“Maybe.”
His grin is steeped in arrogance. “Because of me?”
He’s not far from the truth. On good days my mood is unpredictable, and on bad days, well, I’ve let my inner bitch shine. But Tucker’s been patient. He’s been constant.
The sun is moving west, stretching shadows across the forest floor, and it’s probably time to get back to work. As that thought cements itself, Tucker stands, pulling me up, too, then leads me to the trail home.
My hand remains in his all the way back to Stewart House.
25
I can’t sleep, again, but not because I’m scared or tense or sad. I feel almost good, and that’s as unsettling an emotion as any other.
What right do I have?
When I’m sure Lucy’s out for the night, I treat myself to a modest smoke, considering Tucker and his optimistic but naive belief that I don’t need weed. The motion is therapeutic and the herbal aroma is faintly sedative, but my heart’s not in it.
I keep seeing that pale face in the attic window. And wondering about Chloe’s belongings. And hearing my grandma’s sage advice: Why not keep a mind open to possibility? I pull up the photo I snapped of Help for the Haunted’s recommendations for establishing contact with the paranormal. Relaxation is crucial. Distractions should be eliminated. Work to empty your mind. Slacken your muscles and allow your eyes to defocus.
I could try.
Inspired, I dip into my nightstand. Grabbing Chloe’s things, as well as my phone, I sneak out to the porch with a blanket and a fierce longing for my sister.
I sit in the rocking chair farthest from Lucy’s bedroom window, opposite where I sat when Tucker and I first met. The sky’s clear, and the night is very quiet, save the waves beating the rocks below the cliff. The air is warmer than usual, so I put the blanket aside, then spend a minute arranging Chloe’s things on my lap—cap, goggles, notebook, pen.
I’m reasonably relaxed, my mind as empty as can be expected. I let my muscles loose, melting into the chair, and then, gazing into the dark yard, I let my vision go blurry.
I spend a long time watching for light, for color, for movement.
I see nothing.
Discouraged, I study Help for the Haunted’s directives again. Viewing artwork and listening to soothing music to establish a clear and tranquil state of mind seems pointless, especially considering I just smoked a substance known for magnifying thoughts and perceptions, not to mention amping dopamine levels.
I can do this; I need this.
If communication is possible, if it really is Chloe’s spirit that lingers, there’s no reason we can’t make a connection tonight.
I have to be patient. I have to practice.
I’m not sure how long I sit on the porch, thinking about my sister, staring into the yard, stretching my awareness to its farthest reaches, but I don’t notice how cold it’s become until I’m forced to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
I reach for the blanket, not ready to give up. Settling back into my chair, I let my vision go hazy again. And then I see it—a gently lit figure moving through the yard.
Chloe, in her yellow dress.
My eyes flood with tears.
She glides toward the porch, toward me, ethereal and beautiful. Nostalgia surges through me, robbing my breath.
And then comes an onslaught of questions.… Does she see me? Will she be able to speak to me? Will she want to speak to me?
Does she miss me as much as I miss her, every single day?
“Cal,” she says, her voice like gossamer.
I’ve been desperate to talk to her for months and months, and now she’s here, and I’m struck speechless as she stands over me.
“It’s been a long time,” she says.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
“Are you okay?” she says.
She looks lovely, like herself but softer, airbrushed by a meticulous hand. There’s an eerie radiance about her, like death made her phosphorescent.
Help for the Haunted spoke of fear, but I’m not afraid.
Joy—that’s what I feel.
“It was you all along,” I whisper, blotting my tears. I want to hug her so tightly, smell her hair and feel her warmth and confirm that she’s real, here, looking at me through darkened eyes, speaking to me in a wispy voice. But she’s keeping her distance and I’m not sure why, so I stay in my chair, hands in my lap, clutching her little notebook.
“Took you long enough to figure it out,” she says, and I’m so happy her sarcasm has sustained the last year I could cry all over again.
