NINETEEN

JULIA

Cooking has never been one of Julia’s strong suits. Marshall confirmed that many times over, but over the course of their married life, she tried very hard to improve, first consulting cooking websites and blogs, then moving on to YouTube videos, and finally learning through TikTok. Unfortunately, despite all the hard work, Julia still never quite got the hang of it. At best, her food is passable, but it can never be accused of being anything that might cause cravings, unless the craving is for the meal to be over. Yet another thing marking her down as an incompetent housewife and human in general.

But one thing she does excel at is charcuterie boards. Well, she used to call them cheeseboards, up until the term “charcuterie board” took over the Internet. Her charcuterie boards absolutely slay. It’s too bad that Marshall never liked cheese or cured meats or any of her boards, even the dessert ones; otherwise it would have been charcuterie boards every day.

It feels weird having thoughts like these when Marshall is dead. They seem so petty, to be remembering him this way. Shouldn’t she be mourning him more? This morning, she received a call from the medical examiner telling her that the examination is over and that she can now make funeral arrangements. In a daze, she’d opted to have him cremated because that was the cheaper option, and no service because—well, she just wasn’t sure if anyone would turn up. It had made her feel like the world’s worst wife. But now she’s trying to focus on anything but that. Focus on the charcuterie board, she tells herself.

She’s having a good time making one with Emma, which feels wrong; she probably shouldn’t be having fun putting together a charcuterie board so soon after Marshall’s death. But Emma is having a great time smearing her little fingers with fig jam and then licking them off and then dipping the fingers back into the jam pot, and Julia is telling her off but also laughing, and maybe everything will be okay? There is no way that their savings can last beyond next month’s mortgage payment, so Julia has no idea what she’s going to do then, but for now, she’s making a charcuterie board with her daughter and she doesn’t have to worry about Marshall telling her that it’s shit. Things could be worse.

Emma’s just fussing over the charcuterie board, putting grapes down here and there with fierce concentration, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth, when the doorbell goes off.

“That’ll be Uncle Ollie,” Julia says, and for a second, Emma looks scared. “Are you gonna be okay?” It’s strange, asking Emma this, when in the past, they didn’t have a choice but to be okay with any visitors, because Marshall thought asking Emma stuff like this is “pandering” to her and encouraging her to be difficult.

Emma looks at her, then down at the charcuterie board, which admittedly isn’t one of Julia’s best because a lot of the deli meats and cheese have splodges of little jam fingerprints on them. “Will Uncle Ollie like this?”

Julia doesn’t even think twice before saying, “Of course.” Only after she says those words does it hit her how true they are, because Ollie has always liked what she liked.

Emma nods solemnly. “Then Emma is okay.” Her little jam-smeared face looks so brave that Julia crouches down and gives her a tight hug. How did she end up with such a special girl?

Emma chooses to stay in the living room while Julia opens the door; she’s still not a fan of greeting people at the door.

“Hey,” Oliver says with a smile and hands her a paper bag. “I got you some cookies. They’re whole-grain?”

Julia laughs at the uncertainty in his voice. “You didn’t have to. Come on in.”

They walk inside the house and find Emma hiding behind the sofa. Anxiety churns in Julia’s belly. This is one of the many things Emma does that irritated Marshall to no end. It’s so embarrassing , he’d say. Can’t she just be fucking normal? Other kids her age are always running up to people and saying hi, but she’s gotta hide like some creepy kid. You’re just enabling her, Jules.

“Hey, you wanna come out of there and say hi to Uncle Ollie?” Julia can hear the tiny note of embarrassment in her voice, and she hates it, hates herself for it. The top of Emma’s head shakes to and fro, and Julia gives Oliver an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, she’s...” She doesn’t know what to say. She’s shy? Yes, but apparently you shouldn’t say such things in front of the child, lest it become their identity.

“No worries, I totally relate.” Oliver lowers his voice. “I wish I could hide behind furniture when people come over too.”

Julia laughs. “Take a seat, Emma and I made you something.” Oliver sits down on the sofa, pointedly ignoring the set of eyes peering at him from the other end, and Julia hurries to the kitchen. When she comes back with the charcuterie board, Oliver’s eyes actually light up.

