by Cecilia Lyra
I feel my eyes sting. I hate that he can still make me want to cry after so many years.
That’s when I feel it, the pop of a memory. I think back to that day, to the dinner we had on Newbury Street. Julie had been acting strangely quiet. Almost like she was nervous. I remember how I had to shake her into action. How guilty she looked at the hospital. She was in shock.
I relive our past month together. The look she gets on her face when I mention my mom. I thought it was sadness. A feeling of misplaced guilt because of her mother’s actions. Shame over me reading her stories on her phone.
But no—it’s remorse.
It was Julie.
Julie is the reason my mother is dead.
A knife blade slicing through my chest: that’s what it feels like. Sharp, cutting pain.
But…why? Julie kept our father’s affair a secret for years. Why would she do that when we were so close to living our dream of going off to college together?
I turn to face my father. He’s looking right at me. I feel a salty taste in my mouth. I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.
“Stop the car,” I manage to say. There’s a ringing in my ear. A continuous, high-pitched shriek.
“Relax, we’re almost there.”
“Stop the car!” I repeat.
“Jesus, shut up.” He looks at me. “I can’t just pull over in the middle of a highway.”
I want to yell back at him, but I can’t. My heart is beating too fast, like it jumped out of its usual spot in my chest and is now trying to free itself from my body. I remind myself to breathe because I seem to be forgetting and end up gasping for air after a few seconds of holding my breath. I use my right hand to clutch my chest.
“Cassie?” I hear him say. “Jesus, Cassie.” I look up and meet his eyes. We stare at each other for a beat. I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. I don’t want him to be the last person I see.
Another blaring noise pierces through my brain. Louder this time. Like a honk.
My father turns to face the road. Headlights flood our view. “Shit!” he yells.
He hits the brakes, but the car begins to swerve uncontrollably, screeching like it’s trying to stick to the asphalt to save its life. We crash.
And then it all goes dark.
Sixty-Two
Julie
Friday, July 27th
It happens in a rush.
Frantic flashes of red flood the otherwise dark road. Men in blue run towards the car. The smell of rubber and gasoline overpowers the salt-heavy air.
I lunge forward: I need to get her out of the car. But something holds me back. I’m a butterfly trapped by a spider.
I can see. I can smell. I can feel.
But I can’t hear.
I can’t hear the cry coming from my throat. Or the sound of the paramedics yanking the car door open. I can’t hear Daniel, who’s kneeling down on the floor, his face twisted in pain, in horror. All I hear is a steady, machine-like ring deep inside my skull.
And then she’s out of the car, motionless in a stranger’s arms. Her tall, Amazonian figure, invincible and unbreakable, reduced to a cloth doll. Her eyes are closed. Her arm is twisted in a way that looks both painful and unnatural. If she’s dead, then I want to be dead, too. I don’t want to exist in a world without my sister. I can’t.
Someone spins me around. Dad.
He is now in front of me, looking agitated, flustered. His lips are moving.
That’s the last thing I remember.
A familiar voice is saying my name. I feel my eyelids fluttering. Wherever I am, the lights are too bright. And it’s cold.
“Jul?” This is a voice I recognize. Craig.
I touch my forehead. My hands feel like ice.
“How are you feeling?”
“Am I hurt?” I search my brain for a memory, but I’m drawing a blank.
“You’re OK,” Craig says, frowning with concern. “Don’t push yourself.”
“Shouldn’t the doctor have gotten back to us by now?” says the other voice. I can place it this time. It’s Daniel.
Slowly, I begin to remember. Daniel and I were driving back to Nana’s, takeout food in hand. We were chatting about something—what was it? My divorce. That’s right, I was trying to get information for Cassie.
And then it hits me.
Cassie. Dad. The accident.
Daniel was the one who suggested we call 911. The crash had been loud, the agonizing sound of tires screeching on asphalt. We’d been curious when we drove past it. Fixated on the twisted allure of an accident scene. We stopped when we saw Dad standing outside the car, his hands on top of his head. I shouted to Daniel to pull over. Panic rippled through my veins when I understood that Cassie was inside the car.
But why would Cassie have been in a car with Dad?
I grab Craig’s arm. “Where’s Cassie?” I sit up, ignoring the ache in the back of my head. I take in my surroundings: I’m in a hospital bed, wearing a coat over my dress. I run my fingers through the unfamiliar garment. It’s soft, fleece-like.
“She’s going to be OK,” Craig says.
“We don’t know that,” Daniel says. His tone is altogether different. Steely, almost angry. He looks different, too. Like he’s aged ten years.
“Can I see her?” My mouth feels dry. I need water. Lots of it.
Daniel and Craig exchange a look. Something passes between them. Concern, certainly. But something else, too. Daniel’s lips are pressed into a thin line, his jaw tense. They’re keeping something from me. Something about Cassie.
“What’s going on?” My tone is pleading. My eyes dart between them.
Craig holds my hand. “Your father went to the house to see Cassie. He said some things…” He shakes his head somberly.
“What things?” I’m agitated now. “Wait, is Dad in the hospital, too?”
