“I won’t let you get lost,” I tell her. “Not to the drugs or a stupid guy.”
“You mean, Brendan,” she interrupts.
“Whoever,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll always find you.”
We sit there until we’re shivering and Ashton’s stomach rumbles louder than the waves.
The entire group spends the day on the beach after the sun is higher in the sky, burning off the morning’s chill. The Harrison brothers arranged for a clambake, which is a much bigger production than just throwing burgers on a grill. The caterer rolls in around noontime to dig a pit on the beach, where they lay seaweed and hot coals to cook everything on top of it. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.
I just stare at the lobster when it’s set in front of me, not sure what to do with it or if I want anything to do with it. Grant helps crack it, which is messy and disgusting. And then I let him eat it, opting for a filet of steak instead. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I do not like seafood, no matter what I try.
There is laughter in the air as we throw the football on the beach and chase after one another. No matter what we may or may not feel about each other, in this moment, on this day, we’re friends. We’re connected in complicated and twisted ways, but this one truth is simple: we care about each other and have proven it many times over the past couple of months.
We pose in an eerily similar group photo, on the beach instead of the lawn. Except no one’s pregnant in this one … hopefully.
While the caterer is packing up their equipment, the girls disappear to shower the saltwater and sand off, and the guys sit around the pool, drinking beers or soda. I slip away toward the much smaller and older house farther down the drive. I take a breath before I knock, not sure what I’m doing but knowing I have to do it. I haven’t really thought this part through, although I’ve been obsessing over it.
Kaden opens the door and appears genuinely surprised to see me. “Uh, Lana? Hi.”
I swallow nervously. “Hi.”
I search his face, looking for signs of me in its features, but don’t find any besides the flaxen shades in his hair. There may be too much of my mother in me to allow much room for my father. Other than my eyes. And although Kaden’s are a hazel-grey, they aren’t brown. Still … genetics can be funky.
“Everything okay?” he asks. Then, as if correcting himself, he asks, “Want to come in?”
I don’t take a step to enter. Instead, words tumble out in a nervous rush. “Did my mom … ever talk to you? I know she stopped talking to you for a long time, for whatever reason, but did you ever see her again?”
Kaden averts his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, I saw her a couple times over the years. Last time … at the cemetery after Maggie’s funeral.” He glances back to me. “Why?”
I shake my head, not knowing how to ask if she ever told him about me. If he’s my father. But if he is, shouldn’t he be the one telling me?
“I’m sorry she hurt you.” The sentiment is as unexpected to me as it is to Kaden.
When he recovers from his shock, he says, “It was a long time ago. We’re different people now.”
“Do you still …” I stop myself, finally using a filter.
“Love her?” he finishes for me. I offer a slight shrug, leaving him the choice to answer. “Never stopped.”
It’s then I see the pain and sorrow reflected in the flecks of grey and blue of his eyes. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but I never knew the truth. Not until after Maggie died. And I’m still sorry for …” He shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “That’s not important anymore. She’s happy, right? With Nick?”
I swallow, not wanting to add more to his suffering. I offer a brisk nod. He breathes out and tries to laugh off the seriousness again. But it’s strained.
“Good. It was … nice to meet you, Lana.”
“Yeah, you too,” I say, my voice barely audible. I spin around and resist the urge to run back to the main house.
“Lana,” Kaden beckons as an afterthought. I pause with my back to him. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. And I’m sorry I can’t be the one to answer them. Only she can.”
Grant senses, in the way only he does, that something’s off when I rush by the guys on the patio to enter the house. He closes the door to the bedroom right after I enter. “What happened?”
“How can you read me so well?” I ask, laughing awkwardly to hide my nerves.
He lifts the corner of his mouth. “It’s our symbiotic bond tethering us together. You know that.”
Laughter bursts out. “I love you,” I say with a sigh.
But I know exactly what he means, how we’re wordlessly able to communicate or sense what the other is feeling with barely a glance—just needing to be in the vicinity of the other. It would freak me out if I wasn’t so in love with him.
“So?” he prompts, returning to my strife.
“I visited Kaden.” I press my lips together, the unease of the conversation lingering.
“And …” Grant continues to coax.
“Who the fuck is my father?” I blurt, throwing my arms up in exasperation. “I stood in front of Kaden, basically begging him to tell me, but he didn’t claim me. Or wouldn’t. I don’t understand why this is such a big secret!”
Grant walks over to the nightstand on his side of the bed and removes the folded paper from the drawer.
I let out a small laugh. “You brought it?”
“Of course,” he says, unfolding the chart of what we do and do not know and laying it on top of the made bed. “Figured we’d find answers on the island where everything started.”
The only questions left unanswered involve the weekend the families were here, at this exact place, seventeen years ago.
“I think you know part of the answer, Sweets. But you’re afraid to face it,” Grant says, coming up behind me and encircling me in his arms. He leans down and kisses my cheek. “So do you really want to know?”
I close my eyes and collapse against him, wishing right now he couldn’t read me so well. “No matter who he is, I need to know—”
“Oh shit, hide the beers,” Lance yells from the patio.
