Mom scowls. “It’s like you have no faith in me at all.”
That’s the thing, I don’t.
“Promise me you’ll keep quiet,” Mom pushes.
I cross a finger over my chest because I want out of this car. That does the job and Mom finally exits with her bottles of wine. When she shuts her door, Lucy and I study one another.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t like being here,” Lucy says. “It’s not fun.”
Because she’s wary of deep water and because being the youngest there with no one else anywhere near her age, it can be boring for her. “I’ll swim with you.”
“I want to go to Bridgett’s. She invited me over and Mom said no.”
“I’ll take you there tomorrow, okay?”
“Our house has monsters.”
Quick switch-up in conversation and that confession from my sister creates an uneasiness in my gut. Veronica has been telling me since the start that the house is haunted, but somehow the words falling from Lucy’s lips is chilling. “Is that why you have nightmares?”
“The little girl doesn’t scare me, but the man does.”
My spine straightens. “What man?”
“The one who comes in at night. He can change what he looks like. Sometimes he looks the same, most times he doesn’t.” Lucy hugs her mermaid closer to her chest, and she drops her voice like she’s terrified someone will hear her and she’ll get in trouble. “Sometimes, he peeks into my room. One time, he walked in and stared at me.”
My blood turns cold. “What did you do?”
“I screamed before he could touch me and he left. Then you came and sang to me.”
That could be any given night since we moved in. I don’t understand why her nightmares are so bad and include random men. The idea creates a sickening sloshing in my stomach.
“Does Daddy not love us?” Lucy asks, and her question causes my lungs to squeeze. “I heard Mommy say that to Hannah.”
A knock on my window, I jump and spot Sylvia smiling and waving at me. Before I can respond, Sylvia opens Lucy’s door and undoes her seat belt. “How are you doing, Luce?”
“I don’t know. Mommy says we aren’t allowed to talk.”
Sylvia’s forehead furrows, and I’m swamped with the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel. Instead, I get out of the car, shoulder Lucy’s backpack and watch as Sylvia picks up my sister, giving her a huge bear hug accompanied by a ton of kisses.
It’s a comfort to watch, but I’m also cautious. Sylvia’s been ignoring me since I publicly picked Veronica as a partner. Which has been fun considering we share the same friends and have swim practice together every damn day.
Lucy giggles and squeals when Sylvia gives her a raspberry on her cheek. Sylvia then sets her on the ground, reaches into the car for the mac-n-cheese and hands it to Lucy. “Go take this to Mom. I need to talk to your hardheaded brother. And, Lucy, you better not eat it all!”
Lucy laughs as she tells Sylvia that she will eat it all, and Sylvia mock pouts.
“Stay away from the pool until I’m there,” I call out, and Lucy responds with, “Okay.”
Once Lucy’s inside, Sylvia leans back against the car. “Hey.”
“Hardheaded?”
“Would jerk work better?”
“Probably.”
She smirks then uses a finger to poke my bicep. “You okay? You look a bit out of it.”
“I’m good.” I rub the back of my head. I could tell Sylvia about the string of weird conversations I just had with Mom and then Lucy, but then figure Lucy’s right—we aren’t allowed to talk. “I had to teach the toddlers’ swim classes today and then I’ve been working on homework. I’m brain dead.”
Sylvia notices the folded diary and snatches it from my back pocket. “What’s this?”
The instinct is to take it back, but the bigger deal I make out of it, the harder it will be to pry it from her hands. “Research.”
“On your ghost project?”
“Yeah. It’s a diary of a girl who lived in a TB hospital in upstate New York in 1918.”
Sylvia flips through the pages. “You carry this around with you everywhere you go. I catch you sneaking in reading all the time.” She glances at me and it’s uncomfortable on my part. “I see you more than you know, Sutherland.”
She’s right, I carry the diary with me all the time, read it every chance I get. There’s something in Evelyn’s simple, everyday life that calls out to me—her underlying loneliness, her need for peace, to be part of something, to go home, to be cured of something she can’t control … and her need to live.
