The rust and bronze of autumn paled to white and frost, and Edith's baby grew, and Anthony stayed. They talked about her art and her sisters, especially Sybil and how much Edith missed her and ached to tell her things. They talked about their respective parents and found that feeling unwanted was something they had in common. Mostly they co-existed, roaming around the grounds or the library or the little town near Martha's estate, doing errands. Sometimes they fought. That they were talking at all was a victory. Still, Edith operated in two parts—the one that loved Anthony and wanted the life that should have been, and the one that knew that life was gone forever and ached for the loss.
"Did you ever read 'A Sound of Thunder'?" Edith asked one day as she and Anthony had tea at a roastery near Martha's house. It was a typical coffeehouse, independently run but still warm and rich with the smell of espresso and steamed milk and pastries. Local artists' work hung haphazardly on all the walls, simple watercolors and charcoal birds and indulgent fruit bowls. Edith and Anthony had taken a walk, the streets wet and black against the white of the snow-dusted sidewalks. Then, to warm up, they ducked in for a cuppa.
Anthony frowned. "It sounds familiar."
"Ray Bradbury. I don't normally like science fiction, but I like Ray Bradbury."
"Oh yes, the butterfly effect, right?"
Edith nodded, poking at her little toaster-oven quiche. There were a few people around the coffee shop—a young woman with headphones typing furiously away, two women in yoga clothes sipping tea and talking animatedly about their husbands. Edith felt desperately isolated from other people all at once.
"I don't remember the details," Anthony admitted.
"A man goes back in time and steps on a butterfly inadvertently. When he returns to the future everything is the same but different. Altered somehow. The detail that sticks out to me is how the air smelleddifferent, ionized or something, and his whole body sensed the newness. And he picks up the dead butterfly and begs no one in particular to go back, to go back and un-ruin everything."
Anthony caught on quickly. "Nothing can be undone. I've tortured myself with that wish for long enough. Don't get me wrong, I want, I want, to go back and do so many things differently. But we can't."
"I know that," Edith snapped. She hated feeling patronized. She was not naïve to many things now. She didn't need to be told how wrong it all was. She looked up, seeing Anthony's calm and patient expression. This new version of Anthony was infuriatingly self-assured. A flash of anger swelled in her chest and she wanted so badly to throw her hot tea in his face, to slap him hard. She clenched her fist instead and said, "I hate you sometimes."
"I know you do."
"And I hate myself too, for letting all this happen."
"Edith, maybe we should just acknowledge that it happened. I pushed, you left, I—"
"Don't say it," Edith interrupted, unable to hear the words again.
"Maybe it's not all doom and gloom, love," Anthony whispered, leaning closer.
"I have so much resentment, and bitterness," Edith confessed. "I don't see how it can get better. I don't know how to move on. Every time I start to think it'll be possible, I picture…" She trailed off, unable to voice the images that plagued her.
Edith would have expected Anthony to sigh in frustration, to tell her to move on, that it didn't matter. But he didn't.
"I'm an alcoholic," he began. "I didn't know that before, but I am. You brought out the very best in me, Edith, but I'm still an alcoholic. And nothing would have changed that except you leaving. And you never would have left if I hadn't made such a monumentally bad choice that night."
"I was coming back to beg your forgiveness, to say we should elope and be done with the whole thing," Edith admitted.
"Imagine how disastrous that would have been, Eed. You'd be tied to an old drunk. I would have no idea how much I love you."
"What?"
"I had to lose you to earn you, Eed. I loved you then, I love you now. I will always love you. But I hadn't earned you."
Edith grunted noncommittally, chewing that one over.
"I don't know if I love you anymore," she finally muttered, tears burning her eyes to admit it. "Not the same way."
"How could you? You don't know me anymore. I'm different. We're different. It's okay."
Anthony wiped at Edith's cheeks when her tears began to fall.
"It's a loss, Eed, but it's a chance too, you know? We can begin again, honest and free and, and real this time."
"I was always honest with you," she protested.
"Were you? What do you want? A life in that house as the little wife? Would that have been enough for you?" He took a breath. "What do you want, Edith?"
Edith shrugged. They were quiet for a while, her head hung low, hands at her belly. How did a child get mixed up in all this? An overwhelming rush of guilt, a common occurrence throughout her pregnancy, washed over her. This poor baby had nothing to do with anything and here it was to no fault of its own, a child of unwed parents at odds with each other and living an ocean apart.
Edith flinched when Anthony suddenly took her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
Edith scoffed at his cliché gesture, though inwardly she appreciated it. Then she sighed. "It's too much to start over. It's too much," she argued.
"No, no it's not," Anthony said, smiling softly. He didn't let go of her hand until their tea had gone cold and it was time to go home.
That night Edith was curled up in one of the overstuffed reading chairs in her grandmother's den, staring at the Sunday crossword. She had been there for ages and hadn't written down a single letter.
"Anthony gone?" Martha asked, startling Edith. She shuffled into the room wearing her pink satin robe and matching slippers looking every bit the matriarch.
"Hmm? Yes. A while ago, I think. What time is it?"
"Late," Martha sighed, dropping onto the sofa across from her granddaughter.
