The Summer of Lost Wishes

by Jessa Gabrielle

  As my brain begins weaving together the shark-bitten pieces of this tragic puzzle, I’m not quite sure I want confirmation as to what happened to them. I especially don’t want to know how my house is involved.

  “The boat didn’t make whatever journey they were setting off on,” Mom says. “It was found the next morning crashed into the rocks at Shark Island. Well, they found what was left of the boat, anyway. That storm really did a number on the town as it was, but losing five teenagers on top of it was terrible.”

  I slip down in my seat and wish I could be absorbed into the hot leather and melted into some pretty waxy candle. Mom could even call me Iceberg Blue and decorate beach houses with me. I don’t want to know any more of this story.

  “I’m not sure how they coped,” Mom says. “Losing them was the worst, but those parents couldn’t even bury their babies. They found a few limbs and a lot of blood, but knowing your children died in that kind of awful way…”

  She straightens up in her seat, takes another deep breath, and breathes it out in a whistle-like way. Then she shakes her head.

  “Two of the kids who died that night were what they used to call the golden couple,” she says, readjusting her air vent. “You know, sort of like the modern day equivalent to a quarterback and head cheerleader kind of couple. Hanna Calloway and Seth McIntosh. They were going to own this town someday. They were high school sweethearts who already had their wedding planned for that summer. The cottage was a wedding gift from her family.”

  Oh my God. We just bought Hanna Calloway and Seth McIntosh’s wedding gift from Hanna’s ancestors. Just in time for the fifty-year anniversary. Good going, Mom. You sure have a way with timing.

  “I’m sorry, Piper,” Mom says. “Please, say something.”

  I shrug my shoulders and focus on the dashboard. “What are people going to say about us? I mean, I’ll have to go to school here this fall. I don’t want to tell people I live in the house that Hanna and Seth never got to make into their home.”

  Mom reaches over and places her hand on mine. “I know, sweetie. I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just such a beautiful house, and it was brand new just for them,” she explains. “They were going to demolish it afterward because it was too painful to look at, but their grief wouldn’t let them.”

  On the drive back to the cottage, Mom tells me that the family kept the home for their other daughter, Sarah. But little sister never moved in. She held a resentment toward her parents because their grief for Hanna was stronger than their love for Sarah – or so she felt. The house remained empty for decades until Sarah recently passed, and her children sold it and split the proceeds. I guess I can understand it. The Calloway Cottage was nothing but a painful reminder of what happened to their family.

  “They were all good kids,” Mom says. “Hanna was a small town princess, and Seth had a great job lined up at the factory just outside of town. Three of their friends were with them that night, such good kids. All those bright futures gone. All of those families destroyed. I can’t even imagine.”

  Yet we’re going to live in the house that belongs to the dead golden couple. I cannot feel right about this. I don’t think it’s haunted – yet – and I know it’s technically still new in the sense that no one has ever lived there. But everything about it feels wrong. It’s like I’m walking over sacred ground that you just don’t step on. Not only that, but I’m walking all over this golden ground with muddy shoes and stomping around to make sure everyone knows I’m here. I can’t sleep in a bedroom that was meant for the future children of the Calloway-McIntosh clan.

  I know I’m stuck, though. I have nowhere else to go, and Mom officially owns the Calloway Cottage. This is going to be our home now, like it or not. So I decide to dig a little deeper.

  “Tell me everything,” I say. “I want to know every single thing you know about this story.”

  Chapter Three

  I wait until Mom is asleep before I fight to drag my air mattress downstairs. There’s no way I can sleep in that room after knowing the truth about this house. Unfortunately, Mom couldn’t provide much more information other than what she told me in the car. The afternoon was busy with sweeping, scrubbing, and deep cleaning after we returned, so all talk of the Coral Sands tragedy was left in the driveway.

  I feel like if I’m going to live in their house, I need to know something about Hanna and Seth. I need to know who they were and who they wanted to be. They have no legacy left, aside from Hanna’s sister’s children who want nothing to do with this house or the Calloway name.

