How the Light Gets In

by Katy Upperman

I raise a hand to cut her off. “Aunt Lucy, please. I can’t relive it. I can’t what-if. Not tonight.”

  She drops the butt of her cigarette, snuffing it out with the toe of her ballet flat. “God, I didn’t want to be like this—not in front of you. My plan was to have warm cookies waiting when you got home.” She shrugs sheepishly. “I burned them.”

  “I saw them in the sink.”

  She wipes away her tears and gives me a cautious smile. “How are you? I mean, really. This summer … Has it been okay?”

  She deserves an honest answer, taking me in, tolerating my moods, letting me claim a piece of her remodel, attempting to bake me cookies on this, the hardest day. “Yeah. Parts of it have been better than okay.”

  “Tucker?”

  “And swimming. And working on the house with you.”

  Sometimes I feel like I’m starting to move, snail-like, through this journey called grief, inching toward the end of the road, toward elusive acceptance. But then I stall out, like when I’m talking to my sister, or condemning Isaac, or tangling myself in Annabel Tate’s story.

  Is that how it’s supposed to go: two steps forward, followed by a giant backward leap?

  “Sometimes I hear you,” Lucy says. “Late at night. Moving around in your room, in the parlor, on the porch. I worry you’re not sleeping. That you’re not content.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I worry I could lose you, too.”

  I’ve grossly underestimated her level of perception.

  I could tell her about how scared I was, at first. The sounds, the cold, the poppies. How I tried to explain away my experiences with baseless theories. I could tell her that she’s right—I’m not sleeping much. I’m not content, because I’m communing with my sister, experiencing a phenomenon that’s wonderful and terrifying equally.

  I’m about to—I swear to God I am—but then, over her shoulder, I see Chloe’s vague shape circling the house.

  I’m stunned. I haven’t smoked; I wasn’t trying to reach her.

  She must know I need her.

  Or maybe she needs me.

  I want to go to her. I want to end this night with her.

  “Aunt Lucy,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You’re not going to lose me.”

  33

  I tell my aunt that I need some time by myself.

  Reluctantly, she goes inside.

  I wait near the cliff, watching her through the kitchen windows. She moves swiftly, returning flour and sugar to the pantry, scrubbing the sink, wiping down countertops. It’s not long before she flips off the lights. When her silhouette retreats to the master bedroom, I go in search of my sister.

  She’s near the shed, sitting cross-legged in the grass, her dress billowed out around her.

  She looks like a daffodil, golden and proud.

  “Aunt Lucy’s upset,” she says.

  I sit across from her. It’s not yet midnight, but the grass is cool, damp with dew. “Today’s been hard.”

  “Because of me.”

  “Because of what happened.”

  Her expression goes blank; she’s as still and placid as a summer pond. “Doesn’t seem like you’re suffering all that much.”

  My eyes stretch wide. “Chloe. How can you say that?”

  “I saw you earlier. In that stupid car. With the guy who mows Lucy’s grass.”

  “He doesn’t just mow the grass,” I say, like it matters.

  Her eyes roll skyward. “Sorry. He pulls weeds, too, right?”

  Yeah, he does, and he plays water polo and goes to a good school and his eyes are supernovas when he grins. She’s right—I was happy tonight, pretending to gag when Tucker dipped french fries into his malt, smiling at his stories of childhood mischief with Drew and Brynn. I feel his phantom touch now, a warm palm on my cheek, fingers combing gently through my hair. “He’s a good guy, Chloe.”

  She gazes down at the blades of grass that stand tall around her, running a hand over their green tips. They don’t even rustle. Softly, she says, “There was another guy, wasn’t there?”

  My pulse skids to a halt. I stare at her, increasingly light-headed, until my heart takes off like a shot, leaving my mind racing to catch up. I want her to remember—I do. I want to know, once and for all, what happened last year. I want, more than anything, to tell her how much I regret the part I played.

