I stand, using the table to steady myself, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Come on. Show me this new nail gun.”
Up in the Victoria, I try to keep up. My struggle must be obvious, though, because all Lucy will let me do is sit on the floor and hold the bead board panels while she tacks them to the wall. Although I learn to anticipate the sharp pops, I jump every time she pulls the trigger, blasting nails into the wood.
By the time we’ve gotten the bead board in place and adjusted the panels that hang crooked, an army of tiny men with nail guns of their own has moved into my skull. My aunt’s busy winding up an orange extension cord, so I lean against the wall and close my eyes, warding off the afternoon glare streaming in through the windows.
Lucy’s voice floats over from across the room. “Still not feeling well?”
I swallow around the swell of nausea inching up my throat. “Not really.”
“We’re done for now. Go get cleaned up. You’ve earned a break.”
“Aunt Lucy—”
“You look awful, Callie. Seriously. Go lie down.”
I do.
She comes into my room a few minutes after I’ve climbed into bed. She spreads another blanket on top of the ones I’m already beneath and covers my forehead with a wet washcloth, something my mom used to do for Chloe and me when we weren’t feeling well.
“Get some sleep,” she says. “Your dad’ll have my ass if I let you catch pneumonia.”
I try for a courteous laugh because I’m touched by her concern, but it comes out low and lethargic. The last thing I hear before drifting off is the quiet click of the shutting door.
I spend what’s left of the afternoon in bed, alternately napping and sipping the tea Lucy brings. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be mothered, and I can’t bring myself to discourage the attention she’s showering on me.
She comes in early evening with yet another mug of tea. “How’re we feeling?”
“So much better.”
She sits down on my bed. I catch traces of nicotine under her lavender body oil as she plucks the lone paperback from my nightstand. She holds it out, admiring its cover. “Little House in the Big Woods. I’ve always loved this book.”
“I found it in the parlor.” And then, warily, “Chloe loved it, too.”
Lucy hesitates, then says, “Do you remember that Christmas—?”
I nod, panic bubbling up inside me. Of course I remember; I think about it all the time, especially since I’ve been here, the last place Chloe and I were together. But I don’t want to talk about Christmas, or Little House in the Big Woods, or my sister. It doesn’t matter that I spent time with her last night. She was different—not flesh and blood, not altogether my Chloe—and her absence from the corporeal world will always be crushing.
I need Lucy to let it go.
My headache, combined with mention of my sister, must have been enough for today because, thank God, she changes the subject. “Tucker asked about you. He was bummed when I told him you were sick. I swear, if that kid had a tail, it would’ve been tucked between his legs.”
I sip hot, honey-sweetened tea. “I’m sure you didn’t downplay my headache.”
“No, but I’m glad you’ve got some color back. I thought you were going to keel over earlier.” She grins and pats my knee. “I went out while you were sleeping and got the red paint you liked for the Abigail, a sage green for the Theodore, and the lilac. I hope we can start painting tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”
“I will be,” I say with a decisive nod.
“Will you please skip the pool in the morning? I want you fully recovered before you go pushing yourself again.”
I agree, but I’m bummed. I’d been looking forward to my workout, but more than that, Tucker has tomorrow off, which means I won’t see him again for something like thirty-six hours.
Why does that strike me as an unbearably long time?
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Lucy says.
“No.” Though I blush, giving myself away.
“He’s here.”
“What?”
“In the parlor.”
“But he should’ve left by now.”
“He did. He came back. He has something for you.”
I comb my fingers through my hair, anxious out of nowhere. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now. Better get freshened up.” She winks before rising from the bed. Just before stepping into the hallway, she stops, turns, and looks at me. Something poignant and maternal softens her expression, tugging at my heart.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” I say.
She smiles. “You’re welcome.”
* * *
After washing my face and swiping a brush through my hair, I pad down the hallway to the parlor. I’m feeling a little self-conscious about the sloppiness that is my appearance, but the second I peek into the parlor, all that’s forgotten.
Tucker’s sitting on the settee with a sleeping kitten in his lap.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Is that…?”
His face splits into a grin. “The kitten you liked? Yeah.”
“Why do you—? What are you—?”
He slides over, patting the empty space next to him. “First, how’re you feeling?”
“Better.” I step into the parlor and sit beside him. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the formation of a complete sentence. “Tucker. Why do you have a kitten?”
“For a nominal fee, Rex let me adopt him.” His response is without fanfare, though he’s obviously dampening his excitement.
“But … Why?”
“Because he needed a home.” The kitten doesn’t stir as Tucker cups its face in his palm. Its whiskers are miles long. “Look at him, Cal. How could I resist?”
I reach out to brush my fingers over the kitten’s fur.
“Here’s the thing, though,” Tucker continues. “My dad’s not exactly a pet guy, so I thought maybe…”
It dawns on me so suddenly—what he did, why he brought the kitten here—I have to blink back tears before I can look up at him. My voice is hushed when I say, “You thought the kitten could stay with me?”
“Yeah. If that’s cool.”
