Siren

by Tricia Rayburn

  “You’ll need to wash it out,” Simon said, securing Justine’s bandage. “But this will get you home.”

  “Thank you much, Dr. Carmichael.” Justine took Caleb’s hand and hopped to the ground, landing on her good foot. “Do I get a lollipop?”

  Simon gave her a look, which prompted Caleb to lead her around the side of the car and into the backseat.

  I helped Simon gather gauze and medical tape. “We really got things started early this year, huh?”

  His hands froze, then pushed down the first-aid kit contents and closed the case. He looked at me, his eyes locking on mine as if there was something he wanted to say but didn’t know if he should. Finally, he reached over to squeeze my shoulder. “There’s an old blanket in the front seat if you want to dry off.”

  He closed the hatchback and headed for the driver’s seat. I looked once more to the sky, which was now as blue as it had been when we’d arrived, then rounded the other side of the car and climbed in the passenger seat. Inside, I peeled off the fleece while Simon slouched in his seat, and Caleb and Justine did who knew what quietly in the back.

  “So …,” I said when no one had moved or spoken a few minutes later. “What was that?”

  Simon looked at me, then out the windshield, toward the trail. He laughed once and let out a long, deep breath. “That was Chione Cliffs, welcoming you back.”

  I shifted, knowing what I would find when I looked over my shoulder, to the backseat.

  Justine, tucked under Caleb’s arm with her injured leg propped up on a folded wool blanket, was grinning from ear to ear.

  “What a rush,” she said happily.

  “What a ruse.”

  “A ruse?” Justine held up her plate as Dad came around with another platter of grilled steak. “What does that mean?”

  Dad speared two slices of meat with a fork, then looked over the deck railing, toward Lake Kantaka. “Ruse. An act of shifty deception, usually intended to avoid capture.”

  “I know what the word means, Daddy. But you really think I scratched my leg climbing rocks on the beach because I wanted to avoid abduction? Are all kidnappers turned off by a little blood? And who’s doing the kidnapping? Loony lifeguards? Crazed seashell hunters? The elusive Winter Harbor yeti?”

  I smiled into my mug of hot tea. There was one person who’d probably kidnap Justine if he had the chance, and given earlier observations, she’d probably go willingly. I couldn’t joke about this aloud, though, as our parents still thought of Caleb and Simon as the same “sweet Carmichael boys” they’d known since the boys were babies. They knew we spent a lot of time together during the summer, but they definitely didn’t know what one half of our little group had done with much of that time in recent years. And Justine had made it clear that she wanted to keep it that way.

  “The elusive Winter Harbor yeti, huh?” Dad dropped a steak onto Justine’s plate and replaced the platter on the closed grill. “Is that what they’re calling me now?”

  Justine and I looked at each other across the table and laughed. Dad was six feet four and usually stooped forward—something he attributed to dealing with lower door frames “back in the day,” but which was more likely a result of forty years spent at a computer. His slouched yet imposing frame combined with a head of frizzy white hair and a full matching beard did resemble the legendary creature.

  “What happened to Happy Papi? Top Pops? Rad Dad?” He sat down and poured himself another glass of red wine. “And what was the most recent one? Large, something?”

  “Big Poppa,” Justine said in mock exasperation, like she couldn’t believe he’d forget one of her pet names for him.

  “Right. I still don’t know whether I should be offended by that one.” He rubbed his round belly. “But I actually thought of another one on the drive up that I think we should incorporate into our daily conversation as soon as possible.”

  “We’ll take it into consideration,” Justine said.

  Dad took a roll from a basket in the center of the table, tore off a chunk, and popped it in his mouth. “King.”

  “King?” Justine said. “King what?”

  He shrugged. “That’s it. Just King.”

  “Not bad … but that would technically make Mom Queen. And I really don’t think she’s cool being second in command—even just by title.” Justine looked to Mom for confirmation.

  Mom, who’d been sawing her steak with a knife like it was made of metal instead of meat, paused. “I can’t believe you’re still doing this.”