  Except, I’m still not sure what the consequences of closure are.

  “Do you remember?” I ask cautiously.

  “I’m starting to. Little things. About him. Dark hair. Tall.” She looks at me for confirmation. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He doesn’t live in Bell Cove.”

  “No.”

  “You like him?”

  “I liked him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  I hesitate.

  “Cal. Tell me.”

  “Isaac.”

  Recognition sparks in her eyes; at the same time, a headache consumes the space behind mine. I reach up to rub my temples.

  “You’ve moved on?” she guesses.

  I nod.

  “Because of Tucker.”

  “I moved on before I met Tucker. Before I came back to Bell Cove.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … The feelings went away.”

  She studies me while I struggle to keep my face carefully composed, afraid that if I let on how badly my head hurts, she’ll disappear, like last night. When she’s gathered all she can from my expression, she says, “You’re keeping something from me.”

  “I’m keeping a lot of things from you.”

  “You never used to.”

  That’s the truth—at least, it was until I met Isaac. “Things are different now,” I tell her.

  “That’s not fair.”

  I shrug, a lift of my shoulders that sends pings of pain through my neck. “Nothing about this situation is fair. Why can’t you remember on your own? Will you ever? What happens if I help you?” My eyes fill with tears, blurring my sister and her halo of light, and I’m pissed; I’ve cried enough for one day. I wipe roughly at my eyes and ask the only question that matters. “Why did you have to go away?”

  Her expression goes slack with sympathy, the first genuine feeling she’s revealed since we’ve reunited, and I’m sure—sure—she gets it. But then, a shade swings over her face, shuttering her emotions away. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to learn from you. But you’re too busy to help—you’ve got boys to kiss.”

  Her obstinacy shuttles a militia of jackhammers into my head. I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to dull the pounding. The irony of her anger, her accusation, is bleakly laughable. Chloe and I have clashed a hundred times, but only once over a boy.

  Tonight, she saw me kiss Tucker.

  A year ago, she saw me kiss Isaac.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, because I have no idea what else to say.

  “You’re going to keep seeing him?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Cal.”

  “But you kind of are.”

  She’s watching the shimmering grass again, pensive. This version of her is so unsettling, and not just her new restraint and lovely grace. These moments of desolation scare me.

  “You’re moving on,” she says quietly.

  “Chloe, I’ve been a wreck this last year. Sad to the point of dysfunction—that’s the truth of it. But lately, I’ve been almost myself. It’s being here with Lucy and my return to the pool and hanging out with Tucker, but mostly it’s reconnecting with you. I’m learning to cope, maybe, but I’ll never move on from you.”

  Her eyes find mine. They were once as blue as sapphires, but they’ve darkened with defeat—with death. Her voice is cold when she says, “Prove it.”

  My heart hurts the same way my head aches.

  An intense pounding.

  A slow splintering.

  I wi
sh Lucy would wake up. I wish she’d come outside and rescue me. But I’m alone.

  No—I’m not alone. I’m with my sister.

  Except … I hardly know this girl.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say weakly.

  “Then you should go.”

  For the first time in all the years we’ve been sisters, I walk away first.

  34

  Early the next morning, I bike to the pool. My headache has dimmed, but I’m strung tight with tension and worry.

  Prove it, Chloe said.

  I don’t know how to prove loyalty and love. When it comes to my sister, my allegiance is unwavering. The fact that we’ve connected a year after she died should be proof enough.

  Last night she acted like I’m the villain in our story—the story with a plot she can’t remember—and she’s not entirely wrong. I screwed up epically. But she’s not innocent. If Isaac personifies blame and I embody guilt, Chloe falls somewhere in between.

  Except, the scene I interrupted last summer was at its crescendo. I have no idea what led up to it, aside from what Isaac swore to me, his voice spiked with desperation.

  He can’t be trusted.

  I park my bike at the fence and see Tucker in the water.

  Already I feel looser, freer, calmer.

