I close the journal and push it away from me, that sick feeling that lodged itself in my gut earlier tonight crawling around in the back of my throat.

Was it fate?

Did he do it because he was always going to do it, because it was his choice, or because he saw that it would happen? Is it fate that dictates what will happen to us, or do we? And if we do, does that mean whatever will happen will still happen as a result of us, of our choices and actions, or is there a possibility to change the outcome once you know it? Does observation allow us to change reality? Or is there nothing at all that we can do to change what will someday occur?

All of this is to say: should I kill my nephew?

PART FOUR

THE KING OF CUPS

14

Home, again. Elizabeth is back and resting. The color has returned to her face, and she is happily barking orders at me to fetch her a glass of water or a fresh pillow, so it seems she is doing just fine. Mother has been fussing over her more than usual, with checklists for when the baby comes and instructions for how to clothe, how to change, how to feed. She puts a hand against her belly and stares into her face. “You’re feeling all right?” she says, her voice hard, only half a question. And then, “Sing to him. He can hear you.”

Elizabeth eyes her suspiciously, leaning back to distribute her weight, hands planted against her hips. She frowns as if trying to think of a song.

Mother leans down, her face close to the bulb of Elizabeth’s belly button protruding against her lilac maternity shirt, and softly sings, “Oh my darling … oh my darling …”

I have to turn away.

A sour note lingers at the back of her desperate song.

Maybe she thinks if we get everything right, he will be fine. If we only love him, and care for him, he will be a normal boy. Maybe she thinks this is her second chance.

But all the love in the world won’t save a boy without a soul.

When I went through the pictures from Nathaniel’s camera, I found the one I had snapped from the laundry room closet. Where Julian should have been, right in front, flash lit, there was only the empty room. I don’t know why I thought he might appear in the photograph, why I thought I could make him tangible. It wouldn’t have proven anything to Elizabeth.

All moves apace for a day or two, with little interruption from the house. The world has renewed its regular rhythms, and I find myself floating through them like a leaf in a stream, pulled along by the current of time with glimpses here and there of passing moments like fish darting by.

I try not to think of my father, or Jonah, or Julian. I have reached a point where if I think of these things, my heart will begin sinking like a stone and anchor me in the bottommost depths of the river, stuck in one dark place while I watch time flow past above me, unable to partake of its cool movements.