How the Light Gets In

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How the Light Gets In Page 5

by Katy Upperman


  Tucked into a bottom corner of the envelope, I find a piece of tissue paper folded into a small square, taped securely. I peel back the tape and unfold the paper to find a ring. It looks like silver, two slim bands woven together, tiny stones—diamonds?—set throughout. I can’t imagine who might’ve left it, but I’m not going to take it to the attic and let it tarnish in its tissue paper tomb. I slip it onto my finger. I’ll ask Lucy about it later.

  I’m torn about what to do with the photographs. It seems wrong to dump them; they’re somebody’s memories, and Lucy’s got photos sprinkled throughout the house, of our family as well as bygone Stewarts. I draw a breath, considering, as a breeze moves past, stirring dust particles that dance and tumble in shafts of sunlight. A shiver creeps up my back as the awareness of being watched hits me hard. I glance behind me—nothing, nobody, of course—then shake the weirdness off.

  Get it together, Callie.

  I look again at the pictures of the boy and the girl. I can’t relegate them to eternity in a landfill. I stuff them into the envelope, and the envelope into the box. I mark it STEWART PHOTOGRAPHS, then hoist it onto my hip and climb the narrow staircase to the attic.

  The door sticks when I try to shoulder it open, and I have to throw my weight behind it to get it to budge, making my entrance less than graceful. I pause to catch my breath, tasting warm, stuffy air. I make my way to the far wall, pushing the box of photographs up against it before standing to look around.

  There are windows up here, odd little hexagons that don’t open, but the light flooding through them draws me forward, a moth winging its way to fire. Peering outside, I orient myself. I’m facing west; the vast ocean is all that’s visible. I must be standing above the Gabriel, and another floor down, the bedroom I’m staying in. Stepping around a stack of crates, I move to the broken window I noticed when my dad pulled up to Stewart House the other day. The cracks are an intricate latticework. I raise a hand, laying my palm flush against the glass.

  Beneath my touch, the smooth surface becomes suddenly warm.

  The cracks begin to spread, trickling outward like rivulets of water.

  Holy shit.

  I snatch my hand away, horrified.

  Shuffling back, I study my palm, flexing my fingers; my looted ring catches the light.

  I look at the window.

  My eyes are playing tricks on me—that has to be it. I didn’t use enough pressure to do any more damage, and glass doesn’t fracture spontaneously.

  I reach out again. My hand trembles as I touch the window a second time.

  It’s cool. The cracks remain motionless, unchanged.

  I drop my hand, shaking my head. I’m seriously losing it.

  Through the window, I catch a fragmented glimpse of Tucker Morgan, almost obscured by a tangle of overgrown bushes. He’s in shorts again, shirtless, yanking vines from sturdier trees, then cramming them into Lucy’s yard-waste bin. His suntanned skin glistens with sweat, and the dark lines of an indecipherable tattoo mark his right bicep. That’s unexpected. He’s so golden, so seemingly charmed; the ink makes me curious about what else he’s hiding.

  He pauses, pulls off a work glove, and drags a hand through his hair. Then he looks in my direction.

  I duck.

  Damn it.

  He couldn’t have seen me. The windows are filthy, coated in disregard, and I’m three floors up. He definitely didn’t see me.

  Still, I crawl on my hands and knees, following the unpainted wall, traveling the perimeter of the attic until I reach another window. When I stand, I find myself facing the side yard, a wall of trees stretching into the sky like overzealous fingers, far beyond the height at which I stand. I’m still spooked by the possibly expanding cracks, and residually embarrassed that Tucker may or may not have seen me watching him, so it’s a second before I notice what’s sitting on the window casing.

  My hands fly to my mouth, muffling a gasp.

  Goggles.

  Chloe’s swim goggles: Swedes with smoked lenses—her favorite.

  Someone’s messing with me.

  Lucy’s messing with me.

  Except … What if she’s not?

  What if, somehow, this is a genuine attempt at contact?

  The cap and the goggles are my sister’s—there’s not a doubt in my mind. And while Lucy maybe left them out for me, a misguided attempt at sparking conversation, she couldn’t have orchestrated my falling phone or the bursts of cold or the mysteriously cracking window.

  I pick up the goggles, running a finger reverently over the lenses, letting myself dare to hope. If there’s a way to communicate with Chloe, my questions could be answered. The apology that’s been trapped for nearly a year could be set free. Forgiveness could be granted.

  I could, like my dad’s always saying, get better.

  I pocket my sister’s goggles and head back down to the Gabriel, enlivened by the possibility—by Chloe.

  11

  Lucy comes home, and a while later, she calls me for lunch. Happy to leave the Gabriel, which is starting to feel like a crypt, I make a stop in my room to tuck the Swedes into my nightstand with Chloe’s cap, then head for the kitchen. On my way, I chance a quick glance in a hall mirror. I look like the drudge I’ve become: shiny with sweat, hair a puff of frizz. There’s a streak of dirt on my cheek.

  Suppressing a groan as I turn the corner, I ram into Tucker, who’s walking from the parlor to the foyer.

