Girls of Brackenhill

by Moretti, Kate

  She was drunk on love and lust.

  What Julia had vacated, Wyatt filled. She didn’t even miss her sister during the long crystallized silences in the castle as Fae and Stuart worked outside and Julia was off wherever on her bike now. Hannah had spent much of June and July roaming the halls during the day, exploring the unlocked but empty rooms, looking under beds, finding old books with illegible scribble in the margins, smelling like mildew and rot. Feeling abandoned and sorry for herself but also, conversely, free. Julia wouldn’t want to dig through boxes in the attic, finding old photo albums of people Hannah didn’t know. She would have called it “pointless.”

  But now she was suddenly back, present, asking to be with her, and Hannah forgot about Wyatt, his kiss, his fingertips on her skin, his shared horror at the fish story.

  “Okay.” Hannah said it again, like talking to a stranger.

  “Okay,” Julia said, softer now, and then turned back to her bedroom.

  They rode into town in silence, Julia leading the way and Hannah watching her sister’s bike tires spin faster and faster as they took the switchback turns too quickly, gravel kicking out under their tires. Hannah felt the burst of fear in her chest, followed by joy. Maybe whatever had plagued Julia all summer had passed.

  The park was decorated with red, white, and blue bunting left over from the Fourth of July, and the amphitheater stage held a band covering Bruce Springsteen and Neil Diamond and all the songs Uncle Stuart listened to on transistor radio in the greenhouse. Hannah hummed along, then stopped because she suspected that it wasn’t cool to know all this music, classic rock. The air was thick with the smell of frying fish: deep fryers and pan fries on grills behind fish stands. People sat around on lawn chairs listening to the band, eating fish, drinking beer, lamenting the end of summer.

  Wyatt stood with Reggie, who flashed her a white smile. They stood apart from the group of kids, laughing and joking, until one girl reached over and swatted him on the arm. Hannah recognized Dana, the cigarette dangling between her fingertips.

  Wyatt raised his eyebrows when he saw Hannah. Their relationship had existed in a vacuum, and now here it was, thrust into the open. Would he finally acknowledge it? Did she still want him to? She hadn’t pushed him again since that first night back in June. She liked the bubble they’d lived in—no friends or sisters to mess it up. She bit her lip, gave Wyatt a nervous smile.

  Wyatt came over with cheeseburgers, and Hannah ate greedily, hungrily, with two hands. She was starving. Julia picked at her bun and put the plate down next to her folding chair. She held a red Solo cup that another girl—Yolanda something, maybe—kept pouring something into. Hannah realized too late, like a dumb little girl, that it was beer. The Coke can in her hand felt clunky and idiotic.

  They had a secret, though, Wyatt and Hannah, and that alone made Hannah feel above them all. She could tell they idolized Wyatt, all turning to him after they told a story or a joke to get his reaction. If he laughed, the girls preened, sharing smug smiles.

  Dana hardly acknowledged Hannah. The other girl, Yolanda, with black spiral curls down her back, studied her interestedly, like she was a new pet. Julia ignored Hannah altogether.

  Reggie caught Hannah staring more than once before he flexed for her, making his biceps jump and move, and Hannah looked away, her face on fire.

  She suddenly felt stupid—were they all laughing at her? Was Wyatt? He paid her less and less attention as the afternoon wore on. She had agreed to go along with the secret, but now, she wanted to barge onstage and grab the microphone, announce that Wyatt was her boyfriend, that they were together now. What would Dana or Yolanda say to that? She wondered if Wyatt ever touched these girls, licked their lips, fingertips making damp circles on their bare bellies as their bodies pressed together against the rough brick of the snack stand.

  Dana, Yolanda, and Julia sat as a threesome, talking softly and giggling on the rock wall at the edge of the park. Hannah sat apart, the concrete scratching at her bare thighs.

  “Where’s Ellie?” Hannah asked the group suddenly, and they all stopped. The band took a break between songs, and it seemed like the whole park stopped talking, the silence between them thin and crackling.

  “Who the fuck knows,” said another boy Hannah didn’t know, hadn’t been introduced to. The boys laughed, even Wyatt, which surprised Hannah.