  And don’t even get me started on the boy. There’s no one left in this area with the McIntosh name, so his legacy is sitting on the ocean floor next to Grandma’s ashes. For this town to honor the memories of five lost teens every single year since their deaths, you’d think more people would know something.

  I drop the air mattress on the floor and tiptoe back upstairs for my pillows and blankets. Once I have my actual bed and a bedroom that feels like my own, I’ll sleep in it. For tonight, in that empty room with the creepy moonlit glow, I just can’t do it.

  After making my air mattress bed for the night, I settle in on the living room floor, tossing and turning in hopes of falling asleep soon. But it’s impossible to sleep when phantom images of people who died before your mom was even born haunt you. I grab my phone from its charger and pop back over to Google. I type ‘Hanna Calloway, Coral Sands FL’ into the search bar.

  I click on the top result, but my hopes falter upon seeing the actual article. Coral Sands to Host Fifty-Year Anniversary Vigil. Hanna’s name is listed alongside the others who perished in the tragic shark-eating shipwreck. I don’t know why I expected the world wide web to actually have details of their lives. Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter weren’t exactly a thing back then – none of their creators had even been born, I’m sure. I exit Google, hook the charger back into my phone, and force myself to find sleep.

  Sunlight pours through the bay window and bounces off the freshly-cleaned hardwood floors. Mom calls out my name again from the kitchen. She must have unpacked her coffee maker because I’d know the smell of black coffee in the morning anywhere.

  “Piper,” Mom says again. “I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be sprawled out in the living room floor when the contractors get here. You can sleep in, but please take the air mattress upstairs. Why are you even sleeping down here anyway?”

  I push myself up on the mattress and stumble while grabbing my blankets and standing up at the same time. It is too early for this.

  “I got freaked out being in an empty room in a new place,” I tell her. It’s not a full on lie. I did get freaked out in an empty room in a new place. She doesn’t have to know that Hanna and Seth are haunting my thoughts.

  With an arm load of blankets, I drag myself up the stairs and wonder how in the hell I’m going to get that mattress up here when I’m still half-asleep. Maybe the contractors will volunteer to help Mom move all the furniture in so I can have a normal bedroom again.

  I drop the blankets in a pile and change into fresh clothes that I packed in a duffle bag because Mom stole my suitcase. I don’t feel like brushing my hair or dealing with makeup, but I know I’ll regret it later if I don’t put at least a semi-face on. I already know what Mom will say. “You never know who you’re going to meet, so you always want to be ready.” Therefore, I get ready.

  Voices bounce around off the high ceilings as I make my way back down the stairs. I didn’t think the contractors would be here this early. I round the corner and walk toward the kitchen. Mom sets her coffee cup on the counter and waves me into the room.

  “Piper, you remember Mr. Carter from next door, right?” she asks.

  Mr. Carter turns toward me. He’s all smiles, so he must’ve had his coffee this morning, just like Mom. He nods my way in acknowledgment.

  “He’s offered to help us get this place put together,” Mom explains. She sips from her cup and places it back on the counter,
most likely against her will. She’s a coffee fiend, especially if it’s her first cup. “I asked him for recommendations of trustworthy carpenters in the area, and it turns out, Mr. Carter has quite the skill set.”

  “Oh please,” he says. “Call me Blake.”

  I really hope he meant that for my mom because calling a man old enough to be my dad by his first name is just awkward. He’s Mr. Carter to me.

  He explains that he’s worked in carpentry most of his life – family business and such. I guess he’s watched this house from next door long enough to feel like it’s a part of him as well. Or maybe he’s just as curious as everyone else in this town as to what the inside of the Calloway Cottage really looks like. If this place has never truly been inhabited, I can only imagine what people say or think about it.

  “My son is staying with me this summer,” Mr. Carter says, drawing me back into the carpentry conversation. “It’s not a permanent arrangement, but I’m going to milk him for all the child labor I can while he’s here.”