We look out the window to find the guys scrambling to pick up empties.
“Who do you think’s here?” Grant asks, the only obvious explanation to the panic outside.
When we leave our room, the sound of a woman’s voice floats down the hall. “Don’t worry. We’ll let you have your weekend at the house. We’ll be staying across the island at the Murphys’. Your father and I wanted to check on you and your brothers to see how you’re coping with everything. I haven’t seen you much since …”
Olivia redirects her attention from Joey to me and Grant when we enter the living room. She smiles in that affectionate way that she does that convinces me she can right the world.
“Lana?”
My chest tightens at the sound of my mother’s voice. Something I’ve only heard over voice mail during the past two weeks.
She steps into the room, relief flooding her face. “I’m so happy you’re alright.” I’m in her arms before I can resist.
Nick is loitering by the entrance until he catches sight of Lily coming down the stairs.
“Dad?”
His entire face lights up at the sight of her.
“Can we go somewhere to talk?” my mother asks me.
I glance at Grant, not sure if I’m ready for this. He gives me a reassuring smile.
“The bedroom is pretty quiet,” he offers.
I realize he doesn’t say our bedroom, not wanting to freak her out. I’m trying to remember what may be lying around to indicate we’re staying in there together but can’t.
Before we can move in that direction, Niall and Brendan pass by us, talking quietly. Brendan flashes me a quick glance, and for the first time, I register uncertainty on his face. And fear in his eyes. We follow down the hall after them. They divert into the office while we continue to th
e bedroom.
I quickly scoop up Grant’s conspiracy chart and stuff it in a drawer.
“We can sit over here,” I say, indicating the love seat in front of the fireplace.
My mother lowers and forces a nervous smile. I stuff my hands in the back pockets of my cutoffs, unable to sit.
“So, um, what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you,” she says, blinking the emotion away. “I was worried after everything that happened. And I know Niall’s been checking in, but Olivia thought this would be a good time to see you. To talk. Away from school.
“Did you … meet Kaden?” she asks tentatively.
I nod. “He seems like a nice guy.”
She nods. Her lip quivers slightly. “He is.”
I watch as she composes herself, releasing a deep breath from the pain that’s just as raw to Kaden after all this time.
“What are you really doing here, Mom?” I know she didn’t come all the way to Nantucket just for a hug.
“I know you’re upset with me. And I understand.” She adjusts in her seat. I can practically hear her heart thumping louder. Or maybe it’s mine. “I’ve been keeping things from you for a long time, which has backfired, putting you in danger that I never saw coming. And I’m so sorry, Lana. I had no idea.”
“I know you didn’t,” I say gently, wanting her to know I don’t blame her for Vic’s crazy. “Vic Thorne isn’t your fault.”
“But what happened to his father is.”
Seventeen years ago, at the start of my senior year in high school, I came to this island with the Harrison family to help care for their young son. I loved their life and being a part of it in every way. My family didn’t understand. Most of my life, it seemed as if my mother and sisters never understood me. But the Harrisons did in a way that made me feel accepted … like I belonged with them.
Have you seen my white cardigan?” I ask, carefully folding my coral floral sundress to avoid wrinkling it as I set it in my pink plaid suitcase.
“Um … I may have borrowed it,” Allison says, coating her lips in a shiny pink gloss while sitting at our shared antique vanity. “I think it’s in the dirty clothes.”
“Allison,” I groan in exasperation, “I thought I told you to ask before borrowing anything. I really need that sweater for this weekend.”
“Sorry,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think it’s really dirty. I only wore it for a little while when I walked with Janet to 7-Eleven.”
I rifle through the hamper and pull out my rumpled sweater, shaking it out. Holding it to my nose, I inhale hints of Allison’s freesia lotion. It’ll clash with my Clinique Happy perfume, but maybe if I air it out, the scent will fade before I need to wear it. I grab my jean jacket as an alternative for the cool nights on the island.
“Where are you going tonight?” I ask Allison as she twists a lock of hair back and secures it with a butterfly clip.
“I told Shandra that I’d watch Morgan for her.” She stands and adjusts her plaid miniskirt low on her hips.
“Then why do you look like you’re going on a date?” I ask, eyeing her cropped short-sleeved cashmere sweater. It accentuates the curves that makes her look much older than her fifteen years. Curves that I still don’t have even though I’m two years older.
“No reason.”
“Is she paying you?” I ask, knowing our downstairs neighbor has a habit of taking advantage of my sweet sister.
“She said she’ll only be gone for a couple hours,” she explains weakly.
“The last time that happened, she was out all night, and you totally freaked and had to call Mom home from work because you didn’t know what to do.”
“That was one time.”
“I just don’t want you getting mixed up in her mess.” I zip my suitcase and set it on the floor.
“It’s not like that. I just feel bad for her. She doesn’t have anyone.”
“She has an entire family. They own this house, remember? And they live on this street.”
“You know what I mean.”