“Took you long enough to make an appearance.”
“I’ve been nearby since you came back.”
“You left the poppies? And all this?” I ask, waving a hand over her belongings.
“I wanted you to know it was me. I didn’t want you to be scared.”
“I’m not.”
I expect her to grin, but her expression has sobered. “You were.”
“God. Obviously. You’re freaking—”
I snap my mouth shut, horrified.
Does she realize?
“Dead,” she supplies tonelessly. “You can say it.”
No, I can’t. Instead, I whisper the apology I’ve spent the last year wishing to convey—the only words that matter. “Chloe, I’m so sorry. It was my fault, all of it. I shouldn’t have…” I trail off, because she’s looking at me like she hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about. Emphatically, I say, “What I did. The things I said.”
“I don’t remember,” she says, shaking her head. And then she clarifies. “I remember home. Mom and Daddy. I remember school, and summer break, and coming here. I remember being with Aunt Lucy and you. I remember our promise to come back—I knew you would. I remember running. And biking. And swimming.”
“In the ocean.”
She nods, lighting up. “Aunt Lucy didn’t want us to.”
“But you insisted.”
“And you loved it.”
“No,” I say. “You loved it.”
She absorbs this. “Have you been since you came back?”
I maintain a carefully neutral expression because she really doesn’t remember, and I’m not sure, yet, what that means. I stall, searching for the right answer, one that won’t alarm her, finally settling on, “Not to the ocean.”
“Why not?”
“It’s … dangerous.”
“You sound like Aunt Lucy. Like Dad.”
I peer up at her, panic churning in my stomach. She knows she died, but she doesn’t know how or why. She’s glad to reconnect because she doesn’t remember how ugly I was at the end. This must be why she hasn’t left Bell Cove: There are loose threads. Empty swaths of memory.
I’m her business unfinished.
My head hurts, suddenly and intensely.
“I swam this morning,” I tell her. “First time I’ve gone in a long time.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I miss the water.”
“I miss you.”
“You don’t have to. Not anymore.”
I nod, rubbing my forehead, trying to contain shivers that lurk beneath my skin.
“You’re feeling bad?”
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “I’m just cold.”
“Then you should go inside. Get some sleep. You don’t do that enough.”
I want to remind her that I’m the big sister. I want to tell her she’s wrong, I’m fine, and I’ll endure a blizzard if that’s what’s required to spend time with her, but she’s drifting away.
“Chloe, please don’t go.”
She smiles. “I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. You’ll meet me?”
“You know I will.”
She blows me a kiss before fading into the darkness.
26
When my alarm goes off early the next morning, I’m drained and a little loopy.
All night, my dreams
were fevered, crowded with Chloe, broken up by a lingering headache. Now that I’m awake, barely, our reunion returns in fragments, glimmers that dim as quickly as they surface. I can just barely call up the basics of her image: yellow dress, rose gold hair, luminous as she stood before me.
I roll out of bed and, bleary-eyed, stuff my swim gear into my backpack.
Physically, I feel like shit, but mentally, I’m blissed out.
Last night, I reunited with my sister.
Tucker’s beaten me to the pool. He’s swimming slow warm-up laps in a middle lane as I dump my bag on a chair and strip out of my sweats. He doesn’t stop when I slip into the lane next to his, and I’m relieved. I’m becoming pretty damn fond of his amiable presence, but I need a while to just be.
After a few hundred yards, the rush of water begins to dull the thudding in my head. I swim on, pushing myself, working through last night’s conversation. My recollection is choppy, but one detail clings, urgent and upsetting: Chloe doesn’t remember the day she died—what she did or what I said.
The anniversary of her death is tomorrow; I’ve spent almost a year trapped in an endless loop of those awful hours. It’s unfathomable that she could forget.
I roll into flip turn after flip turn, apprehensive, now, thinking about how I’ll observe the one day I’m desperate to forget. I swim hard until my breath comes short and my face goes hot, until I’m light-headed. I’m about to pull up at the wall when I catch a glimpse of Tucker crossing beneath the lane line to join me.