“Miguel and I are talking in circles about what our topic should be.” She hands the diary back to me. “Did you know that neither Miguel nor I like compromise?”
“Yeah.”
“How many of the toddlers held on to you and wouldn’t let go?” she asks with the knowing smile of someone who’s also taught two-year-olds.
“One in every class. I even had a crier. Didn’t stop the entire time. Wailed and screamed and strangled my neck. The kid has a serious water fear. The mom never once offered to help.”
“Was she on her cell the whole time?”
“Yep.”
“Parents are worthless.”
True.
Sylvia deflates. There’s a shadow of hurt in her eyes, and all the anger I’ve had with her vanishes. “You okay?”
She shakes her head. “Mom and Dad tried talking to me again today.”
Damn.
Regardless of the fact that we’ve been mad at each other, Sylvia’s my friend. My best friend. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and she leans into me.
“They aren’t telling me that I shouldn’t be attracted to girls, but they keep questioning me in this nice way. It’s like a backhanded compliment. Saying things like, ‘We support you and we love you, but are you sure you’ve thought this through?’ Mom and Dad think I can’t say for sure I’m a lesbian unless I kiss a boy.”
“That sucks.” No one has ever told me that I should kiss a boy to be sure I’m into girls.
“Mom and Dad suggested that I try kissing you.”
“You know you want to kiss me,” I tease.
Sylvia places a hand on her chest and dramatically dry heaves. “Excuse me while I vomit out my pancreas.”
The light moment ends when she sighs heavily. I rub my hand up and down her arm. “I’m sorry … for a lot of things.”
“Me, too … for a lot of things as well.” A pause, then she continues, “I wish my parents were more like your mom. She accepts me. Like you do. Like Miguel does.”
I rub my hand up and down her arm again because I can’t bring myself to tell her that my mom pushes me to date her.
“I think that’s why I was so angry with you about Veronica. You chose to work with her over me. I guess there was a part of me that was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was scared you were switching one weird girl for another. That I’d been replaced. Because who could be friends with more than one weird girl in this town without losing their minds over the stupid gossip?”
“You’re not weird.” A pause. “And neither is Veronica.”
“We live in a small town where I can count the number of gay people on two hands. Most people around here consider me weird.”
“But you aren’t.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls away. “Whatever. So here’s the thing, Miguel and I need a favor.”
“What?”
“Because we haven’t agreed upon a topic, Mrs. Garcia told us that we need to join another group. Miguel and I talked and we’d like to join your and Veronica’s group.”
I warily eye Sylvia then shove my hands into my cargo shorts. “You don’t like Veronica.”
“Well … you seem to like her so maybe I’m missing something about her. Plus Mrs. Garcia showed us the list of project ideas she’s approved. I have to ad
mit, your ghost idea is far-fetched, but it’s also the most interesting.”
A pit forms in my stomach. “If this is my mom maneuvering for a good grade again—”
“It’s more than that,” Sylvia cuts me off. “I don’t want to get into another argument, but can you trust me that there’s more to this than just your grade? Without overanalyzing and asking a billion questions, can we go back to being friends? Can you let us in your group?”
I can’t imagine Veronica is going to be anywhere near okay with this, but Sylvia is my friend and I can’t let her down. “Okay. But there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“Veronica and I are dating.”
VERONICA
“You had a seizure last week.” Mom is on the window seat in my bedroom, looking out beyond the glass to the world below. “It wasn’t a major one, but a seizure nonetheless. You promised him you’d tell him if you ever had a seizure.”
“It wasn’t a seizure. It was an ice-pick headache.”
“You’re lying and you should tell your father.” The phrase has become her personal mantra.
I finish tying my boot. “And I’ll be in the hospital before my toast pops up from the toaster. No, thank you. I had my heart set on strawberry jam today.”