  Reggie slung his arm around Julia’s shoulders and whispered something in her ear, and she curled into him, her mouth curved into a red-lipped smile that Hannah had never seen. Julia and Reggie? Was he her boyfriend? Don’t be stupid, Hannah. She could practically hear Julia’s sneering.

  Why had Julia asked her to come if no one was going to talk to her?

  And then, without warning, Reggie was right next to Hannah, with his arm around her waist, his voice like silk in her ear. “I didn’t know Julia’s sister was so pretty.” His breath smelled like beer and salty grease. “She said you were a kid.”

  Wyatt watched them keenly, saying nothing. Why did he say nothing?

  “I am a kid.” Hannah wanted him to go away. His nose was straight, his eyes bright. He looked like something from a teen movie: too pretty to be real, his skin smooth as cream, cheeks pink and shining. Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah watched Wyatt, who looked away.

  Hannah squirmed under the weight of Reggie’s arm, but he leaned closer, his breath on her cheek. “You’re no kid.” And his hand cupped her breast over her shirt. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and reminded her of Wes; her mouth turned to sawdust.

  Hannah pushed him off, harder this time, her breath coming in puffs. Her heart raced under his palm. She bit down hard on her own lip, bringing tears to her eyes. She wanted to go home, suddenly, urgently. She wanted Wyatt. Hannah craned her neck but could not see him.

  It had grown dark. The band played something old and slow that Hannah vaguely recognized. Some people by the stage started to dance, coupled up, swaying in the damp heat.

  Hannah stood. How were they going to ride their bikes back up the hill in the dark?

  She couldn’t see Wyatt anymore, could barely make any of them out, only silhouettes against the white spotlights shining onstage. Reggie’s arm tugged around her waist, fingertips sliding against the waistband of her shorts.

  She broke away, her hand slipping from Reggie’s, feeling sick. She wanted to find Julia. And Wyatt. “You girls from Brackenhill are all teases,” she heard Reggie mutter.

  “Where’s Julia?” Hannah asked Dana, who was lying flat on the concrete divider, eyes closed, head moving to the music. She looked up at Hannah like she’d never seen her before.

  “Dunno,” she said, her eyes glazed, a hand waving in the air toward the tree line behind them. They were all drunk, Hannah realized too late. How would they get home on their bikes if they were all drunk? Hannah felt like the older one, more responsible, having to care for the children.

  Hannah hiked off in the direction of the trees at the edge of the park. Mosquitoes nipped at her ankles; she’d have bites there tomorrow, the itching fierce. There was a couple sitting on the grass, underneath the largest oak.

  She made out the shimmer of Julia’s blonde hair in the passing of a headlight. The copper streak of Wyatt’s. Their heads too close for whispering, talking. Hannah stood still, her legs gone dead and heavy. One of Julia’s hands came up, those bright-red shimmery nails curling into the hair at the base of Wyatt’s scalp. His face in the sliver of light: eyes closed, mouth parted, euphoric.

  Like all his dreams were coming true.

  “Oh my God.” Hannah said it out loud, even though she hadn’t meant to. Dana and Yolanda turned to look, something finally interesting happening. They followed her gaze to the tree line and smirked.

  “’Bout time,” Dana said, her voice caustic. “She’s been chasing him all summer.”

  “They’re perfect together,” Yolanda sighed, a happy little drunk.

  “Julia!” Hannah shrieked. Her insides felt wild. I
n this whole summer of being ignored, the only good thing had been Wyatt, and now Julia was taking that away too. She took away Brackenhill; she took away the magic; she took away everything she touched. And the worst part was Hannah had no idea why. She had no idea why her sister had changed, why they couldn’t stay kids at Brackenhill forever. They had forests and basements and passageways and secret doors to explore, and now she was alone, and if Julia took Wyatt, Hannah was really alone, just like at home in Plymouth, and she put her fist in her mouth and screamed into it, not caring who saw her or heard her and not caring that Dana and Yolanda watched with glee, sitting at attention, feet swinging against the concrete. She didn’t care about any of it anymore. She hated them all. She wanted to go home.

  Julia broke out of Wyatt’s embrace—Wyatt’s embrace! Oh my GOD!—and turned to her sister, bewildered. Only Wyatt knew, and his face was unreadable. He did look sorry. He looked a little confused. And something else unknown to Hannah.