  He and Mom both laugh, and I feel the humor of his joke is lost on me. Maybe it’s just a parental thing. I’m sure Mom has all sorts of ideas of how she’ll work me this summer. I refuse to paint this house. The last time Mom decided to repaint, we literally sanded and primed and repainted every door and all new baseboards for our house. The walls were another disaster in themselves. She should’ve known a one-week timeline in the July heat was a recipe for failure. I hardly spoke to her for a month after that. I’d never been so sunburned and so miserable.

  “I was hoping maybe I could drop by here later with Rooks, just to show him around the place and what we’ll be working on,” Mr. Carter says.

  Can I just say that I totally support this idea? Bring the boy over. If he’s shirtless and ready to work, that’s even better. I’ll personally give him the tour. Mom should have a sign-up sheet for this.

  “What a great idea,” Mom says, reaching for her coffee mug again. After a long sip, she looks up and smiles. “Whenever you and your son are ready to get to work, just let me know. I’d love to have this house ready by the end of the summer. Sooner would be better, but I know it needs a lot of work.”

  They discuss the hardwood floors, Mom’s ideas to redo the bay window, and painting. Upon that word, I bail. I’m not about to get mixed up in that, especially when Mom has been obsessing over paint colors.

  I grab the air mattress and decide to haul it upstairs. This may take a while, but it’ll keep me busy enough that Mom can’t delegate stupid jobs to me. I may actually spend the entire summer unpacking to avoid actual work. I deserve a summer off after she uprooted my life. It’s a fair trade. She gets her dream home and dream career, and I get to hang around doing nothing other than watching the pretty boy next door pour his sweat into this construction project.

  Two hours later, Mom’s on her fourth cup of coffee. I snap ‘before photos’ of every room in the house, upon Mom’s request. She rambles about colors and light fixtures and where she’s going to place the new couch, but I have no interest. I wish this house was already finished so we could just live like the freaks who dared to buy the Calloway Cottage.

  My phone makes that crunchy sound that’s supposed to be a camera flash. I examine the before photo of the dining area. Mom points to where the table will be. She wants a sailboat centerpiece and a dark blue tablecloth.

  “Maybe with white stripes or white place settings,” she says more to herself than to me. “Oh no. White place settings are too easily dirtied. Maybe red. What do you think? Red?”

  She lost me at the word ‘centerpiece.’ When the doorbell chimes moments later, I rush to answer it, even if it’s just one of the nosy townsfolk who graduated with Mom and wants to pretend to catch up while actually scoping the property. Anything is better than place settings and table cloths.

  Mr. Carter stands smiling on our front porch with his son, a gorgeous boy with a Florida tan and honey-colored hair. His blue eyes sparkle like a Tennessee spring, the kind you find deep in the woods and cherish for yourself because it’s too special to share. Who knew I’d find such beauty on the coast?

  “Piper, this is my son, Rooks,” Mr. Carter says, gesturing to the beautiful boy. “He’s going to help me get this house whipped into shape.”

  Mom rushes over behind me before I can get a word out of my mouth. She introduces herself, invites them inside, and offers to give them the grand tour of the house. As she leads them down the hallway to her bedroom and office, I rush up the stairs to my bedroom to make sure I didn’t leave a bra or anything lying around in plain sight.

  I linger around in my bedroom for a few minutes when I hear them come upstairs. Mom goes into great detail about her plans for the guest room while Mr. Carter mentions something about replacing the flooring.

  “So this is it, huh? The infamous Calloway Cottage?”

  I spin around to see Rooks standing in my doorway with this unimpressed smirk on his face. My mind races to find words, but how am I supposed to speak when I have a hot guy in my bedroom? I’ve never had a hot guy in my bedroom.

  “Do you know a lot about this house?” I ask. I instantly feel like the lamest person on the planet. I should’ve replied with some unimpressed sarcasm to match his, but it’s too late now.

  Rooks shrugs and steps into the room. He jams his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans.

  “Not really,” he says, glancing around. “Everyone’s always kind of acted like this place was sacred or a myth or something, even though it was in plain sight. It’s just so weird to actually be in here, you know?”

