The Memory of Us: A Novel by Camille Di Maio

now four years closed. Its gray slate roof towered five stories above me, and its windows were darkened from disuse. I felt a pang of empathy with the old landmark. Its exterior preserved a stately deportment, while I could only imagine the secrets that the now-vacant rooms must hold.
    There were appearances that had needed to be sustained for the remainder of the summer, but I, too, was empty inside. Kyle’s admission had haunted my soul ever since he had spoken it. I couldn’t risk falling for you any more than I already have.
    We left the barn moments after that, the nighttime world around us gleaming in the renewed light of the moon now that the storm had swept past. We walked the rest of the way to my home in silence, with Kyle following me at a distance that deterred temptation. He spoke only when we’d reached the gate to the redbrick manor. “I’ll stay to see that you get in safely. Look after that knee.” After just a few steps I glanced back, but the shadows of the trees at the gate cast him into darkness, and I could no longer see him.
    For days, I didn’t come out of my room, telling everyone that I was ill. It was easy for them to believe. I’d come home, dripping, chilled from the rain. Mother had Betty make some chicken broth, and she also sent up tea with lemons. It was a common remedy for her complaints. Although she added bourbon to hers surreptitiously.
    Little did she know that there was not a cure-all for my kind of ailment.
    Father came to my room to check on me several times, but I feigned sleep. To add to my heartache, I was sorry that I’d been unfair in my description of him to Kyle. We might have seen things differently, but we were close, and he was good to me.
    Do I or don’t I? That was the question I wrestled with, hour by hour, as I recalled the evening—our easy way of conversing, how liberated I’d felt with Kyle. My true self unveiled. Then I remembered those moments after he’d confessed his feelings, in which we had sat in silence, immobile, on the precipice of a scandalous decision. I felt shackled in my own body as I resisted my desire to lean in and kiss him, to show him what he would be missing. It wasn’t too late, I told myself. Surely, there were hidden places on the grounds of Bootle Home where I could call him over and convince him to choose me.
    Yet, if I truly cared about him, I couldn’t be so selfish.
    In the event I weakened, I could count on Lucille to keep me in line. She’d been eyeing me in an odd manner ever since the auction. Something was certainly awry, and knowing me as she did, she had probably figured it out.
    And her inevitable, concerned admonishment would have been correct. What was the punishment for stealing from God? I didn’t want to find out.
    So, whether my motivations were altruistic or merely the fear of divine wrath, only one answer was possible. I had to let him go.
    It wasn’t so easy. Now that it had been in my grasp, I saw love all around me. Couples hand in hand in the park. Couples dining out together. Couples at the cinema, sharing popcorn. They were everywhere, and I just hadn’t noticed before. Their happiness mocked my resolve, and I responded by avoiding Kyle at all costs.
    I chose to visit Charles on weekdays, when I knew Kyle would be in Liverpool. Yet, as the days on the calendar dwindled and my departure for London grew imminent, I allowed myself one final Saturday visit. I couldn’t bear to leave without seeing him one more time. But I wasn’t going to let him see me. I took Father’s Kodak from the closet in his library and hid it in the zippered compartment of my handbag.
    “Yes, yes, Charles,” I said and shooed his hand away as he tugged my sleeve. He murmured something that must have been an invitation to see his plants. I was immediately consumed by guilt. My brother was a victim of my distraction, and I promised myself to make it up to him by staying a little longer. Still, I couldn’t focus on him. I