  “Hannah, wait!” he said but then stopped, not knowing what to say next. Not knowing where to go, how to make things better.

  Julia ran across the green between them, closing the short distance in a few seconds, and stood before Hannah, who was shaking with rage. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess; she knew she was careening, likely making a fool of herself, and couldn’t stop. She felt like everything was so wrong that it would never be right again.

  “Why! Why do you have to ruin everything! Why!” Hannah shoved Julia’s shoulders, and Julia stumbled, her mouth open in shock. They’d never touched each other like that before—not in anger. Never, not even as children. They protected each other—from Wes when he was drunk and raging, from Trina’s neglect—but they did not hit each other.

  “Hannah! What’s wrong with you?” Julia gripped Hannah’s wrists and held them out so their faces were inches apart and Hannah couldn’t hit or push her again.

  “I hate you! Wyatt was the only good thing I had.” Hannah felt the tears in her eyes, dramatic and childish, and knew she was ruining it for herself at this point but was unable to stop. “He was the only thing in my life that I liked. You’ve ruined everything.”

  “Hannah.” Julia’s voice was gentle, placating, and Hannah fought against her sister’s strength, tried to hit her again, but Julia stopped her. “Hannah. Please, honey, stop.”

  “Shut up! Just shut up!” Hannah sagged back, losing the strength, and stole a glance at Wyatt, who stood, paralyzed, ten feet away, watching the scuffle with his hands fisted in his pockets and his face blank with shock.

  “Hannah,” Julia said gently, “why do you think you had Wyatt?” She lowered her voice, the way you talked to someone unhinged, and Hannah realized that was what she was: unhinged.

  “Because we’ve been . . . together all summer.” Hannah faltered and in the background heard Dana and Yolanda laughing.

  “Hannah.” Julia looked around helplessly. “You can’t think that, can you?”

  Hannah looked over at Dana and Yolanda, back to Wyatt, even to Reggie, whose mouth curled in a curious smirk, and realized they all thought she was making it up. A delusional child. A foolish idiot.

  Her face burned, and she stepped back, away from Julia, who truly had no idea what she’d been doing all summer. Only Wyatt could set the record straight now.

  Hannah looked at Wyatt, her hands splayed outward for help.

  Wyatt turned his head, exposing the white of his neck, the neck Hannah had kissed so many times. He extended his hand, the hand that had caressed her hair, her back, all summer.

  “Hannah,” he said. She wished everyone would stop saying her name like that. His face was pained, his eyes clouded.

  He wasn’t going to save her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Now

  She’d escaped Wyatt’s on Sunday morning in a flurry of guilt and sickness—some from the wine but mostly with herself. She’d left him sleeping and sneaked out the front door. He’d called three times and texted even more; she’d lost count. Nothing harassing, just wondering if she was okay, and could they talk? She hadn’t answered yet. Her mind swung wildly between guilt—Huck—and snatches of the night: Wyatt’s hands on her hips, his breath on her stomach, a light, feathery tickle. The feeling of him curled against her as they slept, the way she fit in the hook of his body, perfectly. And disloyally, how she and Huck had never done this. She’d thought she liked to sleep alone, the feel of sheets beneath her palms, the cool distance of his biological furnace. She could breathe freely. She’d thought she wanted that. But with Wyatt, she hadn’t felt suffocated.

  She was unable to reach Huck. They were missing each other—talking to each other’s voice mails, texts going unanswered for hours. Almost as if he knew what she’d done. She sent him periodic missives: How are you? Hope you’re not too crazy there. But she acknowledged that if she hadn’t stayed at Wyatt’s, she would have been out of her mind trying to reach Huck. What must he think of her? It didn’t matter; she deserved all of it.

  She spent the day sick with herself. Packing up a suitcase, preparing to leave. She had to get home to Huck. Had to figure her life out. She literally felt like she was losing control of everything. She took Rink for a long hike, down to the Beaverkill, and followed the river trail halfway into town and back. He’d been stuck inside during the night while she was at Wyatt’s, adding to her guilt.

  That night she slept deeply and startled awake in the morning, crying out when she realized she was in Ruby’s room. The locked room. She sat on the floor, legs folded, surrounded by pictures. A photo box next to her was tilted on its side, glossy images strewed out and around her.

