“I guess I knew he was an anxious kind of kid, Gillian. Maybe a little more anxious than most. But I didn’t want to think anything was wrong.” She pauses. “He’s great at school, you know—focused, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t make trouble. I was just relieved, Gillian, that he didn’t seem to have any of the stuff going on that I did.”

That makes sense, I think.

“At least it’s on the table now,” I say. “At least you can talk to him about it.” I hesitate, then say the thing that’s been on my mind. “But don’t you think you should tell him, though, Abigail? About Lorna?”

She looks at me.

“Seriously, Gillian? After how triggering Dad’s death was?” She sighs. “I’ve got a specialist lined up for when we go back to Westchester. We’re going to deal with this—this OCD thing or whatever it is—one day at a time.”

I chew my lip.

“I know what you mean but…it might be better telling him now rather than later.”

She looks at me.

“I know you want the best for him, Gillian. So do I. So can you please leave this to me?”

I hold my tongue. She’s right. It’s not my place.

“How’s Oliver?” she pivots.

I hesitate, glancing back down the corridor to our room.

“Fine.”

“It’s nice that he came.”

“Yeah.” I pause, the mention of one husband making us both think of the other.

“So…Dennis is arriving in the morning?”

Abigail looks away.

“I don’t think I can have that kind of talk with him before we all get in that car tomorrow.”

Abigail’s car is already down here of course, so I guess they have to drive it home. But that’s going to be a hell of a ride back.

She swallows. “We’ll just…we’ll do the drive up to Westchester, and then once we’re back home I’ll—we’ll talk it through.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Ending the marriage,” she clarifies. “I’m going to do it, Gillian. I am.”

I hope I believe her.

“You deserve better, Abigail. You deserve so much better.”

She sighs.

“Life is short, right?” she says, and I know we’re both thinking of Lorna. “The time we have is precious.”

*

Back in our room Oliver’s sitting up in bed doing something on his phone.

“Been pouring oil on troubled waters?” he says. I fill him in on Mom and Abigail, and on Dennis and just how bad things have gotten there.

“Wow,” he says. “And you always thought he was such a hot-shot.”

I flush.

“No I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says. “You really did.”

“I’m sorry.” I kiss his cheek. “You’re a good guy, Oliver McCrae.”

Something flickers across his face again for a moment, then disappears.