“Oh wow, this looks fancy,” he says. Then he spots the little jam fingerprints on the deli meats and his smile wavers a little.

“Emma helped make the board,” Julia says, again with that note of apology in her voice.

Oliver laughs. “Awesome job, Emma.” And with that, he picks up one of the smudged pieces of meat and pops it in his mouth. “Yum. Oh, sorry, I don’t think I’m supposed to just eat the deli meat on its own, am I? I’m a beginner at this. Can anyone tell me how to put everything together?” He raises his eyebrows at Julia and the two of them hold their breaths, waiting for a response. “Okay, I guess I’m just gonna fumble through somehow.”

There’s a dramatic sigh from behind the sofa, and Emma’s head pops up. “No,” she announces in her somber voice. “You’ll ruin it.” She marches out from her hiding spot and leans over the board, inspecting it solemnly before pointing at a cracker. “Take that.”

“Okay.” Oliver does so, then follows her further instructions, spreading fig jam on the cracker before placing a slice of brie on it and layering that with some turkey. He pops the whole thing in his mouth and goes, “Mm.” After swallowing, he says, “Wow, that was the perfect bite. Thanks, Emma.”

Emma nods and proceeds to put together a perfect bite for herself, except she doesn’t bother using any tools, choosing to smear the jam on with her fingers.

“I made sure to wash her hands before you arrived,” Julia whispers.

Oliver smiles, then clears his throat. “Uh, so I went to... the apartment.”

Julia stiffens. Right, of course, this is the main reason Oliver’s here. He’s not here for a chat; it’s not a casual, friendly visit. He’s here to update her on what shady thing Marshall was involved in when he was alive. She feels panic begin to rise, churning hot and acidic in her belly, burning its way up to her chest, constricting it. He shouldn’t talk to her about this now, in front of Emma.

Maybe Oliver reads the quiet panic in Julia’s face, because he glances at Emma before nodding. “Don’t worry, there wasn’t anything... bad.”

“Really?” It’s less a question, more a plea.

“Yeah.” Oliver’s eyes soften. He’s noticed the desperation in her voice. “Really. It was strange, actually, because it was just filled with a lot of artwork. There were sculptures, paintings, photographs... and it seemed like a totally random collection. I couldn’t find any connection throughout all of them. Although, mind you, I’m not exactly an art connoisseur, so even if there had been a cohesive thread between all of them, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Artwork?” What the hell? It’s so far off from what Julia had been expecting—clear signs of adultery—that she has no idea how to react, or even how to think. Her late husband was never particularly artistic that she knows of. But maybe that goes to show just how little she ever knew about him. Maybe that proves that Marshall was right when he told her that she’s dumb, that she’s ignorant, that it’s a waste of time telling her anything, and that’s why everyone is so sick of her. “Was he— I mean, you were brothers—” she says haltingly. “Was he into art?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Nope, never was. I mean, I wasn’t particularly artistic myself, but I’d say I was more into creative endeavors than he ever was. Don’t, like...” Oliver takes a deep breath. “Don’t beat yourself up over not knowing this about him, because I—well, my dad and I—are as confused as you are.”

The burning shame, that familiar feeling that’s accompanied her for years and years, recedes, just a little. It’s not just her that Marshall has hidden his interest in art from. It’s his own twin brother, and his father, which means she’s in good company. She can just about deal with that.

“All that stuff’s in my car, by the way. I don’t really know what to do with them. There’s not much space in my apartment, so...”

“I’ll take them.” She has no idea what she’s going to do with them, but it’s not like she can trash all this stuff her late husband obviously cared about. She swings Emma up onto one hip and together, she and Oliver make their way out to his car. When Oliver opens the trunk and shows her the stash, Julia is even more taken aback. The artwork is, as Oliver said, eclectic, but more than that, it looks like serious art. She feels guilty once more, because what kind of wife would underestimate her husband like that? Why wouldn’t Marshall have been into actual good art? Didn’t he say that night he left that he’d made it rich? It’s probably because he had an eye for high art, a talent he’d kept hidden from her, and for good reason. She’s quiet as she helps Oliver take the pieces into the house, deep in her thoughts, Emma heavy on her hip.

