Chapter 20: The Roof

The roof took four days.

Not because it was hard. Because none of them knew what they were doing. James read his book. Caspian made a list. Theo climbed the ladder first and immediately climbed back down.

"It's higher than it looks," he said.

"It's a roof," Caspian said. "It's supposed to be high."

"You go up."

Caspian went up.

He stood on the roof for a full minute without moving. Mathilde watched from the yard. His silhouette against the grey sky. His hands at his sides. He didn't look like a man who was afraid of heights. He looked like a man who was calculating something.

"It's not that bad," he called down.

"You're lying," Theo called back.

"I'm not lying. It's just—" He paused. "Higher than it looks."

They worked in shifts. One on the roof, one on the ladder, one on the ground handing up materials. Mathilde did the ground. She handed up shingles and nails and the occasional bottle of water. Gerald supervised from the porch.

The first day, they got one section done. It leaked worse than before.

The second day, they fixed the leak.

The third day, it rained. They sat inside and listened to the water hit the roof and didn't say anything.

The fourth day, they finished.

Mathilde stood in the yard and looked up. The roof was patched. Not pretty. Not professional. But patched. The new shingles didn't match the old ones. They were darker. They stood out.

"It looks terrible," Theo said.

"It looks fixed," James said.

"Same thing."

They went inside. Theo made soup—actual soup, from scratch, with vegetables and broth and something he called "seasoning" that turned out to be mostly pepper. They ate at the table. Five chairs. Four filled.

Caspian put the notebook on the table. Opened it. Crossed off Fix roof.

"One thing down," he said.

"Forty to go," Theo said.

"Thirty-nine."

"Whatever."

Mathilde looked at the list. Fix chimney. Fix steps. Fix back door. Fix fence. Fix plumbing. Fix wiring. Replace windows. Paint shutters. Clean gutters.

Then, at the bottom, in her handwriting:

Stay.

She hadn't crossed it out. Neither had Caspian.

The phone rang.

They all looked at it. The phone on the wall. Old. Black. Rotary dial. It had rung maybe three times since they'd moved in—once from Sylvie, once from Charlotte, once from the lawyer.

Caspian got up. Answered.

"Hello."

A pause. His face didn't change. But his hand did—the way it tightened around the receiver.

"Yes. This is he."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"When?"

Another pause.

"We'll be there."

He hung up. Stood there with his hand still on the phone.

"What is it?" James asked.

"That was the hospital. In Paris." Caspian turned. His face was still. Too still. "Julien had a heart attack last night. He's in intensive care."

Nobody spoke.

"He's asking for us," Caspian said.

Theo laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "He's asking for us? Now?"

"He's dying."

"So?"

"So I don't know." Caspian sat back down. He looked at the table. At the list. At Mathilde's word at the bottom. "I don't know what to do."

James closed his eyes. Opened them. "We don't have to go."

"He's our father."

"He's not our father. He killed our father."

"He raised us."

"He stole us."

The room was quiet. The fire popped. The dog sighed.

Mathilde looked at the three of them. At their identical faces doing three different things. Caspian staring at the table. Theo staring at the wall. James staring at nothing.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"I want to let him die alone," Theo said.

"Do you?"

He didn't answer.

James stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at the yard. The patched roof. The crooked sign. The trees.

"I want to see him," he said. "Not because I forgive him. Not because I owe him anything. But because I want to look him in the eye and tell him I know. I want him to know that I know. And I want to watch him understand that everything he did—everything—was for nothing."

Caspian looked at him. "That's not forgiveness."

"No."

"It's not closure either."

"No."

"Then what is it?"

James turned. His face was calm. "It's the truth. He spent his whole life hiding from it. I want to make him face it."

Theo stood up. "I'll go."

"You just said you wanted to let him die alone."

"I changed my mind."

"Why?"

Theo looked at James. Then at Caspian. Then at Mathilde.

"Because I don't want to be the kind of person who lets someone die alone. Even him." He paused. "Especially him."

Caspian was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded.

"We'll go tomorrow," he said. "All of us."

They drove to Paris the next morning.

