The Last of August

Fruitcake? No wonder the Moriartys were all so miserable, if that was their idea of Christmas.

In fairy tales, the forest swallows you up like a dinner. Your parents wrap you in a cloak and set you loose in the dark. Everything happens in threes, and only the oldest child survives. As a younger sister, I particularly resented that last implication.

Our Aunt Araminta had decided we needed “culturing.” I think she may have mistaken us for bacteria.

I’ve shed so many skins, I hardly know what I am now—muscle, maybe, or just memory. Perhaps just the will to keep going.

“Really?” I asked, bemused. “He’s helpful?” My father was excitable, irresponsible, a little touched in the head. I had some trouble imagining him as an analytical genius.

That was it. I was going to pass a law against people making deductions before lunch.

At two, I got up and shut the curtains. At three thirty, I opened them again. The moon hung in the sky like a lantern, so bright that I pulled the pillow over my head. I slept, then, and dreamt that I was awake, still staring out across the Sussex countryside.

I wasn’t built for these sorts of deep-sea conversations, all murky ocean floor.

I tended to spend too much time with my favorite things, loved them too hard until I wore them down. After a while, they became more like a shorthand for who I was and less like things I actually enjoyed