What Holds Us Together

by Sandi Ward

  We did all of those things this summer, and it was a tonic for my soul. A short reprieve. But as soon as school started and I tried going back to work, everything got out of whack again.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Olivia says. “Hope this storm isn’t as bad as they’re predicting.”

  “Bye,” Del calls to Emmy, who gives a wave.

  The entire exchange has exhausted me. I just want to get home and make a cup of tea. “Come on, let’s see what else we need,” I say to Delilah. But my day isn’t over yet.

  It’s a shock when, yet again, I run into someone I’m not expecting to see. Delilah and I decide to grab a box of cereal, and we’re just turning down an aisle in the middle of the store when someone catches my eye.

  I let Delilah go ahead of me and I squint down toward the deli. Is that who I think it is? Sure enough, it’s two dark-haired men—Sam Parsons with a man who I believe is one of his older brothers, Danny.

  I freeze, hoping they don’t see me. My heart starts to pound and heat creeps into my face. The long coat I’m wearing feels ridiculously heavy all of a sudden, and I wonder why they’ve got the temperature cranked up so high in the breakfast foods aisle.

  Sam hasn’t changed much since high school. I bet he still fits into his varsity football jacket. Some men transform dramatically over the decades as their waistlines expand and hair recedes, but I guess the Parsonses are blessed with good genes.

  I watch Sam and Danny talk and laugh while waiting for their order at the deli counter, wearing winter parkas and hiking boots. I fight the urge to flee the store, like a skittish teenager seeing her crush from afar.

  Sam had not one but two older brothers. It’s hard to imagine three boys growing up in one house without nearly killing each other. And there were more: Sam’s older sisters, Diana and Andi. The five of them lived in a ranch house with their parents down on Ancient County Way. I remember they had two Saint Bernards—huge dogs, the size of ponies. It must have been sheer madness living in that house. Not that I ever heard Sam complain. On the contrary, I got the impression he worshipped his older siblings from the way he talked about them. He was the youngest, the baby of the family.

  I take a last glance at Sam. I want to talk to him, and yet I don’t. Not right now.

  I catch up to Delilah. “You know what? I’m exhausted. Pick out what you’d like and let’s get going.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she teases me. “Sorry, I didn’t know we were in a rush.”

  We successfully check out and exit the store without Sam seeing me. It’s a relief, but as Delilah fiddles with the car radio, I still spend a moment daydreaming about him. Sam was the kind of boyfriend any teenage girl would love to have, kind and attentive. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about the prospect of talking to him.

  No—I take that back. I have my reasons.

  Lost in my reverie, I’ve forgotten to turn on the heat. Delilah reaches to click the knob for the fan up to the highest setting.

  “Thanks, Del.”

  She smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t let us freeze.”

  I turn my thoughts to Donovan as we drive home. I suppose I could call my parents and ask them what to do about him. But I don’t want them to hear the sadness in my voice, which will be inevitable when I confess that Donovan misses his father so much, he’s decided to punish me for it. Although my parents had their own troublemaking kid to deal with—my headstrong, older sister Lisa—they never had a boy who lost his father. I’m in a unique situation here.

  Besides, I don’t want to explain to anyone that Peter had a journal, and I never read it. The truth is, I’m afraid to read it. Peter’s gone, so why dig up the past? Why hash over his musings and feelings and longings and grievances now? What disappointments might I find? I don’t feel ready to look at words Peter wrote by hand on lined pages. I may never be ready to read it.

  I don’t think Donovan should read it either. Whatever Peter wrote was obviously private. It wasn’t meant for public consumption, and may not be appropriate for a sixteen-year-old kid to read. I don’t think it’s right.

  Maybe we could read it together in ten years. But now, so soon after his death? I’m sure it’s wrong. It feels like a violation of Peter’s trust.

  Is Donovan ready for whatever he finds there?

  Am I?

  His Spirit Did Not Want to Go

  LUNA

  Peter is gone, and yet he is not.

