What Holds Us Together

by Sandi Ward

  Peter admires Delilah’s braids. “You did your hair again the way I like it. Mommy taught you how to do this yourself?”

  “Yes,” she says, twirling a braid in her hand. “She showed me last week. So now I can do it myself when she’s away traveling. It’s still wet, but now it will be nice to sleep on and not so messy.” She leans against him and flutters her eyelashes. “Will you tell us about the sea dragon, please, Daddy?”

  “It’s not a sea dragon.” Donovan bounces on his knees at the foot of her bed. “There’s no such thing as a sea dragon. It’s a sea SERPENT.” He shakes a fist in the air. “SEA SERPENT. GET IT RIGHT.”

  “Okay, settle down.” Peter puts out a hand. “Sit down. Yes, I’ll tell the story. So, you remember I encountered the sea serpent in Germany, right? Germany is where I lived with Grandmommy and Granddaddy for a while. There has never been a sea serpent sighting here in Connecticut.”

  “Say it three times fast—sea serpent sighting, sea serpent sighting, sea serpent sighting,” Delilah chants as fast as she can, the words tripping off her tongue.

  “I wouldn’t want either of you to be afraid to go in the ocean here at home because of sea serpents.”

  “We’re not.” Donovan groans. “C’mon, Dad. We already know there’s no sea serpents in Connecticut. Everybody knows that.”

  I can smell baby powder; Delilah likes to shake it on after her bath, and it makes my nose twitch. I sneeze and then gaze up at Peter, ready for the story.

  “Okay. Well.” Peter folds his arms, and the children grow still. “I encountered the sea serpent when I was swimming out to a dock that was tied up off the beach.”

  “You were a good swimmer.”

  “Yes, I was. I loved swimming and spent every summer at the local pool. So when I was seventeen years old, just before we moved back here to the U.S., my parents took me to Ahrenshoop for vacation. We stayed in a beautiful hotel on the water. One morning, I went alone down to the beach very early while everyone was still asleep. And there was a dock far out, maybe a half-mile or so, where I could see a mermaid was stranded. I couldn’t believe my eyes! But there she was. Her tail had been injured. Her scales were sparkling in the sun, and there were barnacles on her shoulders, and I thought—”

  “Wait, Daddy.” Delilah puts a small hand on his arm. “Is this a true story?”

  “Well . . .” He shrugs. “It’s a good story.”

  Donovan falls onto his back and kicks the wall. The sound makes my ears flatten. “C’mon, Dad. Is this a story, like Santa Claus? Is it pretend?”

  Peter’s brows knit together, and he pinches his mouth for a moment. “This is a better-than-true story. It’s not a story that anyone knows but me. No one else was there.”

  Delilah gazes up at her father. “What do you mean better-than-true?”

  Peter looks tired all of a sudden. “Sometimes, Del, the truth is very dull. It does nothing to enlighten us. And sometimes, it’s just unbearable. It makes us sad and wish we had done things differently.”

  “Yeah.” Donovan sighs, sounding older than his years. “I know what you mean.”

  Delilah is puzzled. She fiddles with the top of her ear. “The truth can be unbearable?”

  Peter shifts his weight. “Here’s the thing. I like to tell the story about how I lost my leg in a way that’s entertaining, you see? That’s all. This way, it’s my story. I’m in charge of it. The great thing about telling your own story is that you get to decide what happens. You get to tell it any way you want, with monsters or angels or whatever you can think of. Look. When you get older, if you decide that my stories are no longer for you, I’ll respect that. But I’m hoping you’ll let me tell it my way, at least for a little while longer. To make it exciting. I want you to really enjoy it.”

  The kids aren’t quite sure how to react.

  Peter tries again. “Here’s the way I look at it. You’ve got to take charge of your own life. So I lost my leg. That happened, and I can’t do anything about it. But I don’t have to dwell on the bad stuff. I’d rather give my story a new twist—to think of something amazing and make it mine. It’s my story, and I’m improving it. Okay?”

  Delilah and Donovan look at each other, and seem to make up their minds.

  “Yeah, okay. If you want. I still want to hear about the sea dragon, Daddy.”

