Wider than the Sky

by Katherine Rothschild

  No. I shot her a glare, and she buried her head in her phone.

  “That makes you Blythe.” Charlie smiled again, flashing perfectly straight white teeth. He shook his head, glancing between us. “With your father’s green eyes and your mother’s pretty curls, you’ve grown up beautifully.” Gross. I frowned at my mom’s boy-short “curls.” Did Blythe feel as creeped out as I did?

  “Do you have everything you need?” he asked.

  Blythe and I answered at the same time.

  “Wi-Fi password?” (Blythe).

  “Where’s the bathroom?” (Me).

  Mom laughed nervously. “Sixteen-year-olds are impossible to please. But deep down, I’m sure they love their room.”

  “I know it’s a mess. I’m sorry,” Charlie said apologetically. “Most of the house is as useful as a screen door on a submarine, but this room was completely refurbished.” He placed a hand against the wall. “New drywall. Eco-paint. Recycled oak floors. And speaking of bathrooms, it has one you wouldn’t believe.”

  He raised his eyebrows to me, clearly thinking I was the easier twin to please. So wrong. When I glared back, he gave Blythe the Wi-Fi password.

  “I’ll be driving you girls to school and making some dinners,” he said. “You’ll have to tell me what you like. But for now, we’ll let you settle in.” I looked to my mom. What was he? Our manny?

  “Just one more thing.” His smile faded. “If a woman named Mrs. McMichaels stops by, don’t speak to her. Come get me right away. I’ll be staying in the garage apartment for the time being.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.” Maryann Interiors gave him a gentle arm pat. “For everything. While they settle, let’s talk about scheduling and other . . . issues.”

  Uh-oh. I knew that tone. Mom sounded like she was about to send back an unacceptable piece of furniture. Either he didn’t know that tone or he wore the same poker face that my dad had. Had. Had. Had. Had. Had. They walked out of our room, their footsteps echoing down the wide hallway.

  I flopped onto Blythe’s bed. “Did that seem creepy to you?”

  Death blow/life blow. Life blown away. Life blown apart.

  “Not creepy.” Her fingers flew over the screen, pulling up all the games and apps she had been separated from on our long, Wi-Fi-free ride. “Odd.”

  “Off?” I asked.

  “Odd,” she repeated.

  I stared out the window at the sky. It was still bright blue. Just a streak of pink reminded me that the end of the day was coming.

  “What’s with the cooking dinner?” I asked. “And driving us to school? Are we toddlers? We’ve never met him before in our lives. We’d never even heard his name. Not until—”

  “I guess he’s Dad 2.0.”

  “That’s not funny,” I said.

  “At least he’s not moving in here with us.”

  “Close enough.”

  Blythe put on her headphones and sank into her social media world. So I got up and claimed the closet. She could have the armoire. Almost nothing in her wardrobe needed to be hung anyhow. I hung up my dresses, pushing the folds out with my hands, then lined up my boots by height beneath the shelf under the closet window.

  On the shelf I set out Emily Dickinson’s Final Harvest because I was reading that one a lot. Then I stacked her letters, her critical essays, and a bunch of other poetry collections. I arranged them around my prized Emily possession: a handbag silk-screened with the text of one of Emily’s love letters to Susan Gilbert.

  I heard the skitter of gravel and straightened to peer out the open window. My mom and Charlie were walking below, their shadows long.

  “You should have consulted me.” She was shaking her head. “What’s the rush?”

  “I’ve been waiting for years. How much longer would you have me—”

  “Forever would be the only long enough.”

  “I thought we were past that kind of talk.” Charlie stopped and stared out at the overgrown garden.

  “I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound as if she meant it.

  “Maryann. This plan has been talked to death. Let’s just do it.”

  “There are things to consider. Like the girls.” My mom plunged her hands into her hair, making the waves stand on end. I leaned farther out the window.

  “They’re stronger than you think. And smarter, too,” he said. I had to stop myself from nodding.