  “Jesus, sorry,” he says, steadying me with a hand on my shoulder. His expression is strange, probing, and a little hangdog. At least he’s put on a T-shirt—a gray threadbare ringer that might be older than he is. It’s screen-printed with the title of that old movie The Goonies, which Lucy made Chloe and me watch last summer because it’s an eighties classic and, also, parts of it were filmed along the Oregon coast. My sister wasn’t into it. “Too weird,” she’d said before pointing out that if the Goonies had smart phones, their problems would’ve been easily solved. I found it bizarrely charming.

  “Nice shirt,” I tell Tucker, stepping back. I blow wisps of hair from my face. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Bathroom. And then I—uh—got caught up looking at some of Lucy’s pictures.” He gestures into the parlor, where framed photos, old and new, sit amid the many books on the shelves.

  “Oh. Why?”

  “I … don’t know.” He sounds a little flustered, and he looks cagey, like I’ve caught him doing something wrong.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  He shrugs, calling up that sun-drenched grin of his. “I was just checking them out. They’re cool, yeah?”

  I let his smile warm my face a moment, but then Lucy pokes her head into the foyer, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Hey, Tucker. Want to join us for lunch?”

  He considers. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  We follow her into the kitchen and nearly have another collision attempting to step through the entryway at the same time. He backs up, letting me go first.

  I scrub my hands at the sink and take my place at the table, watching as he lathers up, then pours a glass of water down his throat. He’s been working as hard as I have, though he doesn’t look so bad smeared with sweat and dust. He sits across from me. “Rough day, City Girl?”

  I tuck a stray lock of hair into my ponytail. “Nope. You, Yard Boy?”

  His grin humbles. “Making some progress in the garden.”

  Daisy meanders by, rarely far from the kitchen when there’s food being served. I scoop her up and settle her on my lap, running a hand over her silky fur. She purrs, and I smile, just a little, scratching between her twitching ears.

  My peaceful moment is interrupted when I notice Tucker watching me lavish attention on the cat. I flatten my smile and train my gaze down, uncomfortable under his study.

  Fortunately, Lucy arrives with bowls of lettuce, topped with a rainbow of cut vegetables. She sits and says, “I can’t wait to see h
ow the garden looks when you’ve finished, Tuck. I bet it’ll be stunning.”

  “I’ve almost got the path cleared,” he tells her. “I think I’ll be able to salvage most of the perennials if I trim them back. Next spring, they should be blooming.”

  “Amazing,” Lucy says. “Thanks so much for taking the job on.”

  He shrugs, shooting her a lazy grin. “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do this summer than pull weeds in the heat of the day while being eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

  She laughs.

  I suppress a grumble, annoyed by the effortless way they make conversation—I used to be able to do that. I shovel a forkful of lettuce into my mouth and chew; the greens taste bitter.

  Lucy and Tucker spend the rest of the meal chatting about the best flora to plant once he finishes cleaning up the garden. I choke down my salad, wondering whether either of them really has a clue as to what they’re talking about. After, I clear the table while my aunt sets out a plate of lemon bars.

  “Callie, let’s go to town after dessert,” she says. “There’s a nursery on Douglas. I want to check out their variety so we’re ready to plant when the garden’s cleared.”

  “You’ll find a lot of stuff there,” Tucker offers through a mouthful of lemon bar.

  Lucy looks to me, eager. “What do you say?”

  “I think I should keep working upstairs.”

  “The mess will be there when we get back, I assure you.”

  I wind my ponytail around my hand, stalling for an excuse that’ll spare me an afternoon at a nursery with my aunt. “I’d have to shower first.”

  “Oh please,” she says, lit up, apparently, by the idea of shopping for shrubs. “Who cares?”

  “Seriously. I look—”

  “Great. As usual.”

  Holy hell—we’re related. She’s obligated to say nice things. Flushing, I glance at Tucker to see if he considers Lucy’s oblivious enthusiasm as silly as I do and find him peering at me from beneath his blond lashes. Our gazes lock, and I feel it: affinity. Perfunctory at best, but God, it’s refreshing to share a connection with another human being.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go to the nursery.”

  Lucy stands, brushing her hands on her stonewashed jeans, pleased with herself. She bounds out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll meet you at the car in five!”

  Tucker and I remain at the table with our lemon bars. After a couple of minutes of sticky silence, I summon the bravado to ask, “Do you actually know what you’re talking about?”

  He polishes off the last of his dessert, then raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Like, on a scale of one to total-bullshitter, how much do you really know about gardening?”

  He smiles, sheepish. “Enough.”

  “Suuure,” I say, drawing out the word, pleased to have found a chink in his armor of perfection, no matter how insignificant.

  “Look. I know how to work hard. I know the difference between a flower and a weed. Your aunt wants the garden to look good—it’s gonna look good.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s a perennial?”

  He laughs, rising from the table. He tosses his napkin into the trash, then heads toward the parlor. Just before he rounds the corner, he pauses to look back at me. “A perennial keeps coming back,” he says, playful. “You might know as much if you got outside once in a while.”

  I take that in, lingering at the table until I hear him leave through the front door, wondering if he’s as constant and reliable as the plants he goes on about.

