The Whispers by Lisa Unger

Eloise Montgomery had always believed that on the day that the worst thing happened, she would know . She had thought that there would be a chill in the air, a nagging unrest, some kind of shadow over her consciousness. It wouldn’t be anything she would notice, necessarily. It wouldn’t stop her in her tracks. There would be no whispering voice to tell her that her husband Alfie should not get on that plane (which would then crash) or not allow one of her girls to go to the mall (where a crazed gunman was lurking)—nothing like that. It would only be afterwards that she would say to herself: I knew . I woke up that morning and glimpsed the wraith lingering on the edge of my life. But, no—it wasn’t like that at all.
    If anything, the day was hypernormal. It was raining. That was the first thing of which she was aware. And she’d overslept a bit. Usually, she was so attuned to the light streaming in through the sheers that she always awoke just before six, wide awake the minute she opened her eyes. She’d get directly out of bed, while Alfie still snoozed, most deeply asleep just before he woke. He’d get up cranky, groggy, a bear until after he’d showered and had one strong cup of coffee. Not Eloise; she awoke at her best. Most days. But rain swelled her sinuses, so that day she woke up with a killer headache fifteen minutes later than usual. Not a lot, but just enough to put things “off.”
    Downstairs, Eloise put the coffeepot on seventeen minutes later than usual, and started the breakfast that no one would eat. Both of her girls were going through a phase where they insisted that they were “fat.” (It was one of her least favorite words in the English language because it was so loaded with self-loathing.) Neither of her daughters weighed much more than one hundred pounds, and now they were fat . This really made Eloise furious, because she had raised her girls to love themselves and respect their bodies. She had taken such care to teach them not to let the television and ridiculous fashion magazines present an ideal that they could never attain. They had talked about these things, God , over and over and over. And still, still, when her older daughter Emily finally managed to drag herself downstairs, she would nibble at her toast and move her eggs around. And Amanda would force herself to eat a little because she knew Eloise was watching. Because Amanda was the pleaser, while Emily couldn’t care less.
    If there were teams in their family—and of course there weren’t because they were not that kind of family—but if there were, it would be Emily and Alfie against Eloise and Amanda. There was chemistry between parents and their children; no one with kids could deny that. Emily and Alfie were united by their powerful intellects, their strong wills, their pragmatism. Amanda and Eloise were kindred in a different way. From the minute Eloise had looked into that child’s eyes, moments after Amanda was born, Eloise knew she’d found her soul-mate. And so it was.
    It was not a question of loving one girl more than the other, no, never that. Eloise would happily lay herself down for either of them. It was just a matter of which of them was easier to be around. She and Amanda meshed, understood each other without speaking, shared an interest in the quieter things like reading and knitting. They were generally more passive, gentler than the other two. They rarely argued. Eloise and Emily, on the other hand, were more likely to clash. Eloise’s arguments with her older daughter often ended with Emily storming off, slamming a door. On the other hand, the two of them were as likely to bust out laughing in the middle of their rows.
    Emily pushed Eloise’s buttons (Her clothes! Her hair! Her friends!), and Eloise did the same for her. But even though Emily had a hotter temper, she was the more affectionate of Eloise’s two girls. Emily still sometimes even climbed into bed beside Eloise in the wee hours. I love