  I take a few steps closer and meet him in the middle of the room. “You don’t think it’s, like, you know, haunted or anything, do you?” I ask.

  He quickly shakes his head. “I think you’re safe here. Everyone will be in your business for a while because you dared to move into a landmark, but if you want haunted, I say go to Shark Island,” he says.

  “I’m not searching for haunted,” I say, even though I’m still uncertain about this house. “But if Shark Island can give me a bigger closet, I may take that risk.”

  He walks over at the pathetic hole-in-the-wall where I’m supposed to be able to fit my wardrobe. He sticks his head inside and laughs.

  “I guess the Calloway family didn’t plan on owning many clothes,” he says. “We can tear this wall down tomorrow. It’ll be an easy fix.”

  “You don’t want to discuss that with your dad first?” I ask. “He may not be up for tearing down a wall.”

  He looks back at me. “I wasn’t talking about my dad. I was referring to you and me.”

  Chapter Four

  “You cannot keep dragging that mattress down here,” Mom says from the bottom of the stairwell. “I’m serious, Piper. We’re about to start replacing the flooring, and you won’t be able to throw that mattress on the floor then.”

  I don’t respond as I haul the air mattress up to the guest room. I would attempt to sleep in my own room, but Mom’s insisted on replacing most of our furniture – including my bed – and there’s no point in setting up all of my things when she wants to shine the floors, repaint the walls, and expand the closet.

  Mom clicks across the hardwood floor downstairs, and I swear, I can’t comprehend why anyone would wear heels at eight o’clock in the morning, much less on a day when she’s supposed to be working on home repairs.

  I shove the air mattress into the future guest room and step down the hallway. The boxes around my bedroom bulge, like the contents are tired of waiting and want to burst through the packaging tape. I hate to tell them, but there’s nothing to see here yet…unless you count Rooks because he’s definitely worth seeing.

  As much as I’d love to throw these boxes back into a U-haul and go back to life as I knew it, I’m tempted to unpack simply because I want this room to begin to feel like mine. Oh, screw it. I’m opening a box, just to see a few of my things. I won’t unpack. I just need a glimpse.

  I reach i
nto my purse until I find the old house keys that I never bothered to give to Mom before we moved. The new owners will change the locks anyway. At least, that’s what I would do. I slice the tape open with our former back door key and jerk the cardboard pieces back.

  Delilah. Tears creep up, but I blink them away while I swallow the nostalgic lump in my throat. Mom isn’t much of a fan of my darling Delilah, but she’s the one thing that will make this room feel like it belongs to Piper Davenport.

  I push away the bubble wrap and Styrofoam peanuts as I slowly pull her from her wedged position in the box. I squeeze my arms around her neck and then hold her out to admire her like she’s a long lost friend.

  Delilah was a Christmas gift from my mom three years ago. She didn’t like the idea of it, but faux taxidermy deer heads were suddenly trendy, and living in the country, where everyone had deer heads on their walls – real and faux – she couldn’t help giving in.

  Ms. Maggie made her granddaughter a faux deer head, lined in the fabric of a chic sweater, and the entire town went crazy submitting orders for one of their own. Mom refused to pay “the crazy old sewing lady” for “something so incredibly tacky.” But on Christmas morning, there she was, wrapped in chevron wrapping paper with a giant pink bow. Mom had her lined with the pale blue sweater I’d tossed into her donation box the year before. My stepdad mounted her to my bedroom wall that night, and I declared her Delilah.

  “Oh, no,” Mom says from the doorway. “You’re not putting her on the wall here. It was bad enough in Tennessee. I bit my tongue and let you do your thing, but you’re not being a hick in Florida.”

  I sigh and turn to face her. “What happened to unique? Feminine? ‘At least it doesn’t have glass eyes’?” I ask.

  Mom crosses her arms over her chest and dips her head down, eyes still staring through me. “I couldn’t really win an argument back then,” she says. “How could I tell you ‘no’ when I let him mount his kills on the living room walls? I had to convince myself it wasn’t awful, but that thing is tacky and homemade. She doesn’t fit with the theme of this home.”