How the Light Gets In

by Katy Upperman

  “What about you?” I ask. “Been tending gardens for the last year?”

  His smoky voice takes a hint of playful arrogance. “I go to school in California.”

  “I thought Bell Cove was the shit?”

  “So’s Pepperdine, especially for collegiate water polo and, you know, getting a degree.”

  Holy hell—this new awareness that Tucker Morgan is likely miles out of my league is hard to swallow. Glancing furtively in his direction, I recognize the chlorine-bleached tips of his fair hair, the lean muscles of his forearms, and his broad shoulders for the sum total of what they are: a swimmer’s physique.

  How did I miss it?

  I realize it’s my turn to talk when he glances from the road to me, then back again. He’s waiting for some kind of response to his Pepperdine announcement, probably.

  The lamest question ever finds its way out of my mouth. “What’s your major?”

  “Interpersonal communication.”

  “Huh. Seems fitting.”

  “You think?” he says, grinning. “Since we’re doing pretty okay with the communication thing today, if you ever want to ditch Lucy’s for a while, you and I can go do something.”

  I grasp something significant. Mind-blowing, actually. In the few minutes that I’ve been talking to Tucker, the ball of tension that’s remained knotted in my stomach for the last year has loosened. And so, briefly, I entertain the idea of taking him up on his offer. A new friend—a summer romance, even—might help me feel better. Feel something.

  But using someone as decent as Tucker to my advantage would be incredibly egocentric.

  The last time I thought purely of myself, my sister died.

  Looking at the kittens, a mound of sleeping fur, I say, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  He pushes a hand through his hair, focused on the road ahead. “Yeah. Okay.”

  He turns off Sitka, flies past the barren elementary school playground, and pulls into the lot of the Bell Cove Animal Shelter. He comes around to lift the crate from my lap, flashing me an affable smile, apparently unaffected by my rebuff. Inside the shelter, he greets a russet-haired man with REX embroidered on the front pocket of his shirt.

  “Rex is the supervisor here,” Tucker tells me. “He and my dad went to high school together. Rex, this is Callie, my—” he clears his throat, then settles on “—boss’s niece.”

  He relays the story of our orphans to Rex, who appears enraptured. They lapse into small-town chitchat, and, to occupy myself, I lift the tiniest kitten from the crate. He’s frail, mewing despondently as I try to warm him, gray fur silky against my neck. He nestles in and gives a tiny purr, and I have the sudden, absurd notion that I should take him home. I stroke his back, momentarily considering the idea.

  Except, no.

  I can’t take care of a kitten.

  I can barely take care of myself.

  “Cal?”

  I glance up to find Tucker and Rex looking at me. While I was lost in thought, one of them unloaded the kittens from the crate; they wriggle and whine on the stainless steel countertop. With a repentant smile, Tucker reaches for the kitten I hold.

  Reluctantly, I pass him off.

  “Far as I can tell, they’re healthy,” Rex says, giving the kittens a once-over. “Somewhere around six weeks. Of course, they’ll need official check-ups and clean bills of health, but based on what I’m seeing, there’s no reason they can’t be adopted out.”

  Tucker beams, satisfied with the good deed we’ve done.

  I wish I could feel so content.

  15

  My first date with Isaac was on a drizzly Thursday morning, the week before finals. He intercepted me in our driveway before school and persuaded me to ditch first period for coffee with him. I took Chloe to North Seattle Prep first, listening to her complain about how Mom made her eat a banana alongside her peanut butter toast, going so far as to walk onto campus with her, only to circle back to the parking lot once she’d disappeared into the freshman wing. Sneakiness wasn’t in my makeup back then, and I felt like a convict escaping the prison yard as I sped away from school—a little bit of fear and a whole lot of freedom.

  Isaac beat me to the Starbucks on Dexter. He was waiting near the door, wearing dark jeans and a maroon sweatshirt, speckled with raindrops. The café was crowded.

  “I was going to order,” he said, “except I have no idea what you like.”

  “Chocolate,” I told him. “Always chocolate.”