  “The girls are getting older,” Dad admitted, “but I’ll always be their Big Poppa. Until old age catches up with me and I start to shrink. Then I’ll be … Little Big Poppa? Medium Poppa? Poppa Grande?”

  “You can be Grand Master of the Universe forever. That’s not the point.”

  Dad raised his eyebrows, considering the title suggestion instead of the fact that Mom wasn’t amused. Not that that fact was out of the ordinary, since Mom was rarely amused. Of the two, she’d always been the more serious one, the disciplinarian. She was president of Franklin Capital, a financial services firm in Boston, and Dad was a writer and professor of American literature at Newton Community College. The characteristics required for their respective professions usually translated to their home life.

  “Then what is the point, my sweet?” Leaning across the table, he gently removed the knife and fork from her hands and took over the seemingly strenuous task of cutting her steak.

  “That you’re eighteen.” Mom frowned at Justine. “That you’re an adult. That mistakes you make now actually matter.”

  “So I might have a small scar for the rest of my life,” Justine said. “Big deal.”

  “You’re lucky to have walked away with only that.”

  Justine glanced at me, the smile she’d worn since climbing into Simon’s Subaru fading. “Mom, we got caught in a rainstorm and slipped on some rocks. Accidents happen.”

  “They do. And if you were eight years old and had really been at the beach, I’d kiss your knee and it’d be all better.”

  “Wow!” I exclaimed, pointing to the lake. “The Beazleys finally got a new canoe. It’s so … long.”

  Finished cutting Mom’s steak, Dad replaced the knife and fork on her plate and leaned toward me. “A for effort, kiddo.”

  Justine shook her head. “I’m confused.”

  I tried to catch Mom’s eye so that I could silently beg her not to say what she was about to, but it was no use. She was on a mission—and about to get me into serious trouble with the one person I always wanted to keep happy.

  “You weren’t at the beach, Justine. You were at Chione Cliffs.”

  I held my breath. Mom’s words were followed by silence.

  “That’s impossible,” Justine said finally, picking at the napkin in her lap. “I’ve never even heard of such a place.”

  “Really? Then which dangerous, life-threatening cliff was your sister referring to?”

  I closed my eyes and sat back. I didn’t have to look at Justine to know she stared at me now, her expression a combination of surprise, doubt, and hurt.

  “Last summer,” Mom continued, “you were out and Vanessa was here, upset. I asked what was wrong, and she told me how you had found the cliff, how you go there every year, and how she felt awful for being too scared to jump.”

  “Speaking of, maybe we should all take a quick dip in the lake after dinner,” Dad said lightly. “What do you say?”

  “We said we wouldn’t tell,” Justine said to me, like we were the only ones at the table. “We said it was just our thing. That’s what made it so special.”

  I looked up. “I know, I—”

  “Don’t blame Vanessa,” Mom said.

  As Justine slouched in her chair, Dad buttered a roll, and Mom drained her wineglass, I frantically searched my brain for the words that would make this better. I wanted to tell Justine that I hadn’t meant to say anything, that I was just frustrated with myself after our trip
to the cliffs last summer, and that that had made me frustrated with myself for being afraid of everything else in the sixteen years before. I wanted to tell her that Mom was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that she promised she wouldn’t say anything, so long as I did my best to try to keep Justine from jumping whenever we went again—and that I hadn’t done that, because I would never want to stop my sister from doing something that made her happy. And I wanted to tell her that I was sorry, so sorry, for all of it.

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her anything. Maybe it was because I was scared it would come out all wrong, but the words just weren’t there.

  “And what are your plans with this Carmichael boy?” Mom asked.

  My eyes widened as I looked from Mom to Justine. I definitely hadn’t said a word to anyone about Caleb.

  Justine’s face reddened. “My plans?”

  “Between diving off cliffs and doing who knows what with a nice boy who wouldn’t know the difference between a video game system and a laptop, you’re risking your entire future. Dartmouth. Medical school. Years of success and happiness.”