“He told her you were the one who sent her mother those pictures when…” Craig’s voice trails off. He doesn’t finish his sentence—he doesn’t have to. When we were teenagers. When Katherine killed herself.
But, no. That can’t be right. Dad doesn’t know it was me. He thinks it was Sophie.
“He’s here. He’ll be fine,” Daniel says. “Not that I give a damn.” And then, under his breath: “Bastard.”
I feel my heart stop, like all the air in the room has gone. And I can’t breathe.
“Why would she…?” I clutch the side of the bed. I can’t bring myself to finish my sentence. The room is spinning. I swallow. My mouth is dry, cottony. “Why was she in the car with him?”
“He didn’t tell us,” Craig says.
“You talked to him?” I ask.
Craig nods. He’s about to say something when Daniel interrupts, “Want to know what he’s worried about? Getting sued. Started talking to me about how she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and that’s on her.” He twists his face in an expression of disgust. “No wonder Cassie hates him.”
“Cassie knows it was me?” I sound like a mouse.
“She does,” Craig’s voice is barely a whisper.
I remember that Daniel is in the room and cover my mouth with my hand. A reflex. But it’s an unnecessary one now. My secret has been revealed. I force myself to look my sister’s boyfriend in the eyes. Daniel looks tired, but not angry. “I’m so sorry.”
“You were just a kid,” Craig offers. I notice that Daniel doesn’t agree.
It doesn’t make any sense. How did my father find out?
“We don’t know,” Daniel says. I’d been saying the words out loud, without realizing it. “We don’t know anything.”
This is all my fault. Cassie’s accident is all my fault.
“Can I see her?” I look at Daniel.
He shakes his head. “The doctor is supposed to come by to give us an update.”
“Who’s her doctor?” I ask.
“Lockhart,” Daniel replies. “She’s supposed to be good.”
“What did she say?” I want to kno
w everything.
“For now, we don’t know. She’s in a medically-induced coma,” Craig begins. I cover my mouth. I can’t feel my fingers. Craig continues, “It’s common in trauma cases—”
“She hit her head,” Daniel interrupts. “There’s swelling. They don’t know if she’ll be OK, we won’t know that until she wakes up. All we know for now is that her arm is broken but we can’t be sure of other injuries. They ran some tests, but we don’t have the results yet.”
“Jul, she could be totally fine,” Craig whispers. “We need to have faith.”
I’m flooded with a feeling that is both unbearable and familiar. Despair. The first time I felt it was all those years ago, on the night Katherine died. When I begged God to turn back time. To take back my mistake. To spare Cassie the loss of her mother.
I meet Craig’s eyes. He looks heartbroken, which is strangely comforting. Maybe it’s because I know his heart is breaking for me. I’m thankful he’s here. That’s when a thought occurs to me.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask him. “And where are Kiki and Ben?”
“He called your phone,” Daniel says. “I answered.”
Craig nods. “I came right away. Kiki and Ben are with a friend. They’re all right.”
I’m glad they’re not at the hospital. Kids should never have to come to a hospital.
“I need to see her.” I look at Craig. “I can’t live without her.”
Craig nods, blinking back tears. “Give me a minute. I’ll be back.”
Daniel and I sit in silence: him on a chair, me on the bed. I want to beg him for forgiveness, but I know I can’t. I don’t deserve forgiveness.
When Craig comes back, he’s with a short, stocky woman with big brown eyes. Kind eyes. She’s wearing scrubs.
“My name is Andrea,” she says. “I’m Craig’s friend and nurse here.” She lowers her tone. “Are you feeling better? You fainted.”
“I have low blood sugar. I’m fine now.” Not an outright lie: physically, I feel fine. I stand up as if to illustrate my point.
She tilts her head and then gives me a slow nod. “I can take you to see your sister. But that’s all you can do, OK? See her.”
“I promise.” I feel a wave of gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Follow me,” she says.
Andrea takes me down a long, white corridor of identical doors. She stops in front of a door marked 312. She’s reaching for the door handle when I put a hand on her arm.
“Will she be able to see me?” I ask.
Andrea shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. Her tone is gentle. “But your dad is doing well. He’s right down the hall.”
I can’t think about Dad right now. My mind is on Cassie. “She really dislikes hospitals,” I say. “Like, a lot.”
Andrea nods. “Her husband explained that to me. We made a note on her file.”
We step inside.
Cassie is lying on the bed. Her eyes are closed. Her left arm is in a sling. I notice a small cut on her lower lip, but other than that she looks peaceful. Like she’s asleep.
Nana would want me to burn sage in her room. To mix garlic, ginseng and gingko and apply it to her cut. She’d make Cassie tea. Chamomile, probably, and hold it in front of her nose so at least she would inhale some of the herb’s medicinal power.
The spirit of the Queen Mother hears the distress call coming from the Sky Princess. The Fire Princess is hurt. She needs to hurry. The Queen Mother allows her spirit to descend into the room, where she quietly sprinkles tiny, lilac-scented particles of love—the most powerful medicine in all of the universes. The Fire Princess inhales the magic particles and is cured.
Nothing. Cassie’s eyes are still closed.
It only takes me a few minutes to find Dad’s room.