  He ended up with a mocha that matched mine, and we found a table offering scant privacy.

  “I’ve got to get a green tea for my mom before we go,” he said. “Don’t let me forget.”

  I settled into my chair, pleased by the way he was slotting me into his world, making me part of his mundane morning duties.

  “Did you tell your sister you’re ditching?” he asked.

  “God, no. She would’ve wanted to come.”

  “She seems cool.”

  “She is. I just…”

  “Didn’t want her crashing our first date?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Or whatever this is.”

  He smiled, tapping his paper coffee cup against mine. “First date, for sure.”

  His dimple, his laugh, his ease—being with him made me feel warm and melty and sweet, like a marshmallow toasting over a flame. I was starting to understand why a lot of my classmates did enough to get by, why many of my longtime swim friends had bailed on the sport upon starting high school—upon discovering romance.

  Isaac dropped an open hand onto the table. I gave him mine. He tugged me forward, mindful of our steaming mochas, then inclined in my direction. I was brimming with anticipation, growing impatient with his leisurely journey forward.

  When we met at the table’s center, finally, he smiled, then touched his mouth to mine, tasting of chocolate and espresso, squeezing my hand within his.

  It was a charming kiss, a Thursday morning kiss, a middle of Starbucks kiss, but it swept me up in its spontaneous magic and gave me a sense of reckless abandon where Isaac was concerned: Nothing he was part of could be wrong.

  The time I spent with Tucker today—the blackberry brambles, the kittens, the ride, the animal shelter—left me with a different sort of feeling. One of tranquility and trust, despite its awkward pauses and stilted small talk and sidelong glances. Under Tucker’s light, I could just be, and that makes me wonder if, in a parallel universe, Alternate Tucker and Alternate Callie might fall for each other.

  Unfortunately, I live in this universe.

  * * *

  Lucy’s not home by midafternoon. Tucker’s been back in the yard for ages and I’m bored and stuck in my head, so I hole up in my bathroom to smoke. I feel shitty when I’m finished, regretful and jumpy, which is disconcerting.

  I lie down to sleep it off and end up in the maze of a cemetery, wandering past headstones etched with strangers’ names. I’m searching, searching, searching for Chloe, and then she’s there. Her eyes shine, expectant, as I step forward. She moves beyond the tree line, summoning me forward. I follow, picking my way through shrubs and underbrush as the sunlight shimmers off her hair.

  “Chloe, wait!”

  She turns. Beckons me forward again.

  I stumble, my toe catching a gnarled stump. I regain my footing, but when I look up, my sister’s gone. I search, confused by all the green, moss dripping from branches, leaves rustling in the breeze, pine needles blanketing the forest floor.

  “Chloe!” My voice bounces off the skyscraper trees. “Chloe! Please!”

  The sound of her laughter propels me forward, and I burst into a small clearing. While the woods were cool and dim, here the air is warm, filled with light, honey-sweet. Red flowers with black centers stretch to meet the sun.

  My sister steps out from behind a grove of trees, into the sunshine. Poppies lean in to brush her knees. She opens her mouth, murmuring something I can’t make out. I strain to hear her.

 
When I do, I wish I hadn’t.

  “Callie, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  16

  I sit up, groggy, my heart thrashing around in my chest.

  Afternoon light filters in through the curtains, pulling me from the lingering threads of my dream, leaving me wide awake and confused and sadder than ever.

  Chloe hasn’t been waiting for me.

  Chloe is gone.

  I rub my eyes, swinging my legs around so my feet touch the floor. I need to get out of this room; I need to join the living. Because this—smoking, sleeping during the day, agonizing over my sister—is so not good for me.

  I’ve almost motivated myself off the bed when I notice the poppies on my nightstand. Fresh. Woven into a wreath that encircles a small notebook with a marbled cover. A pink ballpoint pen sits atop it.

  I recognize the items immediately: Chloe’s training notebook, and the pen she used to record her swims, rides, and runs.

  My nightstand was clear when I got home from the shelter.