  Peter died in our big, beautiful home overlooking the ocean. It was all on one level, with a huge deck that ran the entire length of the house. We lived in a brilliant world of sun glancing off of rocky cliffs, the sea air tickling our noses and sand shifting underfoot. We lived large, as Peter liked to say, and his quick laugh filled the house with joy. For that home to turn into the place of his death was jarring and changed my view of everything.

  Once his body was removed from the house, Peter’s scent remained on everything. I detected him on the couches, the chairs, the bedsheets. He was a vibrant person, and his spirit did not want to go.

  In the days that followed, I felt haunted. I heard Peter’s voice in the way Donovan demanded his mother help him with the laundry. I saw his gaze when Delilah raised an eyebrow at a story her brother was telling. Sometimes, I closed my eyes and imagined Peter talking with a few friends in our living room: a man playing guitar, a woman chattering, Peter pouring a drink. But once Peter was gone, the house grew quiet, and rooms that once were inviting became stale and hard to recognize. Strange shapes, odd shadows. Nothing pleased me anymore.

  The summer dragged by, blending into a long autumn where I felt numb much of the time. Peter was gone. Gone! And yet he was everywhere, in our thoughts and memories. His black razor remained in the bathroom for weeks. His scuffed-up sneakers sat at the front door for months.

  Annika paced around the house feverishly and with no purpose, as if she had lost something she could not find. She often pulled on one of Peter’s old T-shirts and cried. Grabbing a handful of the material and pressing it to her face, she breathed in to try to calm herself, but dissolved and began sobbing again. She could not let go, and neither could I. I began to howl at odd hours, jumping from chair to table to kitchen counter, distressed by Annika’s strange behavior.

  I followed Annika around the house like a needy kitten. I tried to provide my humans with comfort while feeling stressed myself. The twins kept up their routine, but they weren’t happy about it. Delilah gave me treats and brushed me every night. I gazed up into her face and let her reassure me that everything would be okay. But I worried about Donovan. He had no desire for companionship, and spent more and more time holed up in his bedroom.

  A dark and dreary winter passed, spring emerged again, and Annika packed everything up into boxes. She folded the shirts infused with Peter’s scent. She sorted his underwear and socks, and put away his books. His old typewriter went into a case with some papers, and Donovan took it from his mother, insisting he must keep it. Two men came and inspected Peter’s piano and took it away.

  And then we moved to this cottage. I had never been here before, although Annika’s scent is everywhere. We are working on making a new life here.

  I stare at a photo of Peter and remember. His hair, the color of sand, soft to touch with my paws when I batted him awake in the morning. His expression of amusement when he listened to a story, as he tipped his head until the light hit his cheekbone. His groan when Donovan told him a terrible joke. His arms, strong and sure, when Delilah needed a hug. His sigh, when Annika asked him for the third time to turn off the music and come to bed.

  Annika has been suffering, too. When we first moved to this new house, she spent hours curled up on the couch with a blanket, staring at nothing. Her phone rang, and she did not answer it. She grew thin and pale, and for a time I feared I might lose another family member.

  But lately, I see signs that give me hope. This cottage is small but comfortable. Annika gets up, showers, and gets dressed in the morning.
Anyone seeing her from afar would presume she was happy and healthy. But she does not go to work. Instead, Annika spends her day with her coffee and reads books, speaking to no one.

  Despite the new house, I still feel uneasy. My guilt about how Peter died hovers over me like a hawk, causing me to dart under tables and beds for safety and security. I remember that when Peter played the piano, I would run for cover because I didn’t like the noise—but oh! What I would give to have Peter back, to hear him play, to see him smile. I would try to tolerate that piano, if we still had it.

  Sometimes when I’m in a bad mood, I stalk Annika, meowing and voicing my protest. Fix this! I yowl at her. But, of course, it is hard to say how things can be fixed at this point. Peter is dead. That’s a fact we cannot change.

  But the children are still walking and breathing and growing and learning. For their sake, we need to keep up the motions of a normal family. A happy family.