  “Isn’t the steak delicious?” Dad asked. “Not too rare, not too crispy.”

  “I don’t think a little fun is going to ruin my life.” Justine pushed back her chair, her blue eyes flashing in the gray dusk. “And besides, some things are more important than an overrated Ivy League education and a high-paying job.”

  “Big Poppa has an idea,” Dad said, licking his fingers. “How about we call it a draw for now and pick up again tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep?”

  Justine stood up, her good knee hitting the table and rattling our plates and glasses. She leaned toward me as she passed, and her eyes seemed even brighter than usual, as though lit from behind. She turned her head so Mom and Dad couldn’t see her face, and said one word, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Boo.”

  Warm tears sprang to my eyes. Stunned, I watched her cross the deck and enter the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  “I just want her to stay on track,” Mom said after a pause.

  “And I just want someone to help me paint the front porch,” Dad said. “I was teasing about her using the scratch as a ruse to get out of it, but now I really might be rolling solo.”

  Ignoring them both, I looked toward the lake.

  Boo. Not “Thanks a lot,” or “You’ve really done it this time,” or even “You’re on your own now,” all of which probably would’ve brought tears to my eyes but wouldn’t have made my skin tingle like that one word did.

  And there was no way of knowing it then, but that was the very last word Justine would ever say to me. In the days and weeks that followed, I would replay the moment over and over again in my head, seeing her blue eyes, hearing her soft voice, and, for some reason, smelling salt water … as though she still stood next to me on top of the cliff, her skin and hair wet with the sea.

  CHAPTER 2

  WHEN I HEARD the first siren, I was standing in the sand, watching the water reach for my bare feet. A biting wind whipped my skirt around my calves and carried the sounds of Mom, Dad, and Justine laughing down the beach. The soft wail began as soon as the froth wound around my ankles, just as it had nearly every night for two years. Only this time, it didn’t fade when I was pulled out and dragged under. It grew louder. Closer. And it was joined by another siren, and another, until I could hear them and see red, white, and blue lights flashing like the police cars had driven right into the ocean.

  “You should really eat something.”

  I blinked. The flashing lights were gone, replaced by green coffee mugs. Next to me, a man in a gray suit leaned against the counter and shoved a cannoli into his mouth.

  “Good food can be the best medicine,” he said.

  Medicine. Like I was just sick. Like this was a hallucination that would fade to normal once my fever dropped.

  “Thanks.” Trying to erase the lingering image of the accident, the one I’d been reliving in my sleep since the cops pulled up to tell us they’d found Justine, I grabbed a mug and turned toward the coffeemaker.

  It wasn’t his fault. He was one of Mom’s colleagues. He didn’t know me and he hadn’t known Justine, but he was obligated to say something as he enjoyed Italian pastries with other coworkers. What else was there? It’s such a tragedy? She had her whole life before her? What do you make of the Red Sox so far this season?

  “The voice of one crying in the wilderness,” I said when I turned around and he was still there. Not knowing what to say was one thing. Hanging around for another shot was a bit much.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  I held up my mug. “Vox clamantis in deserto. Dartmouth’s slogan. Kind of appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Vanessa, dear, will you please help me with these muffins?” Mom took me by the elbow and led me across the kitchen. “Sweetie, I know this is difficult, but we have guests. I would appreciate it if you could be a pleasant hostess.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said when we stopped at a counter lined with trays of pastries. “I just don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to lock myself in the bathroom for the rest of the day, and another part wants—”

  “Did you eat?” she asked, poking at a scone. “Here, have a maple walnut.”

  I took the scone, not sure what to say. Mom had cried for five days straight—from the moment the police officers had knocked on the lake-house door to the moment we’d pulled up to our brownstone—and had been in dry-eyed, party-planning mode ever since. She hadn’t even cried at the funeral, when the collective weeping of Justine’s friends and classmates had made birds fly from the trees and the priest shout his prayers. I hadn’t cried at the funeral either—or any time before or since—but my reasons were very different.