  I can’t wait to join him, to swim thoughts of last night’s conversation away.

  I hurry through the gate, dump my bag in a chair, and ditch my sweats. I grab my cap and goggles, watching Tucker travel the length of the pool. There’s no urgency in his movements, no real effort. Just the pull of strong arms, the steady kick of powerful legs.

  If his easy strokes are any indication, he’s been a swimmer his whole life. Somehow, though, I can’t imagine Benjamin cheering him on at meets and water polo matches. Swimming isn’t an easy sport, a fact I’m all too aware of after years of two-a-day practices, chlorine-dried skin, and a meager social life. If not for the encouragement of my parents and the companionship of my sister, I might’ve given it up a decade ago.

  I sink down onto a deck chair and watch him roll into a flip turn, his splash cresting into the gutter. He pushes off the wall, long and lean, exuding athleticism. If ever I’ve envied another person, it’s Tucker now. He’s indomitable.

  On his way back down the lane, he slows and pulls up at the wall. He smiles when he sees me. “You coming in?”

  I nod, an unquashable grin tugging on my mouth. I want to feel this way all the time: exhilarated by a life full of possibility.

  He lifts his goggles as I sit down at the head of his lane, dipping my legs in the cool water. His raised brows get lost beneath his dripping hair. “Joining me today?”

  I twist my own hair behind my head and pull my cap over it. “Is that okay?”

  He nods, his eyes the same shimmering green as the water that laps against his chest. He looks like he has something momentous to say—something momentous to do, and I panic, recalling last night’s kiss. Recalling my sister’s reaction. I fiddle with the rubber strap of my goggles, flustered, reluctant to put them on.

  Should I back away and pretend we’re still just friends?

  Should I lean in, because we’ll never be just friends again?

  I push Chloe’s dissuasions and Tucker’s expectations out of my head, honoring my own emotions for a change.

  I set my goggles aside and send him a smile. He reads it as encouragement, placing his palms on the grate and lifting out of the water. I slip a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him in. He lays the gentlest of kisses on me, then he whispers, “Morning, beautiful girl,” without a trace of cheesiness.

  My heart beats, steady, filled, alive.

  He falls backward into the water with a splash. “Let’s swim.”

  * * *

  When I get back from the pool, Lucy’s at the kitchen table with Anna Karenina and a mug of milky coffee.

  “Morning,” she says cheerfully.

  Her neon clothing is present and accounted for, last night’s charred cookies apparently forgotten. I pull a box of cereal from the pantry and fill a bowl. Skipping milk, I make my way to the table, scooping tiny, mewing Buddy from beneath my feet. I sit and settle him on my lap before snagging a piece of cereal.

  “Sleep well?” Lucy asks.

  “Always.”

  I don’t love lying to her, but I can’t tell her the truth: Last night, I barely slept. I couldn’t calm my nerves after leaving Chloe.

  It’s occurred to me that tonight, I could stay inside. But I can’t do that to my sister, lonesome in her in-between place.

  “Did you swim with Tucker?”

  I crunch through another piece of cereal, scratching my kitten behind his ears. “Yep.”

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He adopted a cat. For you.”

  “So?”

  She takes a sip of coffee, eyeing me over the top of her mug. “He makes you smile.”

  “You noticed?”

  “Of course I noticed.”

  Her haughtiness is getting on my nerves. She and I may be growing tentatively closer, but that doesn’t mean she knows everything about me or what’s best for me. That doesn’t mean she gets to meddle. I whittle my gaze to a sharp point. “Then why’d you talk to him about Chloe?”

  The smug grin slips from her face. “He mentioned her?”

  “Of course he mentioned her. What did you think was going to happen?”

  She brushes a speck of dust from the tabletop. “He knew. I just filled in a few blanks.”

  “It’s not your story to share.”

  “She was my niece.”

  I place Buddy on the floor and rise from my chair, dumping what’s left of my cereal into the trash can. “I think I’ll work in the Gabriel today. Alone.”