  What I miss the most about Peter is his way of teaching the children about the world. He was a fantastic storyteller. I heard him tell the twins amazing tales over the years, often at bedtime. So I have learned all about the wide world beyond our neighborhood. I know all about gnomes, dragons, giants, witches, hobbits, and every sort of odd creature that exists on this planet. Peter’s recounting of how the world works expanded my view. I like to think of myself as more sophisticated than your average cat, thanks to his teachings. There is so much I have never seen and perhaps I will never see—I have no desire to explore beyond the edge of our woods. But there is so much out there!

  Lately, I have seen flickers of movement in dark corners, here and there. I have come to the conclusion that Peter’s spirit has followed us to this house. I wonder if I am the only one who has noticed traces of Peter lingering in strange places. Lately, I sense him every day.

  Of course, I heard Peter tell Delilah and Donovan ghost stories many times. So I know what a ghost is. It is when the body of a living creature dies, but the soul remains behind.

  I puzzle over it: If Peter is actually here, why has he stayed? Perhaps there is some unfinished business he needs to take care of. I would like to see Peter achieve his goal, whatever it may be.

  But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.

  Boarding School

  ANNIKA

  Delilah arranges photos on the kitchen counter. She places one down at a time, as if dealing from a deck of cards.

  The cottage kitchen is exactly the same as it was when I was in high school, never updated, with a black soapstone countertop and cherry-stained cabinets. My mom left a rack of dried herbs and flowers on the wall: safflower, yarrow, thyme, mint, and lavender. Delilah and I frequently joke that we’re going to actually use some of the herbs while cooking, but just end up admiring them and breathing in the scent, afraid to touch any of it.

  “This was a great night,” she says with a smile, pointing to a photo of food and drink on a long, dark table. “Grandmommy and Granddaddy took us out for a beer tasting.”

  I instinctively frown, but force myself to relax and open my eyes wider.

  “Wow, that sounds like fun.”

  I try to mirror her enthusiasm level, but I’m really thinking: That sounds ridiculous. Even scandalous. Should sixteen-year-olds be drinking beer? With their grandparents? Honestly. I’m sure the kids couldn’t tolerate the taste of it, although they probably put up a brave front.

  It was terrifying to let the kids go to Germany with Peter’s parents, Judith and Frank. The twins had never been away from me for so long—ten whole days. But I couldn’t say no to the Kuhns, because they miss Peter, too. His death was devastating for them; he was their only child.

  Peter fought with his parents and felt a lot of pressure to live up to their expectations, but I understood why they clung to him so fiercely. After we had the twins, they even moved to Connecticut to be closer to their grandchildren. So when Judith and Frank said they wanted to show off the kids to extended family and offered to take them to see where Peter attended school for several years, I had to say, Yes, of course they can go.

  “Here we are with Jannik,” Delilah goes on, pointing to another photo. She grins, and I can tell she liked him.

  Jannik is their second cousin. I’ve never met him in person. I can see he’s a large, young man and has shaved his hair quite short. For all I know he can chug a pint of beer in ten seconds flat.

  Fantastic.

  Donovan wanders in and heads straight for the refrigerator. I brace myself for a complaint. He’s unhappy about the fact that we moved here to Massachusetts.

  Well, that makes two of us. It’s not helping as much as I hoped it would.

  I think about Peter every day, and my future feels empty. He’ll always be in my heart, but I thought the pain might start to fade by now. Sadly, my plan to get a fresh start has backfired, because being in Manchester makes me dwell on Peter more than ever. I don’t know why I’m surprised. After all, this is where our love story began.

  At least the house is familiar and comfortable. We vacationed here with my parents for a week every summer since the twins were born. And I loved growing up here. Sure, the cottage is a little cramped, but it’s cozy; it has a fireplace in the back room and a woodstove in the front sitting room. Either spot is perfect for curling up with a blanket.

  Yet Donovan manages to find something new to critique every day. He’s let me know the kitchen is dark, the floral wallpaper is ugly, and his bedroom is stuffy. The TV is old, the microwave is crap, and the windows jam when he tries to force them open. I wonder what he’s found to grumble about today.

  I hold my breath. But Donovan doesn’t say a word to us. It’s like we’re not even here.