I slow my pace, catching my breath, cooling down, ready to think about something else for a while. Tucker follows for a few leisurely laps, and by the time he reaches out to grab playfully at my ankle, I’m craving his attention.
“Morning,” he says, tugging his goggles off, revealing his sea-glass eyes, all alight. “I brought you a surprise.”
He hoists himself up and out of the water, dripping all over the deck as he crosses it. His muscles flex and relax, flex and relax; he’s built like a Grecian sculpture, one my father showed me a picture of a few years ago, the Discobolus: a man preparing to hurl a discus. He pulls a yellow ball from his bag, roughly the size of a volleyball, and, I swear to God, twists his abdomen exactly like the Discobolus, winding up to pitch the ball into the water.
“Tucker,” I say, freezing him in his prethrow pose. “I said I didn’t play water polo.”
“Why not start?” He straightens and spins the ball on his palm—show-off. “You can tread water, yeah?”
“Yes, I can tread water,” I say, indignant.
“And we know you can swim. You’re gonna be a natural.” He tosses the ball into the middle of the pool, then launches off the deck in a dive after it.
I leave my goggles on the grate and push off the wall. After last night, I feel like I might be capable of anything. And, anyway, if I don’t at least try, I’ll never hear the end of it.
We spend the next half hour going over the basics. What Tucker calls dribbling, swimming freestyle with my head above water, the ball riding the wake between my arms—a skill I suck at. Passing is equally draining. Tucker considerately blames my struggles on the fact that his ball is men’s regulation. “Women’s are a little smaller,” he explains. “I’ll try to find you one. It’ll fit better in your hand.”
He shows me how to maximize my tread, demonstrating first, then asking me to sit on the wall and physically moving my legs in the eggbeater motion that will apparently keep me afloat for hours. His hands are gentle, swirling my feet around and around. I try to do it right, though his proximity is kind of distracting.
But when I swim into deeper water and attempt treading on my own, he nods his approval. “You’re getting it.”
I throw my hands up and sink to the bottom, my legs wobbly with the exertion of my workout. When I open my eyes, immersed, the world’s a blur. Without goggles, the chlorine stings, but it’s reassuring. I’d forgotten how good for the soul regular time in the pool can be.
I plant my feet on the concrete and push toward the wall. When I surface, I find Tucker sitting on the gutter. “I was starting to think I was gonna have to come in after you.”
I pull myself up to sit next to him, splashing water over my legs.
“You love being in the pool,” he says.
“So do you,” I return.
I don’t miss the way his gaze jumps from my eyes to my mouth. He’s been so sweet, and in my most honest moments, I can admit that I like him—a lot. But there’s comfort in the simplicity of his friendship, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to risk it.
He doesn’t lean in, as I thought he might. Instead, he takes my hand, stretching my arm across his lap. So slowly, he draws a finger along my palm, across my wrist, higher. I close my eyes as he traces the length of my scar like he’s scrawling a line through sand. Nobody’s ever touched it—nobody’s ever wanted to—and the sensation is bizarre. The tissue isn’t entirely healed, and the nerve endings are ultrasensitive, giving me the tingly sensation of being touched everywhere, yet nowhere at all.
“Broken wing,” he murmurs, dragging his finger lightly down my arm.
I don’t know why, but his comment makes me smile. “It’s healing.”
“Tell me about it?”
I shake my head, falling helplessly into his gaze. I’ve hated my scar for as long as I’ve had it, the remnant of a battle lost but somehow survived.
“Someday?” Tucker asks.
I nod because I do want to tell him, when I can relay the story without worrying that my revelation will change things between us.
I reach out with my free hand. Tentatively, I trace the lines of his tattoo. His breath hitches, and I look up to see him watching me. His skin is slippery, still wet, as I outline the curling waves, then follow the infinite circle that encloses them.