  * * *

  I’m a few hours into the infinite mound of boxes when I make an attic run, hauling a few cartons up to slide against the west wall. After moving a crate of antique sports equipment into place, I pause to blot the sweat from my brow.

  Two floors down, a deep voice shouts, “Cal?”

  I call back, “Up here,” because if Tucker and I are going to talk, I’d like to do it away from my aunt’s prying ears.

  His footsteps ascend the stairs. He pokes his head into the musty attic. “What’re you up to?”

  “Working.”

  “Uh-huh. Avoiding your aunt?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  He moves farther into the attic. He pauses to lift the flap of a random box, peeking in on its contents. Rifling through the paperwork stacked inside, he says, “Because she told me you yelled at her.”

  “I didn’t yell at her. And don’t worry; she’ll be over it in an hour. She’s moody like that.”

  “She’s moody?”

  “What are you implying, Tucker Morgan?”

  “Oh, you know,” he says, looking up with an impish grin. He abandons the box and its paperwork and sinks down onto a trunk, one I’ve stuck with a piece of masking tape labeled WEDDING GOWNS. “So, anyway, I wanted to see what you’re up to tomorrow night.”

  “Um. I don’t know.”

  “It’s the Fourth.”

  I stare blankly.

  “Of July? Independence Day? I’m assuming you’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh!” God, what an idiot I am. Since Chloe’s death, I’ve forgotten so many special occasions. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Easter passed virtually uncelebrated, along with, shamefully, both of my parents’ birthdays. They acknowledged mine, back in October, with a cake and a few gifts I was too baked to properly appreciate.

  Tucker gives me a lopsided smile, one that reeks of sympathy. “Do you have plans?”

  I pretend to scroll through my mental date book, the one that’s been wide open for a year. “I think I’m free.”

  “Then will you come to town with me? Bell Cove puts on a fireworks display every year, and attendance is obligatory
for tourists, which, technically, you are.” He lifts a folder from a stack on the floor and flips it open. He shuffles through its documents as he continues. “After, some of my friends are having a bonfire on the beach. Brynn and Drew will be there.”

  I suspect he shared that bit to sway me, but it has the reverse effect. Brynn and her flawlessness are intimidating, and Drew seems like kind of an ass. Plus, gatherings consisting of more than three people give me wicked anxiety. But when Tucker glances up from the folder, he looks excited, eager to show me Bell Cove’s version of a good time. And he’ll be with me all evening, spouting merriment every which way.

  “Okay,” I say. “I guess that sounds like fun.”

  “Yeah? Cool. I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll come pick you up in time for fireworks.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I say, infusing my voice with the enthusiasm I know he’s expecting.

  He stands, presses a kiss to the top of my head, and then he’s gone.

  35

  I spent an hour on the porch last night, waiting for Chloe.

  She never came.

  I spent another hour awake in bed, cataloging possible reasons why: I didn’t smoke, I didn’t have her cap and goggles and notebook and pen, I didn’t relax enough, or focus sufficiently. Except, the night before we connected with hardly any effort, which leaves me with just one plausible explanation: She stayed away because she wanted to.

  I spend the better part of Independence Day with Lucy, painting the Theodore a sage green. She tells me that the color’s called Stonewashed and that she chose it specifically for its nod to eighties fashion. The silliness of her selection criteria evaporates what’s left of my irritation.

  When we finish, she gives me orders to shower, then meet her in her bathroom.

  Half an hour later, I do, wrapped in a bathrobe. She’s armed, hair dryer in one hand, round brush in the other. “Have a seat,” she says, pointing to the stool at the vanity counter.

  She sections off my hair. Pulling it taut with the bristly brush, she begins what appears to be a professional blowout.

  “How’d you get so good at this?” I ask her over the drone of the dryer.

  She pauses to flip a curl off her forehead. “Beauty school. Your grandma made me go.”