“Ma petite,” he says, when he sees me in the doorway. His tone is gentle, calm. There’s a white strip around his nose. I can tell it’s badly bruised and swollen. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Daddy.” It sounds like a sigh. I feel the tears in my eyes spring up as I take a seat on the corner of his bed. It’s firm and cold—the air-conditioning vent is directly above me. The room is nice, though. Or nice enough: spacious and wide, with a flat-screen TV, and a narrow couch with thin, blue cushions that probably emit air when someone sits on it.
“Shh, it’s OK.” His tone is soothing. There’s a reproduction of Monet’s Water Lilies behind his bed. That’s probably meant to be soothing, too. “It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”
“What if she doesn’t wake up?” The words come out in between sobs. My hands are covering my face. I can hear the ticking of a wall clock.
“She will,” he tells me. “Cassie is very strong.”
At this, my heart swells. It’s nice to hear him say that about her. For a moment, I wonder if maybe this accident happened so we could all get along. But then I remember what he did. I look up and meet his gaze.
“Daddy, did you tell Cassie I sent Katherine those pictures?”
He swallows. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, his head hanging heavy. He’s so pale, he’s nearly matching the room’s white walls.
I feel more tears coming. I want to be angry at him, but I’m not. I’m not even upset. Right now, all my emotions are directed towards one thing and one thing only: Cassie. I want her to wake up. I want her to be well. Even if that means she’ll hate me forever. I wipe away my tears and take a deep breath.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
I nod. I’m about to tell him that I have to go—I want to be alone—but he continues.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. You and Cassie first got here on June twenty-seventh. Is that right?”
I frown. “Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
“Then you need to go home.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you won’t lose the house.”
I blink. “Daddy, now isn’t really the time to be worried about—”
“I know about Cassie’s affair. Sophie told me everything.”
“Sophie?” My head feels heavy and fragile, like a balloon that’s been filled with too much water and it’s about to burst. “Dad, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? The house can be ours. You’ll go back to spend your final night there. That way you get half. Cassie won’t get a thing—it’s clear she’ll be here all night. So, come tomorrow, you’ll be the only one with a legitimate claim to your grandmother’s house.”
I’m about to tell him that’s not how it works, that Cassie and I both need to be at Nana’s, when I feel a spike of something. Irritation. “What do you mean, I’ll get half?”
“I’ll take Cassie’s half. We’ll split it fifty-fifty. Cassie won’t contest it. Not if I promise her I won’t say anything about her affair.”
I can feel my mouth hanging open. “You’re proposing that we blackmail Cassie and cheat her out of her inheritance?” I deliver these words slowly, incredulously.
“She doesn’t need the money, Julie. She has her trust fund.”
“I can’t do this anymore.” The words leave my mouth without my permission, but as soon as I hear them, I recognize their truth. “Dad, we don’t know if Cassie will wake up. Or how she’ll feel even if she does.”
“Ma petite.” He looks confused. He puts a hand on his chest. “It wasn’t my fault.”
I feel a catch in my throat. “Your daughter is in the hospital and you’re worried about property.” I don’t phrase it as a question because it’s not. I can’t ignore it anymore: he’s showing me who he is. He’s been showing me who he is for a long time now.
“You’re looking at this the wrong way, ma petite.” He drops his shoulder. “I’m just looking out for you. Like I’ve done for all these years. I’ve always known that you sent those pictures. I never talked to you about it because I didn’t want you to feel bad. I love you. You’re my good girl.”
<
br /> I close my eyes for a moment. I feel stricken. When I open them again, my gaze lands on Monet’s swirls of yellow and green. I remember the day I learned about impressionism in school, about how, up close, the brushstrokes looked broken and ugly. That’s what I’m seeing now: someone broken and ugly.
“We don’t have to talk about it now,” he says. “We’re all in shock. It’s been a long night. Did I tell you my car was totaled?”
His car. At this, I shake my head. “I don’t think I can be your daughter anymore.”
His lips part slightly. He looks like I just slapped him across the face. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not. “You’re not good for me.”
“Jul—”
“No,” I say, holding up an open palm. “You’ve said enough. Please stop.” I force myself to take a deep breath. “You won’t be contesting the will. You’ll lose if you do. I guarantee it. We received letters from Nana, too. She did not have nice things to say about you, Dad.”
And with that, I walk away. I half expect him to call out my name, but he doesn’t.
Maybe he’s in shock. Maybe he never cared about me. Maybe it’s something else.
Whatever it is, I put it—and him—behind me.
I’ve said all I have to say. I’ve said goodbye.
Sixty-Three
Julie
Saturday, July 28th
I’ve been thinking about our phone calls.
It feels like a lifetime ago. And, technologically speaking, it was. This was before cell phones, before instant messaging and caller ID—at least for me. Sophie didn’t believe in spending money to find out who was on the other end of the line. It was a hidden part of our lives, like everything else we shared in the months in between summers. We had a system in place to reach each other: simple and effective. Cassie would call my house, the landline—this was back when landlines were a thing. She’d let it ring twice. If I was home (I usually was), if I could talk (I usually could), I’d call her back.