  “That’s not it.” Her voice caught in her throat. She’d started to cry the last time I’d heard them talk, too. Charlie took her elbow gently, like he’d done it before. “I will tell them,” she said. “I will. But not today.” Tell us what?

  He turned and the setting sun hit his face, making it glow. For a minute, he wore a sweet expression. “If we don’t go forward with our plan now, we might never.”

  “I need time to mourn my husband. And the girls need to mourn their dad.” Just as I was sighing in relief that my mom hadn’t forgotten my dad completely, Charlie took her by both shoulders and said something low under his breath. I expected them to start making out like in the Spanish soap operas I used to sneak-watch, but she wrenched away from him.

  “I know that,” she said. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  She stalked off toward the moving truck. It was emblazoned with a huge logo: big family movers. It felt like a joke at our expense. Maybe we should have called Newly Small Family Movers instead.

  Charlie brought a hand to his mouth, like he’d been slapped. Then he crunched over the gravel toward the driveway.

  “Why are you hanging halfway out the window?” Blythe was right behind me. I nearly fell out.

  “I’m spying on Mom and Charlie.” She peeked past me, but they were gone. “Or I was. You don’t think they’re . . . together?”

  She scowled at the idea. “Dad died a week ago,” she said.

  I nodded, swallowing the pain of hearing died and Dad out loud. She was right. Of course they weren’t together. But then, what just happened? I turned back to see Charlie carrying a box from the moving truck to a black rehabbed Mustang. He stopped and carefully placed the box into the trunk. I poked Blythe, who’d begun sifting through my clothes.

  “He’s taking boxes from the moving truck.” Blythe leaned over my shoulder again, watching as Charlie stepped away to reveal a trunk full of white boxes.

  “Those are Dad’s,” Blythe whispered. “I used the fancy boxes to pack his office.”

  Ah yes, of course she had. Because that was Blythe. Neat, orderly, the way I like it Blythe. But this was me: I didn’t care how good a friend Charlie was to my dad or who he was to my mom—he wasn’t taking my dad’s things. Because even I couldn’t take anything of his—not yet. Blythe had taken Dad’s fountain pen, Dad’s leather briefcase (which now housed her electronics), and two of Dad’s old V-neck sweaters. But I’d taken nothing but the book of Emily Dickinson’s poetry that was once his but now already belonged to me. Because . . . how could I choose? It was like saying: I want this part of you, but not that part. As if there were good parts to keep, and others to toss out like last year’s fashion after a Milan show. I could never do that to my dad.

  Charlie had left the trunk open, like he planned to keep filling it. I turned to Blythe. “We have to stop him,” I said.

  Blythe groaned. “It’s probably just books.”

  “I don’t care what it is. He can’t have it.”

  No one was taking a single piece of my dad from me.

  3

  THE HEART IS THE CAPITAL OF MY MIND

  I ran to Charlie’s Mustang, but the trunk was closed and locked. I glanced around, but the only people nearby were a couple of guys in navy big family movers T-shirts. What was he planning to do with my dad’s stuff, anyhow? Maybe it was just books, but he didn’t have the right to take them. Beneath the trunk’s shelby insignia was a keyhole. I pushed it li
ke a button; no luck. I walked around the car to see if it was unlocked. Maybe it had one of those trunk-opening levers. But the doors were locked, too.

  I had to get in there.

  What if Charlie was planning to take the boxes to the Salvation Army or to the dump? And where was he, anyhow? I glanced around again and tried the trunk one last time. I dug in with both hands, bouncing on my toes. Nothing. I let my hands flop down on the warm metal.

  “Need some help?”

  I spun to find a young guy with dark wavy hair and light brown skin watching me, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. He glanced from me to the trunk then back again. I met his eyes—and they were bright blue. You know how beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and all? I just don’t think so in this case. Mover Guy was hot. No question. He was my age or maybe a year older, his hair a rich brown, with eyes that were . . . ultramarine. He flashed a lopsided smile.

  I stroked my thumbnail over my lower lip. “The heart is the capital of the mind.”