Tucker Morgan bought me a cat. Because he knew I liked it, because I was sick, because he cares about me enough to do something spontaneously wonderful. I’m not even sure what to do with this information, but my heart’s skipping around in my chest, and Tucker’s passing me the kitten, and I’m accepting it like I’m prepared, like people gift me living, breathing creatures all the time. The kitten’s little body is warm and delicate, and I snuggle him against me, a mixture of gratitude and confusion and elation making soup of my thoughts.
The kitten lets out the tiniest purr, filling the parlor with the sound of contentment.
“He likes you,” Tucker says.
I want to reply with something gracious, something as heartfelt and profound as what he’s done. There are so many things I want to say, a million sentiments I need to express, but words fail me.
Finally, I come up with an earnest, “Thank you.”
I can tell by the way his eyes smile … It’s enough.
28
Later, I call home. I miss my parents, but I’m not raring to return to Seattle anymore. Avoiding Isaac’s parents, sneaking into Chloe’s shrine of a bedroom, slapping on a charlatan happy face for my dad. I don’t like that version of myself.
Besides, Chloe is here, in Bell Cove.
When Mom answers the phone, she slurs. She’s sloshed. Still, I tell her about my new kitten and the redecorating that’s been keeping me busy. It’s trivial stuff, but she doesn’t seem to care; she mmhmms in almost all the right places and even laughs a little when I go into a detailed description of Lucy’s latest outfit. When she passes the phone off to Dad, I repeat my stories for him, then mention that I’ve been to the pool.
“I’m happy to hear that,” he says. “Chloe would be, t
oo.”
I blink, taken aback; he hardly ever speaks my sister’s name. He misses her a lot: their Sunday night movies, her running shoes dumped in the front hall, her heedless resolve. Dad and Chloe butted heads sometimes, but there was so much love between them.
He goes on: “You know, it’s okay to talk about her, Callie. I want you to feel comfortable coming to me. About anything, but especially about your sister. Your aunt said—”
“Wait. Lucy put you up to this?”
“No, but she’s worried about you. She said you’re keeping your feelings inside.”
I sit up, disturbing my sleeping kitten. “God, Dad, you do the same thing.”
He sighs. “That doesn’t mean it’s the best way to cope. Tomorrow will be a year since she left us, and I’m starting to realize that’s too long to keep quiet. I think about her all the time, and I want to talk about her—even if it hurts. I want us to be more open. About Chloe, about what happened last summer—anything you want. When you’re ready, I’ll be ready.”
A year.
It’s so surreal: Chloe could have died yesterday or a century ago.
I try to imagine what it’d be like to sit my dad down and tell him about the ocean swims she and I made last summer. Her determination when it came to triathlon training. Her feelings for Isaac, and how I brushed them off right up until it was too late. What would he say if I told him that Chloe and I fought the night she died? If he knew what I said to her before she left for the beach, the last words she likely heard? How would he feel if I told him that I want to get better but can’t—not while I lack my sister’s forgiveness.
“Do you and Mom talk about Chloe?”
Softly, he says, “Mom and I don’t talk about a lot these days. She’s not as strong as you.”
I’m not strong—not like I used to be. But there are moments when I sense my strength attempting a comeback. When Lucy makes me laugh, or when I’m a few thousand yards into a workout. Pretty much any time I’m with Tucker.
“I should go, Dad. But I love you. Mom, too.”
After we hang up, I lie in bed for a long time, thinking about strength and its many, many shapes.
* * *
Very late, I prepare.
I smoke as scantly as last night. I dress in leggings and a sweatshirt. I wrap up in a blanket. I’m not sure how much they matter, but I gather my sister’s things. And then I resume my post on the porch, stretching my awareness to the far reaches of the yard.
It’s easier this time, connecting with her.
She appears, again, in her yellow dress, something she never would have picked for herself. My mom bought it two days after she died, a tear-soaked journey to Nordstrom to shop for Chloe’s final ensemble. Both my dad and Lucy volunteered for the task, but Mom insisted, and I went along. Honestly, I was scared she wouldn’t make it back to the house on her own.
“You look pretty in that dress,” I tell my sister now, because she does, and Mom would want me to pass along the compliment.
She wrinkles her nose. “You guys should’ve buried me in my running shorts.”
I smile.
“I’m serious,” she says, hovering before me. “That could’ve been my final act of defiance where Daddy’s concerned.”
“He misses you,” I tell her, solemn now. “Mom, too. So much.”
We’re quiet a moment, watching each other. I imagine my expression matches hers: love spun with wonder and disbelief, because holy hell, this is incredible.
It’s also unnerving. The version of Chloe standing before me is different: so still, so much more introspective. In life, she was always in motion, always speaking before thinking. I’m not sure if the change has to do with death or how she spent the last 364 days.
I ask the question that’s been on my mind since we said goodbye last night. “What’s it like?”
“This?” she asks, sweeping a hand through the air. Her movements are different, too: slower, more graceful. She used to remind me of a fawn, but now she’s all doe: fluid, elegant, and sure.
“Yeah. Do you feel…?”
“Dead?”