  The smell of death permeated the air, stuck inside her mouth and nose. The gentle image of dirt sifting over a shovel. The remnants of the dream.

  She shoved the pictures back into the box and put the lid on. Then stood helplessly in Ruby’s room holding the box. Her sleeping self had found it. Her conscious self had no idea where it had come from.

  Her head felt foggy, and her eyes burned. The nauseous pit in her stomach was made worse, not better, by the appearance of Alice in the doorway.

  “Why are you in here? No one is supposed to come in here,” Alice said, and Hannah offered a feeble “I don’t know” before Alice turned and brusquely headed down the hallway to Stuart’s room, where Hannah followed her. She’d left the box on Ruby’s bed.

  “We can’t move him. You realize that by now?” Alice’s voice was sharp, and Hannah found herself feeling chastised. No. She hadn’t realized that. She’d thought they were waiting a few days but would be making the decision—the one she’d assumed would be yes—and Uncle Stuart would move to the facility. She would go home. This was the plan.

  And yet she was still here.

  “He has hours. Days. Possibly a week,” Alice whispered in a hiss, held up his catheter bag. The liquid inside had turned a deep brown. “Kidneys are shutting down. His heart rate is erratic, fifty, then ninety.”

  Hannah took her seat next to her uncle’s bed and again picked up his hand. His skin looked blotchy and blue; fifty thumbprint bruises dotted his arm like islands.

  So she would stay. See this through. Organize another funeral, another luncheon. This time without Huck. Would he come back? She couldn’t even bear to ask him to. No, this was hers to do alone. She’d made a mess of everything, even if Huck didn’t know it yet. She’d tell him, eventually, about everything. Right now was about priorities. First Stuart. Then Wyatt. She had to close the door on him, on them. She knew she owed him a conversation. Then, home and Huck and whatever the future held for her. Would Huck stay? She didn’t know.

  Alice busied herself changing saline, the catheter bag, then the blankets, snapping fresh, clean linens in the air while Hannah sat silent. The woman’s silence seemed almost antagonizing.

  “Is there treatment for sleepwalking? Medicine?” Hannah asked her softly, partly to make conversation, partly because it hadn’t occurred to her to ask until this mome
nt. Alice was a nurse. She might know.

  “Is that why you were in Ruby’s room?” Alice stopped snapping the sheets and stared at Hannah. Hannah felt like a moth pinned to wax.

  “Yes. I think so? I wake up in different rooms here. This didn’t happen at home.” Hannah didn’t say that at home she had six rooms in her whole condo.

  “Klonopin,” Alice finally answered. A heavy-duty antianxiety medicine.

  The front bell clanged, echoing through the house, and Hannah cried out, startled. Alice looked at her strangely—Hannah was so on edge. Hannah stood, letting Stuart’s hand fall by his side, and made her way to the front door.

  She looked through the small window. Wyatt.

  What did he want? She could refuse to answer, but if it was about the case, her sister, Ellie, Ruby, or Warren, then she wanted to know.

  She opened the door, and his face was unreadable. She was still in her nightgown, no bra, and she folded her arms across her chest. Stupidly self-conscious.

  “Hannah, are you okay?” he asked, his face the picture of concern. His voice low.

  “I’m fine. Why are you here?” Hannah’s voice was sharper than she’d intended.

  “I have . . . a development.” He stammered over his words, reaching his arm out to touch her elbow, but she stepped away. “Can I come in?”

  She opened the door wide for him, and he brushed past her. He smelled like soap and Wyatt, and she instinctually wanted to hug him. Feel him against her again. She noticed how well his dark button-up shirt fit his frame, tucked into jeans, with a black belt. How long his legs looked. She closed her eyes and tipped her head up to the ceiling.

  In the sitting room, she sat on a velvet armchair, letting Wyatt take the love seat alone. Her emotions were too wild, her impulses too unpredictable with Stuart upstairs and Huck radio silent, to trust herself. Physical barriers felt necessary.

  “So what’s up?” Hannah finally asked when the silence grew.

  “Hannah, you just left. The other day. How are you? Are you okay? Can we talk?” Wyatt leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m not sorry it happened. But I am sorry if it upset you.”