  He kept looking right at me as if I’d said hi instead of bursting into poetry like a literary mental patient. “Not biologically,” he said, still smiling.

  “Poetically.”

  “Figuratively?” I opened my mouth to argue or explain, but he nodded at the car. “You’re not trying to hot-wire this thing, are you? Because first, you’re on the wrong side, and second, I don’t have my wire strippers handy.”

  “No. Of course not.” I laughed way too loud. “I live here. This is my . . . haunted mansion. I just need to get some boxes out.”

  “Did you try the key?”

  “I lost it,” I said. “I left it. It’s gone.”

  “It’s lost, left, and gone?” He laughed. “Okay. I can help.”

  “Are you a locksmith?”

  “No.” He pointed to the logo on his shirt. “I’m a mover, among other things. I’m Kai.” I wondered if he was one of those guys who knew he was hot and used that knowledge to his advantage for discounts at places like Abercrombie & Fitch. But when he held out his hand to shake mine, it was shy and formal. So I shook it.

  “I’m Sabine.”

  When my sister and I meet people, it’s almost always together, and I’m compelled to say things like: My sister was born seventeen minutes before I was. No, we’ve never pretended to be each other at camp. And yes, we’re identical. Blythe ignores people who ask if we’re identical because it’s painful for her to point out the obvious. But I don’t think anything’s obvious.

  “So, you’re a twin,” he said.

  It turned out I’d said all of that out loud. “Identical.”

  “There’s no such thing as identical.” He bent over, his eyes on the lock. He pulled a narrow screwdriver from his back pocket, tapped it in, twisted it, and popped the trunk open. Then he looked at me through a blur of dark lashes.

  “Like snowflakes?” I asked.

  “Like people.” He winked. “Do you both have voodoo smiles?”

  My heart skipped. “What?”

  “It’s from the Cure.”

  “Oh.” The Cure. Lyrics. “I don’t know about our smiles, but I guess our hair is a little different.” He stopped lifting the trunk to look, and I wished I hadn’t just experienced what a six-hour car ride does to curly hair. I pushed it back.

  “Hers is more peanut butter,” I said. “Mine is more toffee.”

  “The Candy Store Method. So, licorice?” He pointed to his hair.

  “Black licorice is very one-tone. I’d say seventy-three percent dark cacao chocolate.”

  “Only seventy-three percent?” He flashed another smile. I forgot why I was standing there.

  “Nobody’s perfect.” But I was thinking the opposite.

  “Everyone screws up. Hence, forgiveness.”

  “Speaking from experience?” I asked.

  “With forgiveness?”

  “With screwing up.”

  He squinted against the sun setting into the trees, and his lips turned up in a small smile. “Is this your way of telling me I helped you break into a car?”

  I ducked into the trunk. “I’m not breaking in. I’m getting in.”

  I threw open the top box, thinking to riffle through the contents, grab some stuff I wanted, and drag as much as I could back inside. It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan. But the first box was filled with neatly pressed color-coordinated shirts and sweaters I didn’t recognize. I flipped through them, hoping something would trigger my memory. But no.

  “I can bring these boxes in for you—”

  “No, that’s okay. I was looking for something specific.” I threw open the next lid. It was men’s argyle socks and those boy-short underwear. I shoved that lid back on and dove deeper. Where did he put my dad’s stuff?

  Kai reached for the top box. “You can look for it inside. We’re getting paid to—”

  “It’s okay.” I stopped him. “I . . . um, I just need a minute.” I wedged open another box below. Camera equipment? That’s when I realized. He hadn’t put my dad’s stuff anywhere. Because this wasn’t my dad’s stuff. I shook my head. But . . .

  “Blythe is never wrong.”

  “Who?”

  “Blythe. My sister. She’s is never, ever wrong.”

  But she was this time, and I really was breaking and entering. I reached up to close the trunk and stopped. Why had Charlie’s stuff been in our moving truck? Had he moved from Dana Point, too? I opened the trunk back up and rummaged through the first box again, looking for an answer.