  “Delilah just got her photos printed,” I announce in the most cheerful voice I can muster. “They’re amazing. Seems you guys had a fantastic time. Want to take a look?”

  “I’m busy,” he says, his tone flat. “I’m grabbing a snack and going back upstairs to do homework.”

  Okay. I get the message.

  This probably isn’t the right time to quiz him about Peter’s diary. But as usual, I can’t help it.

  “Donovan, I assume you took your father’s journal, because it’s missing. I’m not exactly sure how you found it in the first place, because that would mean you were snooping around in my room.”

  He snorts. “It wasn’t that hard to find. I mean, you practically made a shrine to Dad with his photos and stuff all in one place.”

  “A shrine? Let’s not—” I shake my head. “Look. At any rate, you’re not in trouble, but I don’t think you should be reading the journal by yourself. Can you please bring it downstairs and we’ll look at it together?”

  There’s a long pause. He stares into the refrigerator.

  Donovan grabs a bag of baby carrots from a shelf, shuts the refrigerator, and looks at me with a calm air of superiority. “Why can’t I read it? You don’t own Dad’s journal. It’s mine, too.”

  I gape at him. What an entitled brat! He is driving me crazy.

  “Because IT’S PRIVATE, sweetheart, and I’d like to see what your dad wrote first to make sure it’s appropriate for you to read.”

  I wait, hand on my hip. He’d better not reply with a snappy, sarcastic comeback. I have really had enough.

  But his mouth quivers. His eyes go wet, and it catches me off guard.

  “Mom.” He folds his arms and looks down. I can see the scar on the side of his neck from when he fell off his skateboard three years ago. “You’ve had sixteen months to read the journal. If you haven’t looked at it yet, I doubt you’re ever going to.” He exhales, looking pale now that his summer tan has completely faded. “I can’t wait anymore, okay? He’s gone and he’s not coming back. Dad is gone. And that journal is all I have left.”

  My heart collapses in my chest, and the anger drains out of me. I want to tell Donovan I’m sorry. But for once, the words don’t come out.

  I glance at Delilah, who casts me a
sympathetic look. But when I turn back to Donovan, it’s like there’s a shade drawn between us. He won’t even look at me.

  After a pause, Donovan opens the door to the refrigerator again. “Where’s the celery?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you go to the store earlier? Can’t you even get the shopping list straight? Dad never forgot what I asked for. It’s not like you’re busy with a job.”

  I bristle as a critical edge seeps back into his voice. Donovan may as well just come right out and say it: Peter was a better parent. He was closer to the kids than I was. It’s not a big secret. Peter worked from home and took care of the twins when I was on the road for work. I’m not going to deny what we all know is true.

  “Put it on the list. I made a new list on the refrigerator.”

  Donovan rolls his eyes. “Never mind. I have to go. I have a lot of geometry problems to do. Are we done here?”

  Donovan knows that a mention of geometry is going to get my attention. I love math so much that I devoted my career to it as a professor.

  As much as I enjoy it, I’m not working right now. I tried going back to work at New York University after Peter died, but it seems I wasn’t quite ready. I lasted only two weeks. It turns out that breaking into sobs over silly little things like a computer mouse that won’t work properly is frowned upon in the math department. Poor Mrs. Wetzel stated that in her opinion I was having a “nervous breakdown.” I explained to her that there’s no such thing; I told her it isn’t an actual clinical diagnosis, and she could feel free to ask around among my colleagues in the psychiatry department if she didn’t believe me. But she wasn’t having it.

  Once we moved here to Manchester, I tried going back again for the fall semester. I took a new position at a small local community college, and I really thought I was prepared to do the job. This time I lasted a little longer, about six weeks. But I quit to save myself the humiliation of being fired. My mind was always elsewhere. At one time, I was a very organized and motivated person, but I found myself muddled. I was constantly worrying about things at home: Did I buy the right groceries? When was I going to do the laundry? Did I forget to pay the electric bill again? Would I get home in time to give Delilah a ride to debate club? Peter used to take care of things at home, and once I had to do everything myself, I started to realize the extent of what he’d accomplished and how overwhelmed I really was.