  I draw in a breath, pushing my hands through my tangled hair.

  God, is it possible?

  Gingerly, I move Chloe’s pen aside. I pick up her notebook, flipping it open. Her entries cover pages, beginning eighteen months ago and spanning through the end of last June. She was meticulous, noting where she worked out, for how long, and with whom. She usually ran with a couple of her girlfriends. Toward the end, she biked with Isaac. Most of her swims were with me, though her growing enthusiasm for triathlon training drained her patience for formal practices. She still went, because our parents had invested a small fortune in the sport, and because the workouts our coaches drew up would help when it came time for the Seattle Summer Triathlon.

  “Most of the athletes are probably swimming on their own, using whatever training programs they find online,” Chloe told me one morning last year as I drove us to the pool for a crack-of-dawn Saturday practice. “Swimming with the team gives me an edge.” And then she slumped down in her seat, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes, and groaned. “I just don’t understand why it has to happen before the sun comes up.”

  In the pool, she rallied, powering through her sets with quiet determination.

  After practice, I showered and dressed, tugging on black leggings and a chambray button-down. I wove my hair into a quick French braid, then left the locker room to wait for my sister, who, as usual, was taking her sweet time.

  Isaac and I had made plans to spend the day together. I snagged the end of a bench and pulled out my phone to cement them. We’d been hanging out for a few weeks, but I hadn’t mentioned him to my parents. They knew the Parks had moved in next door—my mom had taken over a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies—but they had no idea I was making out with Mr. and Mrs. Parks’ son.

  He returned my text quickly: Movie? Hike? Ferry?

  All the above? I sent back.

  Done.

  I was grinning when Chloe came slamming through the locker room door. “My hair’s turning into straw,” she announced. She was dressed for a run: sneakers, T-shirt, and shorts.

  “You know I’m supposed to drive you home, right? Dad doesn’t like you running all that way alone.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” she said, gathering a ponytail. “I need the miles, Cal.”

  My phone buzzed with another text. I glanced at the screen. Meet out front at eleven?

  “Dad checking in?” Chloe guessed.

  I wanted to tell her about Isaac, and I would have if she hadn’t spent the last week swooning over his niceness and his cuteness, glowing with the warmth of her first real crush.

  I took a breath, ready to come clean.

  And then: “I saw Isaac yesterday.”

  I blinked. “You—what?”

  “Outside. He’s kind of obsessive about those bikes of his.” She peered into the glass-enclosed trophy case mounted to the wall, checking her ponytail in its slight reflection. “He doesn’t know tons about road bikes, but he said he’d come over and take a look at mine. Make sure it’s in the best possible shape.”

  Envy—my rawest, most instinctual response.

  She beamed. “He’s so great, Cal.”

  “I bet,” I said as if I didn’t know. As if I hadn’t met up with him the night before, an hour spent under the stars. As if I didn’t have plans to see him later.

  “I wonder if he’ll come over to look at my bike today. Meet Mom and Dad. They’ll like him, don’t you think?”

  “I mean … probably.”

  She bent to tighten her shoelaces. “And don’t worry—he’s not even eighteen yet; his birthday’s at the end of July.” She glanced up, eyes bright. “So he’s not that old.”

  She liked him.

  More worrisome: She thought she had a chance.

  She arched her back, stretching her arms over her head, limbering up for the run that was motivated, at least a little, by our dad’s disapproval. That was Chloe: determined to make a point, to prove naysayers wrong, to chase what others said she couldn’t have. Her resolve was one of her best qualities, the attribute I most often coveted, but that day, I found myself wishing she was the sort of girl who’d travel the path without branching off in search of adventure.

  I still wish she hadn’t strayed, but if I had it to do over, I’d step away from Isaac. I’d encourage my sister to go for him. I’d watch, heartened, as she sought the happiness she deserved.

  I close her notebook and pick up her adorable pink pen.

  I hold them close to my heart, daring to hope she left them with me in mind.

  17

  A few days later, everything’s off-kilter.

