“Grandma chose this color,” marveled Brooke. “Imagine actually choosing it.”
She stretched her legs either side of her in a V-shape and dropped her forehead to the horrible carpet.
“Ouch.” Amy shuddered. “Don’t do that.”
“You three all need to stretch more,” said Brooke without lifting her head. “Hey, did I tell you I’ve joined a basketball team?”
“Seriously?” said Logan from his perch.
“Thought I’d try a new sport,” said Brooke into the carpet.
Amy and her brothers all exchanged glances. There was no other sport besides tennis.
“I always wondered how I’d go in a team sport,” said Troy. “Tennis is lonely.”
“Because you’re such a team player,” said Logan.
“I’m good at basketball,” said Brooke.
“Of course you are,” said Amy.
There was an ominous clatter and crash from the kitchen.
“Do you think we should try again to help Mum?” Brooke stretched even lower, her voice muffled by the carpet. “I’m pretty hungry.”
“Yes, I’m actually feeling quite faint.” Troy put the back of his hand to his forehead.
“She yelled at me last time I went into the kitchen.” Logan hopped down from the ladder. “Do you think she’d notice if we ordered a pizza?”
“I opened the oven to check the turkey and she smacked me across the back.” Brooke sat back up, her face flushed. “She literally smacked me.” She pointed at Troy. “You’ve got glitter on your face.”
“Leave it. It looks nice,” said Amy.
“What’s Dad doing?” interrupted Brooke.
“He’s in his office,” answered Amy. “Watching reruns of Harry’s matches.” She’d stood at the door and watched him, his head bent, his massive shoulders hunched, murmuring to himself as he took notes for God knew what purpose.
“Obviously thrilled to spend Christmas with his beloved family,” said Troy.
“It’s because of Harry’s comeback. He’s obsessed,” said Amy.
“This seems to be a new level of obsession,” said Logan. “Now he knows what Mum did.”
“Yep. He’ll never forgive her for taking away his golden boy,” said Troy lightly. He refilled his champagne glass and held up the flute to the light.
“They aren’t talking,” said Brooke. “They’re not even looking at each other.”
“It’s upsetting,” said Amy, and she thought she spoke idly, the way anyone would speak if their parents weren’t talking on Christmas Day, but she saw her siblings straighten and tense. Looks were exchanged. Unspoken warnings shared. This was the way it had been ever since the year of suicidal thoughts. She’d been fourteen. Everybody had suicidal thoughts at fourteen. Unfortunately Amy had written long heartfelt goodbye letters to each member of her family, which had been discovered, roundly mocked, and never, ever forgotten. Brooke said she still had hers “on file,” which was mortifying. (Amy had misspelled the word melancholy.) Such was the paradoxical nature of sibling relationships: they could tease her for the sappiness and spelling of her suicide notes while being terrified she’d write new ones.
“You mustn’t get worked up about it,” said Brooke carefully, as though Amy were teetering on the edge of a bridge.
“I’m not suicidal, it’s just upsetting!” snapped Amy.
Brooke held up her hands. “Got it.”
“I’m not ten! If they get a divorce, they get a divorce!” She could hardly bear to think of it. Her parents living in different homes, trying out new hairstyles and hobbies, new relationships? In truth she felt exactly the same way she would have felt if they’d divorced when she was ten.
“Surely they’re too old to divorce,” said Brooke. “What would be the point?”