The hospital was in the eleventh arrondissement. Old building. Grey stone. A courtyard with a dead tree in the middle. They walked through the doors and down a corridor that smelled like antiseptic and coffee and something underneath that Mathilde couldn't name.

Julien was in a private room on the third floor. A guard sat outside. The guard looked at them, checked a list, and nodded.

"You can go in," he said. "He's awake."

They stood outside the door. Nobody reached for the handle.

"I'll go first," Caspian said.

"No," James said. "We go together."

He opened the door.

The room was small. A bed. A window. A chair. Julien Ashford lay in the bed with tubes in his arms and a machine beeping beside him. He looked smaller than Mathilde remembered. Shrunken. His face was grey. His hands were still.

He turned his head when they came in. His eyes moved over each of them—Caspian, Theo, James. Then Mathilde. He didn't say anything for a long time.

"You came," he said finally. His voice was a rasp.

"We came," Caspian said.

"Why?"

"Because you asked."

Julien laughed. It turned into a cough. The machine beeped faster. Then slowed.

"I didn't think you would," he said. "I thought you'd let me die alone. I would have."

"We know," James said.

Julien looked at him. Something in his face shifted. Something that might have been fear.

"You know," he said.

"We know everything."

"About the accident?"

"Yes."

"About the will?"

"Yes."

"About your mother?"

"Yes."

Julien closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet.

"I loved her," he said. "Claire. I loved her. That's why I—"

"Don't," Theo said. His voice was hard. "Don't you dare. You don't get to say that. You don't get to love her. You killed her husband. You stole her children. You don't get to love anyone."

Julien stared at him. The tears didn't stop. But he didn't say anything else.

James stepped forward. He stood at the foot of the bed. Looked down at the man who had raised him.

"I want you to know something," he said. "We found the house. The one Richard bought. We're living in it. We fixed the roof. We painted the sign. We put a postcard on the mantel. We eat dinner at his table. We read his journal. We know his handwriting. We know his voice." He paused. "You tried to erase him. You failed."

Julien's face twisted. Something between pain and anger and something else.

"You're just like him," he said. "All three of you. Weak. Sentimental. You'll never—"

He stopped. Coughed. The machine beeped faster.

A nurse came in. Checked the monitors. Told them to leave.

They went out into the corridor. Stood there. Nobody spoke.

Then Theo said, "That's it."

"What?" Caspian asked.

"That's all there is. He's dying. He knows we know. There's nothing else."

James nodded. "Yeah."

They walked out of the hospital. The sun was out. The courtyard was full of people—nurses, patients, visitors. Normal life. Normal things.

Mathilde looked at the three of them. They were standing in a row, identical faces, identical postures. But they weren't identical. They never had been.

"What now?" she asked.

Caspian looked at her. Then at his brothers. Then at the sky.

"We go home," he said.

They drove back in the dark. Nobody talked. The radio was off. The fields went by.

They pulled into the yard. The porch light was on. Gerald ran to the car. The roof was patched. The sign was crooked. The house was warm.

They went inside.

The table was still there. Five chairs. Four filled.

Mathilde looked at the empty chair. The one she'd pulled from the wall. The one that was there for Claire. For Richard. For everyone who'd been lost.

She thought about Julien. Dying in a hospital bed. Alone. Surrounded by machines.

She thought about the fifth chair. About what it meant. About who it was for.

She walked to the table. Pulled out the fifth chair. Sat down in it.

The three brothers looked at her.

"What are you doing?" Theo asked.

"Sitting."

"In his chair?"

"It's not his chair." She looked at them. "It's nobody's chair. It's just a chair. And I'm tired of pretending there's someone missing."

James looked at her. Then at the chair. Then at the empty space at the table.

"There's always someone missing," he said.

"I know. But we're not." She looked at each of them. "We're here. All of us. And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life waiting for someone who's never coming back."

Theo sat down. Then Caspian. Then James.

Five chairs. Four of them filled.

The fifth one was empty. But it wasn't waiting anymore.

It was just a chair.

They ate dinner. Theo made too much pasta. Caspian made a list. James read his book. Gerald slept by the stove.

And in the morning, the rooster got the time right again.