by Cecilia Lyra
“He did this,” I yelled. “He killed her.”
They had to restrain me. I was put on a wheelchair and hurried away from my father, the grieving widower. I felt powerless, lost. I remember thinking this is how I’d feel for the rest of my life: trapped in a never-ending darkness. To this day, I can’t see an empty wheelchair coming my way without my heart hammering inside my chest.
A social worker came to see me—a patronizing idiot. He kept saying it was only natural to look for someone to blame, but that the doctors were certain of their assessment: it had been a suicide.
But I knew better. I knew my father had done something to make her take those pills.
Eventually, they allowed Julie to see me. She wasn’t related to my mother, so they hadn’t filled her in on what happened. I told her everything, including how they had whisked me away on a wheelchair like I was some mental case.
“Cassie, I’m so sorry,” she’d said, holding me in her arms, somehow managing to fold my gangly figure into her petite chest. “I never thought this would happen.”
I didn’t, either. I knew my mother was sick, but I never thought she was suicidal.
“Oh, Jul, what am I going to do?” My voice meek—grief squeezed my vocal cords.
I needed her to tell me that we’d get through this. That it was all going to be all right. It’s funny how when tragedy strikes you want to hear those words, even though that’s when they’re the least true.
But Julie never said what I needed to hear. She was stunned, paralyzed to a freakish degree, almost like she’d just found out that her mom was dead. She didn’t leave my side, but her presence did little to alleviate my pain. I knew she meant well, but she was too sensitive to be helpful in a crisis, too horrified by death, I suppose. When I told her to go home, she didn’t refuse. I decided to go home, too—I didn’t want to be around my father, and he had to stay behind at the hospital to take care of paperwork. I was even considering packing a bag and going to Julie’s apartment. I’d rather be around Sophie than my father.
I saw the envelope as soon as I walked into the living room, torn open, dozens of pictures spilled on the floor. If I close my eyes, I can practically see the smiling shots of the family my father had in the city, so close—and yet so far—from our pretend idyllic suburban life. It’s a tactile memory: my fingers can almost feel the glossy paper of frozen moments that proved that Sophie was more than a one-night stand. More than Julie’s mother. Sophie was my father’s second wife.
That was what my mother saw before she died.
Then I found her note. It was on my nightstand, under a duck-shaped crystal paperweight she’d given me when I turned fourteen. It had belonged to her mother. Next to it stood an empty orange bottle: Xanax, 2mg.
I expected this from your father but I didn’t expect this from you.
Beside the note was a picture of Julie and me, smiling inside Sophie’s home.
I’d only been there once, on the day after that awful boy had assaulted Julie. Julie’s eyes were red and puffy from crying, but I’d managed to make her laugh and her mother had taken a picture of us. Sophie had seemed so nice, normal. In my mind, she had been an exotic creature: half woman, half enchantress. Seeing her in her home had broken that spell. She wasn’t exactly a regular mom—regular mothers do not offer cocktails to their daughter’s friends. But she was a good one. That had been a surprise.
I never went there again. It felt wrong, somehow. But I liked seeing Julie’s home.
That was what my mother had seen before she died. My betrayal.
How could I keep Julie in my life after that?
I know that the sins of the mother do not—or at least should not—pass on to the daughter. But how could I exchange words, be in the same room, share smiles, engage in any kind of interaction with someone who was related to the woman who gave my mom ammunition to take her own life? It was impossible. I could never forgive Sophie, which meant that I could never forgive Julie.
That day, eight years after gaining a sister, I lost her. Forever.
Thirty-Six
Julie
Wednesday, July 18th
We’re on Old Town Road. I’m driving, but I’m too overwhelmed to be scared.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
I don’t get a response, verbal or otherwise. Cassie sits motionless, staring out the window even though there’s nothing to see but well-pruned trees and cookie-cutter houses with American flags waving in the breeze.
For once, I deserve her silence. I should’ve realized we were inside a hospital, should’ve anticipated how triggering that would be for her.
“I’m an idiot, Cassie,” I say again. I’ve said this multiple times already, though if there’s ever been a time to reiterate one’s own idiocy it’s when you fail to make the connection that your sister’s mother died in a hospital. “I’m really sorry.”
I see her shrugging from the corner of my eye. At least it’s a reaction. People think I’m sweet. I hear it all the time: Julie, you’re such a sweet girl. It’s the silence. Being quiet makes people assume I don’t feel the sorts of feelings that a sweet girl shouldn’t. Rage. Jealousy. Resentment. But I’m only human. I was upset before—angry that Cassie was being rude to me. That anger kept me from realizing that Cassie was hurting, too.
