Sandy brown. Narrative. Amy.
She'd never been to Caspar's home, but she wasn't surprised at all by how the house looked. Modern, minimalist, somehow still opulent, and it reminded her of Marcus, and it reminded her of her father-in-law. It was nothing, nothing like houses her parents had favored, nothing like the huge old houses she'd grown up in. This felt cold, and this felt impersonal. But, most importantly, was that this house didn't feel alive at all, not even a little bit. She couldn't hear any whispers when she listened to the walls. There weren't secrets coaxing her come and round corners. This house didn't want her to stay, and she was grateful of the hush and still.
She was also grateful that everyone had agreed to put the clocks together. She was grateful as she walked in, dressed in a manner that wasn't really suited to the house, and it was nothing like the wardrobe Marcus had insisted she wear when he was alive, when she was his wife, before and before and before. But she was grateful, and she was grateful for the waffle, which she dipped in syrup and picked up with her fingers.
She hugged her brother, and she hugged Caspar, and she kissed cheeks and smiled warmly at Dietre.
But then it was time. Time, and time, and clocks, and she almost laughed, all nerves bubbling up. She was nervous, but she was excited, too, and she rocked from heel to toes as the pieces were put together.
Woosh.
Her wedding day, and she was in the bride's room, and she was waiting. A wedding dress was draped over a corner mannequin, the lace cream and vintage and romantic looking. The window was right there, but she was sitting at the dressing table, a soft robe on her shoulders, and Molly doing her makeup. She was nervous, and she looked it. Nervous, but excited, and nervous, and she wasn't in love, but she was still hopeful. Marcus was charming and kind, and Marcus was mature and steady, and she wanted all of those things. She wanted stable, and she wanted no more therapists and no more psychiatrists. She wanted to be able to help Molly and Dad pay for Si's rehab, and she wanted a family. A family that was still together, and where everything wasn't a mess, and she sat at the dressing table, and Molly did her makeup.
Molly. Alive and smiling and distracted too, and she said she'd be back in a second, and she stood, and she left the room.
And Amy sat there, looking at herself in the mirror. She didn't think to follow Molly, to ask where she was going, to ask why or if something was wrong.
Just over her shoulder, visible through the window, a taxi was pulling up. A taxi, and Molly hurried out in a coat, and she stopped Si as soon as he stepped out. Dark circles beneath his eyes, the taxi idling, and Molly making the taxi wait to take him away again. And onlookers could see the interaction, but Amy didn't see it. She stared ahead, at her own face in the mirror. And in her belly, in her belly, she knew something was wrong, and she even knew what it was, but she hadn't moved then. She hadn't moved when this happened, and however much she wanted to walk to the window, she couldn't now. She couldn't move, but she wanted to. She could hear Molly's voice, maybe, outside the window, the one that was right there, and she knew. She knew why Si never made it to her wedding. She hadn't known then... now... then.
She sat there, looking at the reflection in the mirror. She wanted to scream, to tell that girl not to do it, not to marry the man waiting just beyond the doors.
But you couldn't change the past, and no one knew that better than her.