“I was going to say different.”
She rolls her eyes, so quintessentially Chloe my throat swells with wistfulness. “I don’t know. I hardly remember what it’s like to be anything but dead. Like, the basics are there: I was a daughter and a sister and an average student and an athlete. I liked to watch movies with Dad and help Mom with her garden and, more than anything, I wanted to be like you. But life? How it felt to be alive?” She shrugs. “Time passes differently now—I have no real sense of it. I mean, I exist. I watch Lucy and the waves. I wander the beach and the town and the woods. But it’s all peripheral, like I’m observing a girl who looks like me. I don’t even know how long it’s been—days or weeks or months.”
It’s like pressing hard into a bruise, hearing her talk like this. I’m not sure whether to give her the truth, even about something as inconsequential-seeming as the time line.
But then, the last time I lied, something terrible happened.
“It’s been a year,” I say. “A year tomorrow.”
She nods once.
“It doesn’t feel like that long?”
“It feels like it doesn’t matter. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You know that for sure?”
She spends a minute in quiet thought. I wonder if she’s formulating a genuine response or trying to figure out how to avoid freaking me out. “If there’s a heaven,” she finally says, “I missed it. Because it can’t be this—roaming Bell Cove, alone and lonely, for eternity. But I can’t imagine that this existence is hell, either. I don’t remember how I died, or why, but I couldn’t have done something so horrendous I earned eternal damnation.”
The uncertainty in her voice shreds me. “Chloe. You didn’t.”
Her shoulders rise, then fall. “I’m … stuck. Here. Probably forever.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you’re here because you have business to finish.”
Remember, I think. Please, Chloe. I need you to remember.
“I mean, yeah, I have business to finish,” she says, scornful. “I was going to compete in a triathlon. I was going to graduate high school. I was going to fall in love. How am I supposed to know which of the thousands of missed opportunities sentenced me to purgatory?”
My arms prickle with goose bumps, reassurances and justifications gathering on my tongue.
What I don’t say is this: People die young all the time, before they chase their dreams and meet their goals. Before they find true love. I can’t imagine that each and every one of them is like my sister: trapped.
Chloe lingers because of what happened the night she died.
She has unfinished business with me.
Somewhere, locked in her head or her heart or her soul, she has information we both need. Information about Isaac and what happened between the two of them. Information that will clear him of culpability or confirm the suspicions I’ve carried for the last year. If I can help her recall that day, that night, the questions that have tormented me for the last year will earn answers. If she remembers, I can apologize for the part I played. I can beg for her forgiveness.
I wrap my arms around my middle, folding in on myself, the weight of our impossible situation crushing.
“Are you cold again?” Chloe asks.
I look up and see an angel in a yellow dress.
I’d trade places with her if I could.
“I’m okay. This is just…”
“Hard. I know.”
I nod, blinking back tears.
Her melancholy quickly becomes amusement. “God, Cal, don’t you dare cry. You’re supposed to be the brave sister.”
“No. That was always you.”
She accepts my admiration in stride, forever Chloe. “Tell me about the last year. I want to hear about Mom and Dad and swim team and all the boys you’ve been out with.”
Up until recently, my life
was a shit show, but I’m not about to admit as much. “Mom and Dad are okay. I’m taking a break from swim team. And boys … There’s not a lot to tell.”
“Liar,” Chloe says. “I’ve seen the hottie Aunt Lucy’s got working on the yard.”
“That’s Tucker.” My face betrays me, warming despite the chill that comes with being near my sister. I try to play it off like, oh, Tucker, he’s no one, because discussing boys with Chloe is cruel, like rubbing her nose in a mess she doesn’t realize exists. “He’s cool, I guess.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, raising her eyebrows in the same absurd way Lucy does when Tucker comes up.
I’m trying to figure out how to explain him and us when pain flares behind my eyes. Another headache, though this one has come out of nowhere and feels a hell of a lot more severe than any that have come before it. Allergies, Lucy said, which I’m probably exacerbating, hanging out outside at all hours of the day and night. I squeeze my eyes shut and bargain with the discomfort: Give me ten more minutes, and tomorrow I’ll practice some self-care.
“You’re feeling bad,” Chloe says.
“I’m fine.”
Her expression asserts, Don’t bullshit me.
“It’s the pollen,” I concede. “Lucy said it gives her headaches, too.”
“Then you should go inside. We can talk again tomorrow.”
I close my eyes again, just briefly, trying to beat back the pain because the last thing I want is to go inside. If I’m going to survive tomorrow, I need this time with my sister.
But when I open my eyes, she’s gone.
29
My dad calls after breakfast, wanting to know if I’m okay.
I tell him I am.
I’m not sure what else to say.
In truth, I’m having a hard time getting a handle on my emotions; they’re bright and dim, soft and hard, glad and sad. Last night I spent time with Chloe—what a privilege. Her capricious spirit is infinitely better than the permanency of death, and I won’t take our connection for granted.
Yet it’s not the same.
It can never be the same.
After a few minutes of conversation, Dad passes on my mom’s love, and we hang up.
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