  “SEA SERPENT.” Donovan’s face grows red. “COME ON. SERPENT. Not a dragon. It was ten feet long. Like a giant snake. Like an eel. Right?”

  “Yes.” Peter’s eyes grow wide with recognition, as if he’s seeing it again in his mind’s eye. “Yes.” He leans to pick me up with a steady hand under my ribs, and pulls me over to hold me to his chest. “If only I’d had a loyal friend like Luna with me, I might still have my leg today. Cats have a sixth sense about danger approaching. Maybe she could’ve warned me that the serpent was waiting for me.”

  “Yes, she would have.” Delilah reaches out her arms and Peter deposits me in her lap.

  But I am not the hero of this story. Peter is. I close my eyes and wait for Peter to continue. I have heard this tale many times.

  I can imagine the sparkling deep blue of the sea, the feel of cool spray from the waves hitting Peter’s face, the taste of the salt on his lips, and the terror I’d feel if I were him, floundering in the water, unsure of where the sea serpent would strike next. Good thing he had that knife strapped to his waist! Or the serpent might have dragged him down to the watery depths forever.

  There’s nothing like a good sea serpent tale. Nothing in this world! I snuggle in tight, my wet nose pressed against Delilah’s tummy, and enjoy the story.

  * * *

  Hmm. I can’t think of anything Peter said to explain why his spirit remains on the earth. The ghost stories he told were mostly tales about spirits haunting houses and scaring people—terrifying and thrilling, but I can’t think of how it applies to Peter.

  It’s the story about losing his leg that has stuck with me the most vividly. Those frightening details. The shock. The surprise. Years later, he still woke up sometimes feeling as if he had two legs, and looked down to find one gone.

  I suppose that’s the biggest story of his life.

  Isn’t it?

  Bad Advice

  ANNIKA

  I wake up curled in a tight ball, full of anxiety. I wish Peter were here. If I asked him to spoon me, he would put his arm over my waist and the weight of him against my back would make me feel safe.

  Peter had the ability to steady me when I was upset. I think about the first time my parents met his, at his house for dinner. I was stressed out, hoping my parents would be able to impress his mom and dad. Peter held my hand under the table and flashed me that beautiful smile to let me know there was nowhere else he would rather be. He made it easy for me. Honestly, I couldn’t wait until dinner was over so we could be alone and relax. We excused ourselves to go up to his bedroom while the parents talked over dessert. Lying on his rug, a pillow propped under his head, he read to me a chapter from one of his favorite books. I closed my eyes to listen to the sound of his voice, and nestled my face into his ear so he would feel my breath on his cheek and know I was listening.

  I wish I could hear his voice again now.

  Slowly, as I spread out in bed and take a deep breath, my thoughts turn to Sam. That was certainly odd, to find him on my doorstep. Not uncomfortable. Well—I take that back. It was a little uncomfortable for me. The strangest thing is that it didn’t seem awkward for Sam at all.

  It’s odd to see someone after many years have gone by. Those people you knew years ago, back in high school—the jocks, the nerds, the slackers—they’re the same, aren’t they? And yet, you know they’ve grown up and changed. They’ve had experiences you know nothing about and gone through God-knows-how-many life-changing events. And at the same time . . . it’s almost as if you can pick up a conversation you started decades ago and keep running with it, and it feels normal.

  Sam seemed the same, just older.
Warm. Actually happy to see me, which I didn’t know would be true. I wish I could have invited him in. But I was afraid we would end up talking about the past, and I’m not ready to do that.

  Sam is the first boy I ever loved. For one wonderful yet painful year I was obsessed with him. He was my Romeo, loyal and brave. But I messed everything up. Which is why I avoided him when I saw him in Brown’s supermarket.

  Sam was with me the night Peter lost his leg. The night I ruined two lives. I somehow, amazingly, managed to salvage something with Peter.

  But Sam? I don’t know if he forgives me or not.

