Chapter 2 - WHAT AINSLEY HAD TRIED TO TELL ME
Ainsley had hated camping.
That was the first thing I remembered when I looked at the flashlight the next morning.
She loved mountains.
Lakes.
Cabins.
Bonfires from a safe distance.
But sleeping in a tent made her miserable.
Sorrel’s flashlight had been hers first.
A cheap red plastic thing she bought during a power outage.
Later she covered it with dinosaur stickers and gave it to Sorrel.
I had never opened the battery compartment.
Why would I?
Naomi asked me to bring the note and flashlight directly to her office after we got home.
Before that, I searched nothing.
No ripping through Ainsley’s old boxes at three in the morning.
No calling relatives.
No asking Sorrel whether Mommy ever said Uncle Garrick was his father.
That mattered.
At home, Ione? No. Sorrel.
Sorrel went to my neighbor Claire for three hours.
A trusted friend.
Not family.
I told her only:
“There was a bad argument. Please don’t ask him questions about it.”
She agreed.
Then Naomi examined the note.
“Handwriting?”
“Ainsley’s.”
“Could still verify.”
“Yes.”
“Any date?”
“No.”
“Anything on reverse?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize paper?”
It was from a small notepad Ainsley kept beside the kitchen phone.
Maybe.
Not proof.
Then Naomi asked:
“When was Sorrel conceived?”
I stared.
“You think Garrick—”
“I’m asking chronology.”
I breathed.
“Ainsley and I had been separated briefly.”
“How briefly?”
“About eleven weeks.”
“Legally?”
“No divorce filing.”
“Living apart?”
“Yes.”
“Dating others?”
I looked away.
“I didn’t.”
“Did she?”
“She told me there had been someone.”
Naomi waited.
That was the sentence I had avoided for nearly six years.
Ainsley and I had been married four years when we separated.
Not because of violence.
Not because of betrayal initially.
Because I worked too much.
She wanted children.
I kept saying:
After promotion.
After we pay this off.
After things settle.
Nothing settled.
She left for her sister’s apartment.
Eight weeks later, we started talking again.
By eleven weeks, she came home.
A month later, she was pregnant.
I asked once:
“Could it be someone else’s?”
Ainsley said:
“The dates are close.”
I went outside.
Walked for three hours.
When I came back she was sitting on the kitchen floor.
She said:
“I was with someone once while we were separated.”
I asked:
“Do I know him?”
She cried.
Did not answer.
I made my own choice.
“I don’t want to know.”
Naomi stopped writing.
“You said that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted the baby.”
That was not the whole truth.
I also wanted to avoid humiliation.
If I did not know the man, I could pretend he had no face.
Ainsley asked:
“What if the baby isn’t biologically yours?”
I said:
“If we’re together and we raise him, he’s mine.”
At the time, it sounded noble.
Later, I understood there was cowardice inside it too.
I did not ask the question because I was afraid of the answer.
Then Sorrel was born.
I signed his birth certificate.
Ainsley and I were married.
I held him before she did because she had complications after delivery.
He wrapped his entire hand around one of my fingers.
From then on, biology felt like a closed door.
Until Ainsley got sick.
Lymphoma.
Aggressive.
Two years of treatment.
Remission.
Return.
Then the last six months.
During those months, she said things.
“Bram, I need to tell you about the separation.”
I answered:
“Not now.”
Another time:
“If anything happens to me, there are things you deserve to know.”
I said:
“Nothing is happening to you.”
Denial dressed as love.
Then one argument.
She said:
“If Garrick ever starts talking about Sorrel’s blood, do not believe the first version he gives you.”
I remember that exactly now.
At the time I said:
“Why would Garrick talk about Sorrel’s blood?”
Ainsley was exhausted.
She closed her eyes.
“See? This is why I can’t do this with you.”
I had thought she meant my family’s habit of calling Sorrel “Ainsley’s boy” instead of “Bramwell’s boy.”
I never pressed.
Naomi looked at me.
“You had clues.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean you knew.”
“No.”
“But do not tell yourself you were completely blindsided.”
“I won’t.”
Good.
Then she asked:
“Did Ainsley ever name Garrick?”
“No.”
“Did Garrick have access to her during separation?”
I almost laughed.
He introduced us.
Ainsley had known my brother before she knew me.
Same college friend group.
They were not close by the time we married.
At least that was what I believed.
Then Naomi said:
“We need Ainsley’s estate-planning file.”
“She had one?”
“You mentioned she updated documents during treatment.”
“Yes.”
“Who was her lawyer?”
Jonathan Bell.
Retired now.
Naomi found contact information.
Before we called, my phone buzzed.
Mother.
I did not answer.
Voicemail:
“Bramwell, what happened at the campsite was ugly, but do not turn Ainsley’s shame into a weapon against your brother.”
I replayed it.
Then handed the phone to Naomi.
She listened.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“She said ‘your brother.’”
I stared.
Not:
that note means nothing.
Not:
Ainsley never told us anything.
Your brother.
Naomi forwarded the voicemail to secure storage.
Then Garrick texted.
YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO APOLOGIZE FOR DESTROYING MY PROPERTY.
I replied through Naomi:
All communication through counsel.
Nothing else.
Then another message from Garrick.
DO NOT DRAG SORREL INTO SOMETHING AINSLEY CHOSE TO BURY.
I stared at the screen.
Ainsley chose to bury.
May you like
Maybe.
Or maybe she hid a note in a flashlight because every time she tried to tell me, I closed the door.
