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“Sylvia!” I screamed. “What are you doing?”

She paused and turned to me. “We can’t leave him down there,” she said. “Papa. It’s cold and dark. We can’t leave him, Audrina. Just like we didn’t leave you.”

“No . . . oh, no, Sylvia. I was never dead. Papa is dead. Papa needs to stay there. He needs to stay near Momma.”

I reached for the shovel. She held on to it tightly.

“Please, Sylvia, leave Papa to rest in peace. You’re going to get pneumonia out here. He would be very angry at you.”

“Angry? Papa? At me?”

“Yes, very. And mad at me for letting you do this. He’s probably screaming at us now. Come on. Come back to the house. I need to get you into a warm bath. Come on,” I said, more forcefully, and I pulled the shovel out of her grip.

She stumbled, and I put my arm around her waist, threw the shovel down, and, holding the umbrella above both of us as best I could, led her out of the cemetery and quickly back to the house. It was raining even harder. It seemed to take longer to get home. A few times, she paused to turn back, but I over­powered her and warned her again that Papa would be angry.

When I finally got her inside, I helped her out of her soaked nightgown and used some towels from the powder room to dry her off. After I had taken off my coat and Papa’s boots, I led her up the stairs and to her bedroom, setting her on her bed while I ran her bath. Once she was submerged in the warm water, I washed her neck and shoulders and gave her hair a quick shampoo. She was quiet now, seeming very tired.

I stood up and took off my own damp nightgown. The tub was big enough for the two of us. We had taken baths together occasionally. I ran some more hot water. She opened her eyes when I got in and sat facing her.

“Audrina,” she said insistently, “you came out of your grave. Papa can come out of his, too.”

I closed my eyes. How would I ever get her to understand when half the time I didn’t understand myself? “Not tonight,” I said. That answer would have to do for now. “Not tonight.”

We sat soaking for nearly half an hour, and after we got out and dried ourselves off, we put on new nightgowns. I blow-dried her hair and mine, and then I crawled into bed beside her.

Which was where Arden found us both in the morning, sleeping, embracing each other, probably looking like two lovers to him.

“Hey,” he said when I opened my eyes. “When did you come in here? Are you going to do this every night? I’ll get a bigger bed, and the three of us can sleep together.”

Instinctively, I pulled away from Sylvia. “Stop it, Arden. This wasn’t funny. It was terrible.”

“What was?”

“What she did last night . . . and in the cold rain! It’s quite a story.”

“Yeah, well, I have quite a story to tell, too. I’m going to work. The stock market doesn’t pay attention to personal sorrow. I’ll call our attorney, and we’ll talk later.”

“That’s disrespectful, Arden. No one expects you to be in the office so soon, and you certainly should not call Mr. Johnson today.”

“Death is disrespectful,” he replied, and closed the door between us.

I heard him pound down the stairs, mumbling to himself.

I hoped that strangers would see his rage as a result of his sorrow and not his ambition, not that it would matter to the people our business relied on, apparently. Our wealthy clients probably believed they could buy off death itself.

The business had changed Arden, I thought. It was almost impossible now to recall the young man who was so devoted to his mother, an Olympic ice skater who had suffered from diabetes and lost her legs. So much had happened since, and so much had changed him. Papa must have realized it, and that must have been why he put that codicil in his will.

But how could I defy my husband and bring him to his senses, even if only to obey my father, who was dead and gone?

How could Papa expect me to step into his shoes and be as strong as he was?

What had he seen in me that I had yet to see in myself?

What had he seen looming on the horizon?

What could possibly be worse than the horrors fate already had chosen to rain down on Whitefern?

The Pain of Memory