  Luna gets up from where she has camped out at the foot of my bed. I’m not sure why she always insists on plopping down right where my feet are supposed to go. Peter slept on the right side of the bed, and I prefer the left. Despite all the extra room now that Peter’s gone, Luna still insists on sleeping on my side of the bed. So I’m forced to curl up in an unnatural way to make room for her. She knows I’m awake now and wants breakfast. She climbs right up on my chest to settle down in a purr, just like she used to with Peter.

  Ow. She always places her paws in the most inconvenient places. “Shove off,” I tell her, but I’m gentle about picking up each paw and placing it elsewhere. Her purr is incredibly loud. I’m sure her purr has been more therapeutic for me than any medication the doctor could possibly prescribe.

  When we get up, I can see that it has started to snow. “Look, Luna.” She stands, with her tail held high. I rub my fingers together to entice Luna to jump up onto the loveseat that looks out toward the front of the house from my bedroom. Snow is falling in fat flakes and clumps as big as a quarter; they float down and cling to tree branches. The walkway is perfectly covered in snow. “It looks beautiful.”

  Luna glances up at me, forlorn. I know she doesn’t think it’s so great. Now she can’t go outside.

  Once I’m showered and dressed, Luna curls up in my lap while I read a book. When the kids wake up, I make them breakfast: salty bacon sandwiched between wheat toast. Delilah dips hers in thick maple syrup.

  “It’s snowing so hard!” Delilah exclaims, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter and staring out the window. “Snow day. Woo-hoo!”

  “It looks so cool,” Donovan chimes in. “Everything is disappearing under the snow.” Even he is charmed at the sight of snow pouring down between the trees. Donovan has an eye for beautiful things.

  Delilah points her sandwich at me. “Is Aunt Lisa coming over?”

  My older sister, Lisa, is renting the cottage across the street, at the top of a steep hill. When I finally confessed to her that I wasn’t coping well with Peter’s death and had decided to move back home for a while, she was quick to relocate from New Hampshire and offer help, which I appreciated. Lisa was married for three years when my kids were young, but now she’s divorced with no kids of her own. At first, Lisa took a month-to-month lease on an apartment in nearby Beverly. When my older neighbor across the street moved into assisted living a few weeks ago, she took the rental immediately.

  “I texted your aunt Lisa. She doesn’t have work, but she’s going to hold down the fort at home and see how it goes today. Maybe she’ll come over when it stops snowing.” I put the last of the bacon on a paper towel. “You guys slept late. You must be tired from school.”

  Donovan clears his throat. “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Up texting Lexi?” Delilah pokes at his arm with a finger.

  He scowls. “No, I mean, yes, but—that wasn’t the issue. I wonder if I could have sleep apnea like Dad.”

  I freeze. It never occurred to me that one of the twins might have sleep apnea, as Peter did, unknown to us. But it’s highly unlikely, isn’t it? I’m sure Donovan is fine.

  I immediately shake my head. “No, honey. No, I really doubt it.”

  “Do you?” He puts down the crust of his sandwich. “You didn’t listen to Dad, either, you know that?”

  “Sweetheart, I—”

  “When Dad said he was tired in the morning, you told him it was because he was working too hard.”

  “But he was.”

  “When he asked if his snoring bothered you, you said you didn’t hear it because you slept like a rock.”

  “Again, that’s true.” I glare at him. I almost get the impression he’s rehearsed these lines, like a lawyer putting me on trial. “Have you ever heard the expression hindsight is twenty/twenty?”

  Delilah swallows a last bite of bacon, her big eyes darting back and forth between her brother and me.

  “In fact,” Donovan concludes, folding his arms across his chest, “I looked up sleep apnea on the internet and you missed about a thousand clues. I remember Dad asked you if he should see a doctor because he didn’t sleep well. You said the doctor would just give him addictive sleeping pills and he shouldn’t bother. You told him to take Advil if he had headaches. And you told him to use fewer blankets if he woke up in a sweat. Seriously, you gave him a lot of bad advice. You’re not a doctor.”

  “She’s a doctor of math,” Delilah butts in. “Does that count?”

  For the love of God. I sigh. What can I say? Donovan is right.

  Peter is a man who lost his leg and went right on with his life, never looking back. I thought he was Superman. I thought he could handle absolutely anything. Headaches and snoring weren’t enough to concern me.