  * * *

  As I hoist myself into the passenger seat of Lucy’s Range Rover, she turns an irksome smile on me. “Thanks for tagging along, City Girl.”

  I’m dying to say something to her about Chloe’s goggles. About Chloe’s swim cap. Instead, I roll my eyes and clench my jaw, resolving to be the bigger person for the duration of this outing. I don’t have the energy to argue, and besides, it’s stupid to let her get to me.

  After steering down the driveway, she reaches into the center console and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She lowers the window and lights up before turning onto the paved road leading to Bell Cove. Hypocritical or not, I hate that she smokes, even occasionally. Chloe hated it, too. Last summer, we made a game of hiding her cigarettes: the freezer, the toilet’s water tank, the bread box. Now, I give her my most judgmental glower.

  “Didn’t lung cancer kill Grandma?” I ask, fanning the air.

  Lucy blows a slow curl of smoke. “Your sister drowned. Is that why you quit swimming?”

  My mouth drops open, all thoughts of maturity, of peace, vanishing. “How about a little tact?” I sputter, my shock transforming into anger. “Not all of us can bury sadness in a remodel.”

  “Nobody said you should bury your sadness. I happen to think you should address it.”

  “Is that why you’ve been setting Chloe’s things out for me to find?”

  “I—what?”

  “Her swim cap and goggles? You left them for me. Because you thought I’d come running, ready to pour my heart out?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She appears genuinely perplexed. And more than a little concerned. “You found her things in the house?”

  Regret makes my face warm. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “Never mind.”

  “No, I’m confused. Because I haven’t seen any of her belongings since last summer.”

  “Then maybe I made a mistake. They must be someone else’s.”

  Except, no. They’re not.

  Lucy turns onto Sitka, driving slower than necessary, glancing at me regularly. “Callie. We should figure this out. Talk about it.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “No, of course not. You only want to be miserable. What I can’t understand is why.”

  I ball my hands into fists. “God, Aunt Lucy. Shut up.”

  Her expression becomes a spiral of conviction and superiority, the ash at the end of her cigarette growing precariously long. “You’ve got to face this. Chloe’s not coming back. No matter how much you punish yourself. No matter how often you hope and wish. She’s gone.”

  My desire for more time with my sister isn’t a hope or a wish.

  It’s an affliction.

  “Did you hear me?” Lucy says, as if she’s physically incapable of staying quiet, as if she’s trying to wreck me. “She’s gone. I don’t mean to be callous, but you’re living a fantasy if you think otherwise.”

  I hate her.

  I hate her.

  My muscles twitch with the need to escape, to be as far from her as possible.

  The second she brakes at a stop sign, I’m out of the car, slamming the door, dashing toward the hill that will take me back to Stewart House.

  12

  When I get back to the house, I dig out my little stash, fling a window open, and wallow.

  The first time I smoked, I was with Isaac.

  I should’ve been studying, but I couldn’t sit still. My sister, conversely, had spent the evening stretched out on the sofa in the family room, watching Disney’s version of Hercules with our dad. This was their routine: a Sunday night movie swap. Dad favored documentaries, almost always about Greece, and Chloe often chose something Greece-centric as well, but fun, like Percy Jackson and the Olympians, or Clash of the Titans.

  I threw a wave as I walked past the two of them, calling, “Going for a walk,” before escaping the confines of the house.

  The night was balmy and clear. Isaac abandoned a mountain bike repair project to walk with me, a few blocks north to a greenbelt adjacent to Lake Union. The conversation swung my way, school and swimming and family, and he listened. Not like our dialogue was a transaction, not like he was racking up points to pay out later, but like he cared about what I was saying.

  At the greenbelt, we found a bench tucked into a grove of trees. During the day, when sunshine streamed through gaps in the clouds, it was a perfect place to sit and
watch seaplanes land on the lake. That night, it felt dark, private, safe.

  From the pocket of his shorts, Isaac produced a small pipe, a lighter, and a canister with a clear cap. I’d never been around weed, but I wasn’t so sheltered that I couldn’t identify it. Marijuana’s legal in Washington, though not so much for minors, and not in public parks.

  Nerves kicked my pulse up.

  “Stressed about finals?” Isaac guessed, packing the bowl.

  I looked at my crossed legs; my foot bounced rhythmically. I gave a reedy laugh. “A little.”

  “I bet you’ll do fine.”

  “I’d like to do better than fine,” I told him, watching as he tucked the canister back into his pocket.

  “You’re a sophomore—you’re good. Colleges care mostly about your junior-year grades.”

  “But my GPA. I need to maintain it.”

  He took a hit, using his thumb to flick the lighter. When he let the smoke go, he turned politely away. His breath was warmly herbal when he said, “You strike me as a high achiever.”

  There was no point in denying it.

  He held the pipe out to me.

  I shrugged off his offer. “Kind of want my lungs working at full capacity in the pool.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, withdrawing his hand.

  I didn’t feel pressured; it wasn’t like those antidrug campaigns with an asshole bully coercing an innocent lamb into shooting up. But I was curious. I glanced around to be sure no beat cops were lurking behind an evergreen’s thick trunk, waiting to bust me. “You know—maybe I will try it.”

 

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