  “Can you check on your father?” Mom lifted a tray from the counter. “I haven’t seen him in an hour, and the guests are starting to wonder.”

  I wanted to say that if our “guests” didn’t understand Big Poppa’s need for a little downtime, then perhaps they should find another party, but she spun on one heel and disappeared through the kitchen door before I could.

  I dropped the scone in the trash and headed back to the coffee-cup cabinet, keeping my eyes lowered to avoid any more helpful healing tips from Mom’s coworkers. The Dartmouth mugs still lined the first shelf, where Mom had displayed them as soon as she’d received the shipment of college paraphernalia two weeks before.

  “Vox clamantis in deserto,” Justine had read aloud then. “I love how these places try to impress with their love of dead languages. I mean, why bother? Why not just say, ‘Thanks for shelling out another fifteen dollars for functional proof of the fact that you’re important enough to drop two hundred thousand dollars on a chance for your rich kid to get drunk with other rich kids in the middle of nowhere?’”

  “Well,” I’d said, “probably because that wouldn’t fit on a key chain.” Of which Mom had ordered two dozen to distribute around the office.

  I grabbed the center Dartmouth mug and filled it with coffee. Still keeping my eyes lowered, I took both cups and hurried across the kitchen toward the back stairwell door.

  The back stairwell had always been Justine’s and my escape route—from cocktail parties, dinners, and even parental arguments. As I climbed I thought about the last time we’d sought stairwell refuge, during Mom’s annual Christmas party. While two hundred guests downed champagne, Justine and I sat on the steps, her down comforter draped across our shoulders, sucking on candy canes and getting tipsy on eggnog. That night we’d tried to pretend that we weren’t hiding from Mom’s drunken coworkers in our brownstone in the middle of Boston, but rather hiding from Mom and Dad in our lake house in Maine, breathless with excitement as we waited to see Santa fall down the old stone chimney.

  I climbed the steps slowly now, comforted by the dim light and dark paneling. I blocked the thought as soon as it entered my head, but for a fleeting mo
ment, I was aware of just how strange it was to be there … alone. I hadn’t been anywhere alone all week, and certainly nowhere I’d only ever been with Justine.

  Reaching the landing, I stopped and waited. After a few seconds, I blinked, and waited again. Nothing. Even revisiting one of Justine’s and my favorite places couldn’t bring on the waterworks.

  I continued down the hallway, my heartbeat quickening. I hadn’t been inside Justine’s room since preparing to leave for Maine the week before, when I’d watched her try on her entire wardrobe as she searched for the perfect thing to wear on the drive north. By the time we’d left, skirts, sundresses, and tank tops had blanketed her floor like seaweed on the shore after a receding tide. Now I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of: that the clothes would still be there, exactly as she’d left them … or that they wouldn’t be.

  Closing my eyes, I turned toward the door. I reached one arm forward until my hand found the knob. The brass was cool beneath my fingers, and I waited for my skin to adjust to the temperature before tightening my grip.

  It’s only Justine. It’s just her stuff. Everything will look just as she left it, because she’s coming back. Soon, we’ll return to the lake house and everything will go back to the way it’s supposed to be.

  I opened the door. A small sound escaped through my parted lips.

  It wasn’t my deeply anchored fears floating to the surface. And it wasn’t the fact that, compared to the hallway, Justine’s room was as hot as an oven.

  It was the salt water. The smell was so strong, the air so thick with moisture, if I didn’t open my eyes, I’d think I stood at the ocean’s edge.

  “You get used to it.”

  I opened my eyes. Big Poppa sat on the floor in the middle of the room.

  “There must be a problem with the pipes. I’ll call the plumber tomorrow.” He sounded exhausted and looked it, too. The corners of his mouth drooped toward his chin. His blue eyes were dull, and his shoulders slumped forward. Our strapping yeti had lost his strength.