  I didn’t know about Peter’s sleep apnea. I didn’t understand what his symptoms added up to, or that such a thing could be fatal. If I could go back in time, I would.

  I’d do a lot of things differently.

  I think about it all the time. Maybe I’m not as good a listener as I think I am. What else did I miss? What else did I ignore or misunderstand? What else did Peter try to tell me, only to have me push it aside?

  What is wrong with me?

  “Okay, you win,” I concede. “I killed your father. Are you happy now?”

  Donovan rolls his eyes. “I’m being serious. Why don’t you take responsibility for something you did wrong, for once?” He brings his white plate over to the sink and rinses it off before disappearing upstairs again.

  “For once?” I call out after him. “What else did I do wrong?”

  I ask this even though I know what else I did wrong. I know why Donovan is still traumatized about Peter’s death.

  I’ve tried to bring it up a few times, even though talking about Peter’s death hurts me as much as it hurts Donovan. But he refuses to discuss it. Donovan walked away from therapy just as he walks away from me now. Sometimes the shock fades for a while, only to come screaming back when something triggers our memories and we hurt all over again.

  Delilah hunches over the counter toward me. “Let him go. He’s probably in a bad mood because he doesn’t get to see Lexi at school today. Wanna see a photo of her?”

  I hesitate. But, of course, I do. “All right.”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Delilah says, getting excited as I walk over to her. “But do not look at Donovan’s user name. Don’t use this as an excuse to stalk him online.”

  I balk. “I would never stalk him online. You’re the one who offered to show me a photo! Honestly, Del.”

  “Sorry.” She places one hand over the top of her phone, I suppose so I can’t see whatever information would allow me to identify Donovan’s account. “This is her.”

  I peer at the photo. I need my reading glasses. She’s as I remember: short and cute. “Does she wear that skimpy outfit to school?”

  “No, look. She’s in her bedroom at home. Can’t you tell?”

  All I can tell is that she’s barely wearing anything. Certainly not a bra. And those might be fake eyelashes. “Donovan took this photo?”

  “Noooooo, Mom. No, she took this herself. He just reposted her photo.”

  Hmm. Terrific. Lexi is pretty—and looks pretty darn proud of it. I guess many kids take photos of themselves these days, but this sort of vanity rubs me the wrong way.

  I take a step back
. “Is she nice? Is she nice to you?”

  Delilah just shrugs, like she can’t tell one way or the other. Which I take as a no. Or maybe Lexi just hasn’t had a chance to get to know Delilah yet. That makes me a little sad, but Del has her own friends.

  She watches me. “What’s the matter? Why do you look so worried?”

  “I’m not worried.” I unfurrow my brow and relax my shoulders. “It’s just that Donovan hasn’t been in a relationship before. So I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  Especially when he’s had such a hard time this year missing his father, I think. But I don’t say that out loud. Delilah and I love to talk about Peter, but we have an unspoken rule about keeping our thoughts upbeat and positive.

  “Don’t worry.” She clicks off her phone. “When I see them together at school, she’s obviously really into him.”

  I’d like to ask for a translation of what “really into him” means according to Delilah, but I bite my tongue. I can imagine.

  Later, the kids and I put on our winter gear and bring in three more armfuls of wood from the garage. We have days when I wish the garage was attached to the house, but I love the old two-story building—it’s as big as a barn—and my parents left it full of enough split wood to last several winters. As we trudge down the walkway, snow is already up to the ankles of our boots.

  “Isn’t it strange how snow makes everything feel insulated? Almost like it’s warm out.” Donovan tries to catch snow on his tongue.

  “It feels like we’re walking in a snow globe.” When Delilah exhales, I can see her breath in the air.

  I agree with them. The sky isn’t dark, like on a rainy day. Rather, it’s white. The sun trying to shine through the clouds gives off a weak, smothered glow.

  Once the wood is piled up on a mat just inside the front door so we don’t track snow down the hallway, I feel tired but also a sense of accomplishment. I light a pine-scented candle and peek in the refrigerator to admire dinner.