I pick through the curls in my hair and do a last look of myself in the mirror. Thanksgiving was a bust so I’m moving on to Christmas. Red plaid, pleated short skirt, white, lace tank as this fall is going to be the hottest on record, red-and-green-striped socks that end above my knees and black combat boots. I look good, very good. Sexy and ready to kick ass.
“You didn’t tell Sawyer how serious your brain tumor is. It’s growing. You know it is. Leo, at least, understood the implications of being with you. Are you being fair?”
I sigh because Mom’s persistence on these matters is starting to get annoying, and it’s really difficult to be mad at your mother’s ghost. “Dad went and visited Sawyer and his mom before we left for Florida, opened his big mouth again, and told Sawyer about your agonizing death and how the same fate awaits me when the tumor grows. As far as I’m concerned, Dad’s already told Sawyer all he needs to know. I’ll find out today if, after having time to think about it, that officially freaked him out and has driven him away.”
It’s Sunday. Dad and I returned from our trip last night. We drove to the Gulf Coast, dropped off his load, had two days to play, picked up another load, took it to Daytona, spent time there, then picked up another load and headed home. Overall, it was fantastic. I just wish that Mom wasn’t tethered to this house and she could have been with me.
Today, I’m dressing to break all sorts of hearts. But it’s really Sawyer’s heart I want to pound a bit harder. If he’s going to run for the hills, I at least want him to sort of regret it. After brunch with Dad, because I slept too late for breakfast, Sawyer and I are meeting to work on our project. I texted him last night asking if he would be willing to go over his photos and my EVPs. He texted quickly back yes. I’m choosing to see that as an encouraging sign.
“You look nice,” Mom says, and I grin at her tone. She means what she says, but she’s also hinting that she’s aware of my hidden agenda. “I’m sure Sawyer will like it.”
My stomach flutters with butterflies at the thought of seeing him, and I put a hand there in an attempt to tame them. Chill. This is a chill, kissing-only, hardly-any-emotion relationship. “Did you ever kiss a boy when you knew no serious emotions were going to happen?”
Mom shakes her head, but not in reprimand. “My mom told me to never do such things, but I like that you’re more adventurous than I was. It’s a quality you inherited from your dad.”
She unfolds her legs from underneath her to touch her toes to the floor. “The question is, how does kissing a boy who you don’t have feelings for make you feel?”
Her question causes hesitation, and I stop fussing with my hair to join her on the window seat. As I sit beside her, there’s an ache because I miss her warmth and her smell. Whenever Mom walked in the room I would immediately breathe in the scent of roses. I have a rosewood candle in my bedroom, but it doesn’t quite smell like her.
“I kissed a couple of boys just to kiss when you were sick. I thought it would make me feel better.” That it would help me forget.
“Did it?” she asks.
My throat tightens at the memory of the boys pawing at me. “No.” I don’t think there was anything that could have made me feel better when Mom was so ill. “But when Leo kissed me after the eighth grade dance, I liked it. And when Sawyer kissed me this past weekend, I liked that, too.”
Mom reaches out like she’s going to touch my cheek, but then stops just a breath’s distance away. Since the ice-pick headache, Mom’s stopped touching me. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s punishing me for not being honest with Dad. But the loss of her touch has created a gaping, bleeding hole. I miss her, so incredibly much.
She withdraws her hand and lays it on her lap. “What’s important is that you’re comfortable with your body and how you decide to use it. If you want to kiss the boy and he wants to kiss you, then you kiss. If you don’t want to kiss the boy, you don’t. Kissing is magical, but it’s not magical enough to make your wounds heal. Only time can do that.”
I know that now, and it was a hard lesson. A lump forms in my throat. “I miss you.”
Mom gives me a sad smile. “I’m right here, peanut.”
“I know.” And I’m grateful for that. The last few weeks of her life, Mom was so sick she slept all the time. When she was awake, she was barely coherent and whispered about the past.
When she died, it wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. It was so still … so quiet. A breath in, a breath out and then she wasn’t alive anymore. It felt wrong. Her dying should have been huge. There should have been violent storms and earthquakes. But none of that happened. She slipped away and the world kept turning. As I said, it felt wrong.