"What has you up?" Edith asked, tossing her paper on the side table in resignation.
"Well it's not from worrying over you," Martha said. "I have enough going on without wondering about my very pregnant granddaughter and her broken heart."
Edith smiled and looked down at her belly. "You really don't need to worry."
"I just said, I'm not up worrying about you."
"Good."
"So," Martha hedged, curling a manicured finger over her chin. "How are you feeling?"
"Full," Edith laughed. "There's no room in me. How much bigger will this baby get?"
"Big enough. Are you scared?"
"Oh no. Labor's unavoidable, but it's finite. I'm not scared of the pain or anything."
"I didn't mean about labor."
Edith shifted in her seat, pulling her feet from beneath her and putting them back on the ground so she could lean forward. She dropped her face into her hands. "I'm tired," she finally admitted. "It's hard enough sleeping these days, never mind that I can't turn my mind off." A pause and she added, "I'm so exhausted from hating him."
"So don't."
Edith scoffed. "Every time I think we can move on I picture him with her, and I just… I can't shake it." She looked up for an eyeroll or a scowl on her grandmother's face but found only quiet sympathy.
"I bet Anthony has the same problem."
"You think he keeps picturing them together?" Edith asked, horrified at the thought.
"No my dear, I think he keeps going back to that day and replaying it over and over and wishing to god he could undo every disastrous moment. From the first drink he had to the realization you had left, to the next twenty drinks, and… what have you," Martha said.
"He can't undo it and neither can I."
"Nope."
"So how do we move on?" Edith asked with a growl, slouching back in the chair. "I'm so, so sick of this conversation! I have it on a loop in my brain, on repeat, it's constant. How? How do we possibly make this situation better?"
"I cheated on your grandfather," Martha said calmly. Edith was speechless, and picking up on the fact, Martha continued. "We were so happy; everything was good with our marriage. And I met a man at a party, a friend of a friend, you know how those things go. He golfed with Granddad a few times. He was handsome and exciting, and he flirted. I was so flattered. Anyway, we met a few times in a few hotels."
"Why?" Edith croaked, trying not to judge her darling grandmother and failing completely.
"I genuinely don't know," Martha said, leaning forward. "Temptation? Wanting to be wanted? The thrill of a secret. Selfishness certainly. A certain sense of entitlement."
"Did Granddad find out?"
"I told him. He was still my husband and my best friend. I think he would have suspected, but I told him. I didn't want the burden of keeping that secret."
"That's—" Edith tried.
"Selfish," Martha finished. "I know. But Granddad forgave me, eventually."
Edith shuffled through her memories, her knowledge of Martha and Henry Levinson and how affectionate they were, how filled with laughter their home was. "He adored you. Until the day he died he worshiped you."
"I know," Martha said with a sad smile. "I adored him too. It wasn't easy, and I think Hank forgave me long before I forgave myself."
Edith sat in a stunned silence for a while, staring into the nearby fireplace and trying to reconcile this new information with the woman she admired her whole life.
"Edie, my dear, humans are dumb animals. We fumble and make mistakes, and they seem so irreparable in the moment. But time moves in one direction only. Your granddad and I decided that we couldn't let one bad decision, one monumental weakness, define who we were or ruin our lives. I'm not saying it was easy, and there were moments when it felt like that affair would always be between us. But, sort of like a splinter, it eventually worked its way out of our skin, and then it was like it was never there."
"I'm not as strong as you," Edith said, running a hand through her hair. "And neither is Anthony."
"Not apart, maybe. No. But Edie, you and Anthony are both good humans. He isn't selfish, or entitled, or needy—none of the things I was back then. He was wounded, deeply, and at your hand." Holding up a hand to stop Edith's protests Martha said, "I'm not saying it's your fault. I'm saying that sometimes things just go tits-up in the worst possible way. And I think that you've punished yourself and Anthony long enough."
"You act like I want to feel like this," Edith said defensively. "Like I'm making a choice."
Martha sighed deeply and patiently. She reached over and took Edith's hands, patting them and rubbing soothing circles on her palms. Edith relished this maternal affection, which was so at odds with everything Edith was feeling.
"I think, Edith, that there is no shame in still loving Anthony. There is no weakness in admitting you bothmade mistakes. That you know exactlywhy you bolted that day, and why Anthony did what he did, and that you're scared it could happen again. But baby," Martha sighed and wiped Edith's tears. "You can choose to just forgive him and be with him, and I think that scares you worst of all. And I'd hate to see you miss out on a lifetime of happiness because of one bad day."
"Gramma," Edith muttered, searching for the words.
"Don't make life so hard for yourself, baby girl."
The tension and grief coiled in Edith unfurled then and poured out of her with force. She was just as culpable as Anthony, and acknowledging the fact meant that she would have to forgive them both, and thatmeant moving forward and risking her heart all over again.
It was a long time before Edith stopped crying. She awoke in the early morning hours with her head on Martha's lap, her grandmother snoring softly, propped against the corner of the sofa. Edith's eyes felt puffy and dry, but her chest felt worlds lighter. She slipped a blanket over Martha before throwing on a wool coat and slippers over her leggings and flannel shirt and heading out the door.