, or child should be more important to Rose than her family. That was why Rose rarely dated. That was why she was withdrawn. That was why Rose ran off with a mysterious stranger named Damien. Damien, like an Omen joke. Like the devil’s son.
But no one was going to swoop in and help Violet start her independent life. Every day, she had to plow through her controlling household like someone machete-whacking her way through a jungle that grew right back thicker and thornier every night. That was what she’d been thinking in the kitchen as she gesticulated with her mother’s chef’s knife.
The knife. Violet could remember lots about the knife. She could recall how brilliant the blade looked in her hallucinated gaze. She could remember the feel of it rocking back and forth against the cutting board. She even remembered how empowered she felt, aiming the tapered tip at Josephine. But she could not remember practicing her knife skills on Will. What in the hell had she done? Butterflied his palm like a chicken breast?