My mind takes me back to a day, shortly after Katherine’s death, when I was so consumed by guilt that I came to Montauk and announced to Nana that I was placing my life in her hands. I confessed right there on the spot—it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. With the exception of losing Cassie, nothing was more terrifying than the thought of Nana hating me. But I pushed through the fear and told her everything. Nana had done a very poor job of disguising her shock, but she was firm in her opinion that I should not, under any circumstance, tell Cassie. Not right then, anyway.
“But she’ll know,” I had told Nana. “When she sees me, she’ll know I’m hiding something.”
Back then, I still thought Cassie was just taking some time to herself. I had no idea she’d cut me off from her life for good. And neither did Nana.
“We’ll tell her eventually. When the time is right. But if you tell her now…” Nana paused and shook her head sadly. “She just lost her mother. She can’t lose you, too.”
“But she thinks my mom did it,” I said.
“Better that she be angry with your mother than with you. You’re her sister.”
The message was clear: in Nana’s world, my mom was expendable. I knew that already, but it still hurt.
I’ve always wondered if I would have confessed if Cassie hadn’t cut me out of her life. Part of me likes to think I would’ve done the right thing: come clean. But deep down I know better. I would’ve been too afraid of losing her. I’ve always been afraid of losing her—ironic, given how things unfolded.
But now is not the time to think about me. I need to focus on Cassie. She’s wounded, physically (her ankle) and emotionally (memories of the hospital). Also, I’m worried she hit her head, despite her insistence that she hasn’t.
“Will you consider getting your head checked later on?” I’ve looked up signs of a concussion on my phone, but I don’t want to tell her that. The only thing she dislikes more than doctors are wannabe doctors.
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Do you remember what you said about me and Dad?”
“Of course I do,” she snaps. “Are you telling me it’s all in my head? I saw him.”
“Where did you see him?” My tone is patronizing. I can’t help it.
“On Main Street. About two weeks ago.”
I frown. I expected her to say at the hospital.
Wait—has she really seen Dad?
“Of course I have,” she tells me when I ask her.
“Did you talk to him?”
She lets out a snort that tells me the idea of speaking to our dad is preposterous.
“But you’re sure it was him?”
She narrows her eyes at me, studying me like the psychologist that she is. “You really expect me to believe you don’t know he’s here? I heard you on the phone today.”
I pause at a stop sign and look both ways even though no cars are coming. Intersections are the scariest part about driving. “I talked to him on the phone, yes.”
“And he wasn’t here? In Montauk?” Her tone is a challenge.
“Of course not. He’d tell me if he were. He hasn’t been here in years.”
I ignore the voice that’s asking me if he really would tell me. He’s my dad. He’s not mushy and sentimental, but he wouldn’t hide from me.
“Whatever.” She wiggles in her seat, wincing in pain. I’m glad that her ankle isn’t broken—the ultrasound revealed it to be a high-grade ligament tear—but I still wish she’d accepted the painkillers.
“Why would I keep something like that from you?”
“I have no idea. But you’re obviously hiding something.”
I feel a cold rush down my spine. “I’m pulling over.”
I find a shoulder off Hampton Road that looks quiet enough. I expect her to protest, to demand I take her home, but she just stares at me blankly.
“To the best of my knowledge, Dad isn’t here. I’ll call him if you want.” I pick up my phone and thumb my way to his contact.
She doesn’t stop me when I call him on speaker. It goes to voicemail after five rings.
“Hi, Daddy, it’s me,” I pause when I see her roll her eyes. “Just wanted to say that I loved talking to you earlier today and that I’m happy to hear that you enjoyed fishing. I hope things are good in Seattle.” I give Cassie a knowing look. “And that we can meet up in Boston when summer is over, like we discussed.”
She scoffs when I say I love him and hang up.
“It’s not my fault it went to voicemail. You know how Dad is.”
“Mercifully, I’m beginning to forget,” she mumbles.
“He isn’t here. You saw someone else.”
“I know what I saw,” she tells me.
“Why would he be here and not tell me?”
She draws in her breath and then releases it heavily before saying “Why does he do any of the things he does?”
“I’m not lying to you.” I look her straight in the eye even though she is avoiding my gaze.
“Fine,” she says. “Then why did he buy your favorite flowers? And why were you humming his favorite song? And—” she pauses and looks at me in disgust. “Never mind.”
I blink rapidly as her questions hit me like angry bullets. “OK,” I say, holding my palms up. “I have no clue what flowers you’re talking about and what song was I even humming? I don’t even know Dad’s favorite song.”
She stares at me, no doubt hoping that if she engulfs me with enough silence I’ll cave and tell her everything. Well, there isn’t anything to tell. Not about Dad, anyway.
“My life is none of your business,” she says all of a sudden.
OK, it’s official. She hit her head and is losing it.
“I know that,” I say, slowly. “Would you like me to try Dad again?” I hold up my phone.
“No,” she says. A moment later, she hesitates, like she’s reconsidering. But she doesn’t say anything else.
“Fine.” I turn the car back on, hoping she’ll stop me so we can actually talk about what happened.