I didn’t. But it wasn’t worth arguing about. Shandra had a habit of needing favors and knowing who to ask for them. When it came to babysitting her four-year-old son, that usually meant suckering Allison into watching him for “an hour or two,” which almost always meant until she stumbled home with some random guy after the bars closed. I don’t understand that lifestyle. I’m not judging. I just feel bad for that poor little boy who seems to get shuffled around to whoever’s free, so his mother can still go out and party. I can’t even imagine what it was like to become a mother at nineteen, but from what I can see, Shandra isn’t exactly devoted to finding out herself.
She moved in downstairs six months ago. Her mother couldn’t tolerate being woken in the middle of the night, so she had her move in with Kendall, her cousin, who was already in the apartment below ours. The house has been in their family for forever. And we’ve lived on the second floor for pretty much that entire time, and some member of the Wolfe family has always occupied the first floor. A rotation of family members in transition in their lives until they eventually move out to live with someone else. That’s their family rule—no live-in boyfriends or girlfriends. Family only.
Doesn’t mean they don’t sleep over … practically every night. I know because Shandra’s bedroom is below ours. And this house is old. The walls are thin, and apparently, so are the floorboards. We can hear every moan. Whimper. Neglected cry. Every fist connecting with a wall … and sometimes a person.
My mother can frequently be heard banging on their door or the floor with a broomstick if she can’t be bothered to go downstairs. And when it gets really bad, she has the police department on speed dial on our cordless phone. It’s gotten to the point where they know what she’s calling about before she says more than a couple words.
I don’t like that Allison goes down there. I can only imagine how disgusting the apartment is. But she adores Morgan. And it may be the only time the poor boy is bathed and changed into clean clothes. Every time I see him on the front porch with his mother, while she’s smoking and chatting on the phone, he’s only wearing a saggy pair of greying superhero underwear, his belly stained with juice. His nose is almost constantly running, making his face slick with snot and dirt. But no matter how filthy he looks, he always has a toothy smile for me when I climb the front stairs, offering whatever toy he’s playing with for me to take, probably hoping for someone to pay attention to him.
I smile and wave but keep walking up the stairs through the front door. I avoid interacting at all costs. Shandra knows I babysit. But there’s no way I’m doing it for free. And I wouldn’t be caught in that lice-infested apartment if my life depended on it.
But Allison is too kind for own good. She doesn’t care what’s dribbling down Morgan’s sticky belly. She always picks him up whenever she sees him. And that’s usually when Shandra disappears inside, still chatting on the phone, abandoning him with Allison.
“You have someone coming over while you’re babysitting, don’t you?” I accuse, knowing she’s putting way too much effort into her appearance to go downstairs to wash dishes and bathe Morgan like she always does.
“Justin may stop by and help me,” she says dismissively like it’s no big deal.
“Does Mom know?”
“Mom’s working tonight.”
I smirk and shake my head. “Be careful.”
“Mom!” Helen bellows from the hallway, her stomping footsteps heard from behind the closed door. “Mom!” she yells again when she enters the apartment.
“I’m in the kitchen!” our mother responds, her booming voice probably overheard by our neighbors across the street.
“Can I borrow the car?” Helen hollers from the front door, choosing to carry on the conversation at an obnoxious level instead of seeking out our mother in the kitchen a room away.
“No, I have to work tonight!”
“What if I drive you to work?�
�
“What do you need it for?”
“We’re having a sit-in protest at the college tomorrow, so we’re making signs tonight. And I’m the only one with a car to pick everyone up.”
“You don’t have a car. I do.”
“Whatever. Can I use it?”
“What are you protesting?”
“Why are you still yelling?” I interrupt, adding to the volume with my complaint.
“This doesn’t concern you, Aurora,” Helen yells to me.
I roll my eyes at the nickname she’s used for me since she went to her first female equality rally in high school. She claims I’m blind to female oppression and my sleepwalking is only exacerbating the problem by conforming to the submissive female stereotype. Like she can talk with her knockoff Dr. Martens and black-lined eyes. I always argue back that she tries so hard to be different, but she looks exactly like all of her other goth friends. Individuality has nothing to do with fashion.
It’s been an ongoing argument in our house since she refused to wear a bra freshman year, stating it was an article of clothing designed by a man to trap women in the most literal way possible. A tank top isn’t very supportive, or discreet, no matter how many she layers on. So I refuse to be seen with her in public.
I still haven’t forgiven her for when Christian Longfellow came to pick me up for Oaklawn’s junior prom—as a friend. I may attend Sherling High School, but the majority of my friends are in Oaklawn. Christian offered to take me, so I could be part of our group of friends’ prom weekend.
Right after Christian saw me for the first time in my blush slip dress, smiling appreciatively, Helen leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’re destined to be a statistic, aren’t you?”
I was tempted to slap her, and I’m not a violent person, so that just accounts for how horrible she made me feel.
Thankfully, she lives upstairs in the converted attic apartment now that she’s “in college” at Sherling Technical Institute. I usually don’t have to listen to her go on about gender inequality. And how women will never be taken seriously as long as we’re slaves to fashions that men design. And that commercialism is another form of prostitution.
The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4: Now We Know/What They Knew Page 35