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“What is all of this?”
The question made her falter at the threshold of the door. Lawrence had never disrespected her privacy before, not in the fifteen years she had known the man, and so finding him standing amidst the mess of her bedroom, staring down her research, was enough to send a chill down her spine. “I said what is all this, Tenenbaum?” he repeats, his voice wavering as he gestures around the room. The movement only seems to fall somewhere between her poorly-packed suitcase, still open and tossed on her bed, and the clipped newspaper articles glued to her wall. Her fingers curl around the doorknob, and she wonders briefly if fleeing would be easier than any explanation she could give.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I think we’re well past the issue of privacy, Brigid.”
A short sigh escapes her as she adjusts her posture, arms tucked in close as she searches for the right words. “I-- I only wanted to see--”
“See what?”
She gestures lamely to the wall behind him, “-- … they are the same age. The girls.”
“Christ, Brigid,” he starts, his fingers ripping his hair back in a frenzy. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Though she knew the statement was meant as a warning, Brigid couldn’t help but think it a threat. In truth, she knew that Lawrence had never quite been the same since ADAM; the substance left so many unluckier folk lost in the city, driven mad by their addictions. He had been lucky. But Brigid swore that, on certain occasions, she could still see that wild fire behind his eyes, and as God as her witness she could see it in him now. Still, she shook her head, weakly protesting, “They don’t deserve it.”
“What happens inside that place - that’s not your responsibility anymore. It’s been almost eight years, Tenenbaum,” Gott, must he continue to belittle her? “You’ve got nothing down there. Everything you got, it’s topside now. You got me, Claudia; Jack and the girls. You’ve got your studies, and we’ve got that nice little lounge down the street we all go to--” she attempts to contest, but he only grows louder. “--a-and Mascha’s got that recital she knows you’ve been saving the date for, too. . .”
“No. Everything is down there,” she says, raising her voice so as to be heard over his argument. “Thirteen years are in that city, Lawrence. My research, my home, my sins. Julie, she is still there, and Milton - and these girls. These children, who know nothing of what I have done, and still are dragged under the ocean to pay for something they did not do. It is unacceptable.”
Lawrence falters, and suddenly Brigid no longer sees a fire behind his eyes, but something much more somber. “I. . . you’re right. You are. It’s unacceptable and it’s not fair. But you’re not -- you can’t actually be considering just leaving us. It’s out of your hands now. Is all that really more important than what you’ve got up here?”
“It is.” What a stupid question, she thought. The answer had always been yes. It had been yes since the moment she saw soul in those glowing eyes at the orphanage, it had been yes since she had first laid eyes on the boy, on Frank’s “ace”, and seen peace in him instead of war. It would always be yes, without any hesitation.
Lawrence visibly recoiled at the statement, and she knew he would. Always expecting her to be someone different, to be more reasonable than she ever was. The tension between them in that moment was so thick it could have very well been tangible. Neither one of them said a word to each other, only shifted their weight and held their tongues. Brigid does not look at Lawrence. She knows that giving eye contact with the man will give him some sort of connection, something to hold her here, and she wants to give him no such satisfaction. She does, however, feel the stare she gets in return as it bores a hole through her temple.
“When did you intend to go? I mean. . . when are you leaving?”
Brigid only shakes her head, eyes still glued to a fixed point on the dusted carpet. She feels his hands press against her shoulders and barely tamps down the urge to jump back at the touch. “. . . Promise me you won't go. Not yet. Not until we can figure this out,” he says, his voice low as he rubs circles with his thumbs, trying to coerce her. “Promise me?”
She nods, only the once.
It's 3:44 in the morning when Brigid zips her luggage shut. She knows that waiting any longer would only slow her down, and so it has to be tonight. The bag is light, only filled with a few necessities (clothes, canned goods, and some toiletries) and she picks it up by the handle to avoid being heard as she slips out of her bedroom. In passing, she memorizes the house and what is in it. Claudia's room. Lounge room. Lawrence and Evelyn’s room. Door. It was best not to say her goodbyes to anyone, not to scare them. She memorizes the faces stuck inside photo frames and the smell of tobacco that lingered by the baby grand piano tucked away in the corner.
Brigid can hear her heartbeat in her ears as she twists the handle, and the only evidence left of her in the house is the clicking of the lock behind her.