But hope is futile.
This is Cassie: master bottler of emotions. Angry silence is her comfort zone.
Thirty-Seven
Cassie
Wednesday, July 18th
It’s not my fault she’s too stupid to password-protect her phone.
The idea came to me when she offered to call our father for the second time. I watched her unlock her phone with a faint swipe of a finger—nothing more. No password required, no touch ID. Like I said: a genius.
It’s almost too easy to snatch her phone. She is staring fixatedly at the road, her neck as stiff as steel.
“I don’t want to argue anymore.” The words spill out of my mouth quickly. Too quickly. “I’d like to clear the air between us. Maybe we could start over.”
The naked relief in her eyes is almost too much to bear.
“Watch the road.” I look away.
“Sorry,” she says, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. And then: “I want that, too.”
“OK. Can we go by King Kullen? If I’m going to be on bed rest, I need chocolate.”
She shoots me a surprised look. Did I sound too eager? “Sure.”
If our father’s intention really is to steal my share of the house, I don’t think she’s in on it. Julie is many things—dishonest isn’t one of them. He must not have told her about his plan. He must’ve asked her to keep quiet about him being on the island for some other reason.
Minutes later, she pulls up in front of the market. I act as though I’m getting out of my seat, but then I wince, a bit too theatrically. Thankfully, Julie does not seem to notice my subpar performance.
“Maybe I should go.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Would you mind?”
She flashes me a grateful smile. I almost feel guilty. Almost. Now is not the time to be sentimental. I need to focus on the task at hand, to find out what she knows. I take out a pen from my bag and begin jotting down a lengthy shopping list.
I hand her the prescription and ask if she’d mind picking up a few other things for me, too. “Emergency essentials,” I say. “I wrote them down on the back.”
She does what I knew she’d do: agrees readily, one step away from clapping her seal hands in delight. I lock the car as soon as she leaves.
Let the snooping begin.
First things first: her texts. A thread with someone called P is top of the list—she’s been ignoring their calls, whoever they are. I scroll up.
Today 7:31 A.M.
I spoke with your mother. She agrees this behavior is completely unacceptable. You are to return to Boston right now.
Today 7:41 A.M.
Do you hear me?
Today 7:59 A.M.
Answer me.
Today 8:01 A.M.
Please don’t talk to my mother about me
Today 8:02 A.M.
What else am I supposed to do when my wife is acting like a lunatic? Is this all for a baby? Or because of the day you fainted?
Today 8:02 A.M.
How am I acting like a lunatic?
Today 8:04 A.M.
You hung up on me yesterday. You’ve been ignoring my calls. Do you expect me to go to Tammy’s book launch by myself? What’s this about?
Today 8:05 A.M.
This is about wanting ME back. I’m feeling like myself again.
Today 8:06 A.M.
Are you saying you’re not yourself with me?
Today 8:10 A.M.
How can I be?
Today 8:11 A.M.
You tell me what to wear, what to eat, how to act.
You don’t want me to be anything other than your wife.
Not even a mom. Do you have any idea how it feels,
being married to someone who doesn’t want children with you?
Today 8:12 A.M.
You’ve lost your mind.
Today 8:13 A.M.
No, I may have found it.
And I’m not blaming you. I let you change me.
Today 8:14 A.M.
What are you saying?
Today 8:15 A.M.
I’m saying I want more out of my life.
I want a baby. And an occupation of my own.
Today 8:17 A.M.
I didn’t see you complaining when I took you out of your working-class neighborhood and brought you to Beacon Hill.
Today 8:25 A.M.
You better be really sure about what you’re doing.
Today 8:26 A.M.
Do you even miss me?
Or are you just angry I came here even though you told me not to?
Toda
y 8:27 A.M.
I won’t dignify that with an answer.
Today 8:28 A.M.
You just did
Today 8:29 A.M.
Don’t expect me to be here when you come to your senses.
Today 8:45 A.M.
I just called you. Pick up.
Today 9:15 A.M.
Pick up the phone.
Today 9:48 A.M.
Don’t bother calling me back. I’m done with you.
Today 1:36 P.M.
Why aren’t you taking my calls?
P is Patrick, her husband. He seems awful—though I know better than to jump to conclusions based on a few texts. Besides, if he could see Julie and Craig making eyes at each other he’d be devastated. I wonder, not for the first time, why Patrick hasn’t been to the island on weekends.
I scan their earlier messages. There aren’t a lot of them. Nothing about me, let alone my relationship with Daniel. And nothing about our father, either.
Time to move on to other threads. Her contact list seems to be made up mostly of single letters: J, N, L. One of them catches my eye: Tricia the B. Is that intentional? It’s certainly amusing. Then I see it: Sophie. Julie and her mom exchange a lot of messages. The most recent one alone is so long it takes up the entire screen. I scroll up.