I had stood by her side, silent tears streaming down my face as I lost my best friend, my rock, my mother. “I love you.” So much. I’m not sure any daughter has loved her mother as much as I love her.
“I love you more.”
“V,” Dad calls. “Brunch is ready!”
Mom goes back to staring out the window. I stand, walk across the room, and at the door, I pause and look back at Mom. I hate that she died, but I’m so grateful she chose to stay here with me. I need to convince Dad about ghosts. I need him to believe and then he’ll see her. And when I die, he’ll never be alone because he’ll see me, too.
“Great news,” I say as I head down the stairs. “I don’t have a headache…”
My lungs squeeze when I hit the last step. Lights. There are lights strung everywhere. Orange lights, white lights, and all the paper turkeys I had taken down before we left for Florida are back up. Stranger? There are more than there were before. The one with large googly eyes hanging from the stairs’ entrance causes me to smile.
The large, long table Dad keeps in the basement is set up, covered with a white tablecloth and set with Mom’s fancy china and crystal. My mouth waters at the sight of so much food, and it’s such an odd combination. Waffles and bacon and sausage and eggs … and turkey and dressing and green beans and rolls.
Complete awe overwhelms me as Jesse, Nazareth, Scarlett and Dad step into my view from the living room. My eyes burn. They’re giving me Thanksgiving. “You did all of this?”
“We helped,” Dad says, then gestures toward the kitchen, “but he did most of it.”
He?
“Surprise!” Lucy jumps out from behind the couch. She’s in an orange shirt that has a turkey on it, black leggings and a bright orange tutu. “Sawyer says it’s Thanksgiving!”
She runs to me, and I gladly pick her up and accept her warm hug. A quick kiss to my cheek and she shimmies back to the ground, takes my hand and guides me to the table. “I made the turkey.”
“You did?” I say, and that’s wh
en I scan the kitchen and find Sawyer watching me.
His hands are in the pockets of his khakis, and he’s beautiful in his pressed, button-down blue shirt. There’s wariness there, but also hope. He’s waiting on me, on my reaction, and as Lucy continues to talk nonstop about all the food she helped her brother make, I let go of her hand, and approach Sawyer. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You did this?”
“I had help.” He keeps his baby blues on me, and my heart flutters. “You know, you’re not dressed correctly. Christmas isn’t until the end of October.”
The laugh bubbles out of me, and he gives me his brilliant smile, the sunrise after the darkest night. He lifts his hand, cradles my face and I lean into his touch. His eyes darken, the same way they did when he kissed me the other night, and my blood starts to tingle. Gravity pulls me toward him, him toward me, and right as our lips are about to meet my father clears his throat. “While I like that my daughter is happy, do you mind if you took your hands off of her?”
My heart pounds and we separate so fast we could both be track stars. Dad gives Sawyer the evil eye, puts an arm around me and guides me to the table. I glance at Sawyer over my shoulder. Even though he has red cheeks, he’s grinning from ear to ear. So am I.
This is the best Thanksgiving ever.
SAWYER
Thursday Aug. 8: Weight 112 ½ lb.
Nothing much doing today. Cured quite a lot.
Was weighed today. Still keep on losing. It makes me sick.
Morris was over tonight. Oh Diary, I’m still crazy about that kid. I certainly have hung on for a long time, but I like him exactly as well as I did at first.
Yeah, I get it, Evelyn. You’re into Morris and I’m into Veronica. It’s a great feeling when that person is into you, too.
Brunch is done, the dishes are washed, the kitchen cleaned, the table folded up and put neatly back in the basement. Ulysses then had me, Jesse and Nazareth help bring up the heavy prelit Christmas tree from the basement along with the boxes of ornaments Scarlett and Veronica deemed necessary as they hunted through the massive amount of stuff in the basement storage. Lucy skipped around the commotion singing Christmas songs at the tops of her lungs.
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