The pieces of artwork are placed just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall. They look obscene inside her house, so wrong and so out of place. Then Julia spots the photographs, and they give her pause because they’re so achingly beautiful. They’re all landscape photography, mostly of waterfalls, very different from what Julia was interested in back in high school, but she retains enough knowledge of photography to know that she’s looking at the work of a competent photographer. She admires the way they captured the light and how vivid some unexpected parts of the scenery have been manipulated to look. Julia’s throat closes and she puts down the prints with reverence before turning away with a slight sniffle.

It’s at this time that Emma decides she’s had enough excitement and starts fussing, burying her face in Julia’s chest and going, “Boop.”

Julia wants to die with embarrassment. God, what’s Oliver going to think?

Oliver glances down at Emma as he wipes the sheen off his forehead. “Do you guys want me to go? It’s no problem.”

“No, stay.” There’s no reason for him to stay here, Julia reminds herself, but the thing is, she hasn’t even begun to process this strange new discovery about Marshall, and there’s no one else she’d rather talk about it with than Oliver. “I just—I just need to nurse her for a bit.” She hates how pathetic she sounds, how sorry. Marshall was so disgusted by the breastfeeding the longer it went on.

But Oliver doesn’t bat an eye. “Oh, sure. Yeah, of course.”

As Julia heads toward her bedroom, Oliver calls out, “Hey, this is gonna sound weird, but do you mind if I check out Emma’s room for a bit?”

It’s so far from what Julia expects that she laughs a little. “Sure, knock yourself out.”

The whole time Julia nurses Emma, she wonders what in the world Oliver could want in Emma’s room. How utterly strange this day has been, and yet it’s not completely awful. She strokes Emma’s soft head of hair. When they’re done, she swings Emma up onto her hip again and walks out of the room quietly. Julia’s used to moving quietly because noise bothered Marshall. She startles when Oliver pops out of Emma’s room.

“There you are,” he says. “All done?”

Julia nods, unsure what to say, and Oliver clears his throat and looks at Emma. “So I got a few things for you that I really, really wanted when I was a kid. Do you wanna take a look?”

Emma hides her face in Julia’s armpit, and Julia shrugs. “It’s not a no.” She makes her way into the room and gasps.

Somehow, in the space of twenty minutes, Oliver has managed to put up a small white tent in a corner of Emma’s room. Above the tent is a colorful sign that says: EMMA’S QUIET CORNER . Inside the tent, Julia spots mounds of pastel-colored cushions and a couple of soft toys. The entire corner looks magical.

Oliver hands Julia a board book. “This is a sensory book. It’s got all sorts of different materials in it that she can play with.” He nods at Emma. “When I was a little boy, I was always really scared of unfamiliar things. Strangers, or situations, it didn’t matter, I was scared of them, and I always wished that I could have my own little corner to hide in whenever it got too much for me. So I thought maybe you’d like this.”

Emma is staring at the tent with mouth and eyes wide open, wonderment written all over her face. “Mine?” she croaks.

“Yes, baby.” Julia is surprised to find that her voice is wavering. She lets Emma down gently and tears rush into her eyes when the little girl toddles over into the tent and cries out, “ Wow! ” It’s the exact sort of thing that Marshall would’ve hated, because he didn’t want to “pander” and “make her soft.” But it’s also the exact thing Julia knew, deep down inside, that her daughter needed. And yet it had taken Oliver, someone who’s only met Emma the one time, to provide it. “Thank you,” she whispers to Oliver, who smiles back. They gaze at Emma’s chubby feet sticking out of the tent flap.

The bell rings then. “Oh, I forgot to let you know,” Julia says, “Sana asked if she could come over to ask more questions for her podcast.”

They go to the front door, leaving Emma in her bedroom, chattering happily to herself. Julia only agreed to being interviewed because she thought it would look suspicious if she said no, but now, after seeing Emma so happy, Julia is in such high spirits that she doesn’t mind having to answer questions about her late husband. The feeling lasts up until Sana steps inside and sees all the artwork in the hallway. Sana’s face tightens with what Julia swears is not just anger, but white-hot fury, and it is then that Julia realizes that maybe she’s not the only person hiding some dark secrets about Marshall.