“It’s meant to be the ocean,” he says.
I catch a bead of water on my finger before it drips down his arm. “Not a pool?”
“No. My mother loved the ocean—one of the few things I know about her.”
Chloe loved the ocean, too.
Loved. Past tense.
I wonder when Tucker gave up on his mom, stopped thinking of her as a part of his life, as a possibility. I’m hoping he’ll go on, but he stays quiet. There’s so much happening behind his gaze, though. I watch indecision and conviction and need tangle around one another, and I realize he’s deciding whether to give me a secret. I can relate; I’m torn about opening up to him, too.
Finally, he twines our fingers and says, “The beach—Bell Cove—is where I feel most like me. I hated it here when I was a kid. I bailed as soon as I graduated, spent most of last summer in Malibu with my aunt and uncle and cousin, but it didn’t take me long to miss Bell Cove. My tattoo’s a reminder of home, of everything home’s supposed to be. I feel my mother when I’m here, and I feel her when I look at it.” He gives a quiet laugh. “Does that sound crazy?”
“Not at all,” I tell him, envious of the closure he seems to have found.
He opens our linked hands, measuring his palm against mine. “So? Do you still think it’s cool?”
I look at his tattoo again, the ocean, home, a reminder of his mother and their untested connection. “Maybe not cool, so much. But I like it.”
He smiles as if my answer is exactly what he wanted to hear.
27
I decline Tucker’s offer of a ride home. I like the bike, the winding down of my thoughts as I pedal, fresh air blowing my damp hair dry. It’s not until I hit the hill, my legs burning with the challenge of the incline, that my headache creeps back in. It’s subtle, an annoying tickle of pain, but it wipes out the endorphins I earned swimming.
Lucy’s in the kitchen when I come through the door, her hair a blur of auburn. “How was your workout?”
“Good,” I say, shedding my sweatshirt. My neck is clammy, too warm.
“How’s Tucker?”
I consider telling her the truth: Tucker is kind of ama
zing. When he holds my hand, I feel comforted. When he smiles, it’s easy to smile back. When he tells me his secrets, I want to tell him mine.
“Fine,” I say.
She pushes her lower lip out in a pout. “You’re stingy with the good stuff.” She places a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of me, flipping her frown into a grin. “But I’ll still feed you.”
I nibble in the name of decorum, trying to stifle unrelenting yawns as Lucy devours her food, telling me about her plan to install bead board in the Victoria before we paint the walls lilac.
I push my plate away. “Is that something we should let Tucker handle? Or, like, a carpenter?”
She flexes her nonexistent biceps. “We can manage bead board. I bought a nail gun!”
I know she’s waiting for me to laugh or protest or agree whole-heartedly with her can-do declaration, something, but all I can muster is a listless nod.
She touches my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just a headache.”
“Allergies. The pollen count’s been high. I’m feeling it, too. I’ll get you some Motrin.” She leaves her chair to root around in a cabinet while I massage my temples, trying to relieve the pressure. Daisy orbits the legs of my chair, her meows insistent and severe.
Lucy brings me pills and a glass of water, then returns to her breakfast. It’s almost as if she’s shouting directly into my ear when she asks, “Did your head hurt while you were swimming?”
“Not really,” I say, modeling a softer tone. “I started to feel bad as I was riding home.”
“I wonder if you overdid it.”
“Maybe. Tucker’s teaching me how to play water polo.”
“Well, tell him to take it easy next time.”
“He only showed me a few of the basics,” I say, inclined to defend him.
“Maybe you should skip home improvement. Go nap instead.”
That sounds wonderful, actually, but the work keeps my mind from my parents, from tomorrow’s unwelcome anniversary, from smoking. And, hopefully, from the brain-bending fact that last night I had a conversation with my dead sister. “The Motrin’s kicking in,” I lie.
Lucy’s skeptical.
How the Light Gets In Page 12