  “Hey.” Kai elbowed me. “My dad is watching. Give me an excuse to keep standing here when I should be working.” I scanned the contents of the box, but nothing looked important. So I just reached and grabbed. My hand closed around a smaller box. I yanked it out, and Kai took it from me. “Yep. That’s it.” I looked at the box and cursed. Great. Exactly what would tell me what was going on with Charlie: a pair of men’s size-ten Salvatore Ferragamos. Nice.

  “I can carry more,” Kai said. “Load me up.”

  “That’s it.” I slammed the trunk down and squinted up at the house. The windows might have been broken or dirt-rimmed, but there were a lot of them, and anyone could have seen us. My heart hammered. But even if Charlie saw, what could he do to me? Serve me leafy greens at dinner? I told myself to relax.

  “So, you’re part of the ‘Big Family Movers’ family?”

  “My two brothers, my mom, my dad, and me. My oldest brother will probably take over when my dad retires.”

  “Moving’s not for you?”

  “Big Family is a monarchy, and I’m the third son. So I’m expected to work for them, but not take over.” He shrugged. “But I want to go to medical school.”

  I glanced over at him. Blythe wanted to be a computer programmer and make “awesome badass games for chicks.” But I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to be, or do, or have. Not anything possible, at least.

  “Do they mind that you want to do something different?”

  “Yep. But I’m family. They have to take the good with the bad.”

  Inside, voices carried from the living room. My mom and Charlie.

  “Paint color is the least of our worries.” He sounded tired of their conversation. “But it has to be from an approved list.”

  “What about greige?” As we passed the doorway, Charlie was saying he was pretty sure “greige” was neither on the list nor an actual color. I slid around the corner and ducked upstairs. Kai followed, the box under his arm.

  At the doorway to the pink bedroom, I paused. Blythe looked up from her laptop and gave Kai a once-over. “Is he what you found in Charlie’s trunk?”

  Kai smiled. But it was different from the smile he’d given me. It was a professional mover smile. “She found me near his trunk,” he said. Then he handed me the shoebox carefully. It was heavier than I’d ex
pected.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Did I just commit a federal crime?”

  “Municipal.”

  Blythe cleared her throat. I was afraid to look. She was probably rolling her eyes.

  “If the police stop by, I was never here.” Kai turned to me and let his nonprofessional lopsided grin linger before he headed back downstairs. When he was gone, I leaned against the doorjamb. I might have stood there indefinitely reexperiencing the last ten minutes, but the box was too heavy. I lugged it to the bed.

  Blythe raised both eyebrows. “You wanted a pair of Dad’s shoes?”

  I gave her a sidelong glance. Blythe really hated to be wrong. “It wasn’t actually Dad’s stuff. The shoes are Charlie’s . . .” I turned back to the shoebox. It was way too heavy to be shoes. I flipped open the lid. No shoes. No shoes! Inside was a stack of raffia-wrapped letters and a few trinkets—a Montblanc pen, a large crystal paperweight, and a thick box of new stationery.

  “You stole Charlie’s shoes?”

  “I stole Charlie’s correspondence.” I picked up the letters.

  “You shouldn’t have taken anything if you knew it wasn’t Dad’s.”

  I ran a finger over the address on the envelope. Charlie Parker, Eighteenth Street, San Francisco. I would have recognized that narrow, slanted cursive anywhere. It was my dad’s handwriting. I pulled out the first letter and opened it, my eyes flicking over the contents. The letterhead was from my dad’s mediation firm. It began Dear Mr. Parker—blah, blah, mediation. My shoulders sunk. It was practically a form letter.

  “Sabine? Mail theft is an actual crime. Give the box back.”

  “They’re letters from Dad,” I said.

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing. I guess Dad represented Charlie in a mediation.”

  “Then give them back.”

  “But why is his stuff in our moving truck?”

  “Maybe they picked it up on the way here.”

  “Why is he living here?”

  “To help.” Blythe was always so logical. I rewrapped the letters, closed the lid, and shoved the shoebox under my bed.