  I haven’t come across any more of my sister’s belongings. Despite talking to my dad regularly, I miss home. My aunt is still on my case to open up. And the run-ins I’ve had with Tucker have been too brief.

  Also, he has today off.

  Lucy and I’ve spent most of the afternoon stripping paint, peeling wallpaper, and moving dusty furniture. I’ve gotten pretty good at losing myself in the work around Stewart House; it’s one of the few things that keep my mind off hauntings and the loneliness eating through me.

  When the last of the wallpaper’s been pulled from the Theodore, Lucy suggests we head into town. “I want you to see the bookstore. Meet my friend Shirley.”

  I snag a missed scrap from the nearby window casing. “But we’re almost ready to start painting.”

  “Come on, Callie. It’ll be fun to get out for a while.”

  I hate to admit it, but she might be right.

  I head to my bathroom to get cleaned up. I dress in jeans and a faded black tank, then pull my hair back. I skip makeup; I haven’t bothered with it in ages, and the local bookstore hardly feels formal enough to make an effort. I slip a pair of beat-up Converse onto my feet and check my phone, just in case my dad called while I was upstairs. He didn’t, but I do have a missed call—from Isaac.

  I haven’t spoken to him since Christmas, when he was home from San Diego and I selfishly and very stupidly spent the night with him. My goal had been closure, or maybe distraction, but his had been reunification, which I inadvertently led him to believe was possible. I also terrorized my parents, who, in the dark of the night, were certain they’d lost me, too.

  Why, why, why would he try to get in touch now?

  I clear the missed call from my log, a sad list comprised almost entirely of Dad’s number because my social life died with my sister, then head to the kitchen to find Lucy.

  “Lucky you,” she says. She pokes at her frizzy copper curls and scowls. “There’s no way my hair will ever be wash-and-wear. Hey—that’s a pretty ring.”

  I look at my finger, where the band has been since I found it packed away last week. I can’t believe it’s taken her so long to notice; she’s so nosy about every other aspect of my life. “It’s from a box in the Gabriel. I’ve been meaning to ask you what you want to do with it.”

  She takes my hand and brings it close to
her face, inspecting the ring. “I think it’s platinum—see how shiny it is? And those stones have to be diamonds. Cubic zirconia doesn’t sparkle that way.”

  “You should try to sell it.”

  “It looks good on you. Finders keepers.” She smiles and loops the strap of her crocheted bag over her shoulder. “Ready?”

  It’s a quiet drive into town. For the first time since I arrived, Bell Cove isn’t capped by blue sky. Clouds have rolled in, low and fluffy, the color of ash. The sidewalks are deserted. Lucy parallel parks on the street in front of a building with A GOOD BOOK printed in white on a green awning. We hurry in as the first raindrops fall.

  A Good Book is bigger than it looks from the street, a maze of shelves that stretch floor to ceiling. They’re crammed with books, paperbacks intermingled with hardcovers, organized with little laminated index cards that display genres written in neat block letters. Oversize chairs are scattered throughout, faded and mismatched, and trailing plants crisscross like spiderwebs. The air is warm and smells of coffee and aged paper.

  My aunt waves to the woman at the counter, then pulls me over by the hand.

  “Nice to see you, Lucy,” the woman says. She’s grandmotherly, her skin a warm brown, her dark eyes gleaming beneath thick glasses.

  “This is my niece, Callie,” Lucy tells her.

  The woman holds her hand out, and I take it. “Shirley,” she says in the gentle, mournful tone I’ve grown accustomed to—Lucy told her about my sister, or she read about what happened in last year’s news. “Your aunt talks about you nonstop,” she says, all but confirming the former.

  I flash a plastic smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m going to check out the cookbooks,” Lucy says to me. “Go explore. We can meet at the counter in a half hour or so.”

  I wander off to browse, passing by history, sci-fi, romance, and picture books. It’s not long before I find myself facing a small alcove devoted to books on the mystic, supernatural, and occult—like an invisible force has drawn me to this particular nook. I scan the books; they’re not so different from those my grandma used to have on her living room bookshelf.