How the Light Gets In

by Katy Upperman

  They take too long to answer.

  “We’re calling with news,” Dad says at last. “Mom’s going to go away for a while.”

  “I—what?”

  My mom speaks, soft and lethargic. “Let’s not sugarcoat it, Arthur. I’m going to a treatment center. Rehab, out on the coast. Daddy’s tried to help me, and I’ve tried to help myself. But my drinking … It’s beyond us.”

  A jumble of replies get lodged in my throat. It’s not that her news is complicated or even unexpected—Mom drinks too much and, finally, she’s ready to reclaim control—but still. I don’t want her to have to go away.

  “What if I come home? Dad, I can help out—no more smoking. Mom, we can spend more time together, you and me. You don’t have to go to rehab.”

  “I do, sweetie. This isn’t a problem you can solve, but I love you for wanting to try.”

  “Callie,” Dad says. “Mom’s going to be okay. This is a positive step.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. When you both come home at summer’s end, things will be different. Things will be better.”

  “It’ll be a fresh start,” Mom promises, but her voice breaks, and my heart squeezes.

  There’s a lump rising in my throat and my eyes have gone watery and, God, I know what they’re saying is right and true—Mom deserves this; it’s a good thing—but all I want is a do-over. A trip back in time. A chance to save my sister. Because if I’d kept her safe, Mom would be healthy, sober, tending her garden. Dad would be happy, relaxed, busy with his classes. Chloe would have a triathlon under her belt.

  She’d be here with me, loving Bell Cove the way I’ve come to.

  I force my sadness down, back, away, afraid to let my parents in on how hard their news is hitting me—it’s not like they don’t have enough to worry about.

  “I need to go,” I say, steady, though my headache’s burrowing deep.

  “We love you,” Dad says.

  “So much,” Mom says.

  I end the call.

  My first impulse is to get ahold of Tucker. I need him to affirm what my parents said: Rehab is a step forward, a fresh start is possible, everything really will be okay.

  Except, Tucker left me.

  I go into the bathroom. Wash my face. Towel it dry. Give my reflection a stern look. I will not sink back into sorrow—not when I’ve worked so hard to dig my way out.

  In the kitchen, I search for Motrin, nearly stepping on Daisy, who skitters underfoot. She circles my legs, meowing cantankerously as I down two pills. It’s weird, seeing her by herself. Buddy’s become her shadow, batting at her tail and curling up next to her on the parlor windowsill.

  God, now that I’m thinking about it, it’s been hours since I last saw him.

  My headache’s forgotten as I tear the house apart looking for my kitten. Lucy helps, though she thinks I’m being silly. “Cats are independent,” she says, peering under the bare mattress in the Savannah while I fling the closet doors open. “He probably found a quiet spot to nap. He’ll come out when he gets hungry.”

  I’m not comforted, especially after I pull the bag of organic cat treats from the fridge, give it a good shake, and am rewarded only by the eager appearance of Daisy.

  “He’s gone,” I say. “He must have slipped out an open door.”

  “Then maybe he’s playing in the yard.”

  So we search outside. The porch, the shed, all the way out to the cliff. I wander the perimeter, near the woods, calling Buddy! Buddy! shaking the stupid bag of treats. As twilight approaches, Lucy and I reconvene on the porch. She’s discouraged now, but she’s wary, too, eyeing me like she’s afraid I’ll snap.

  “He could be anywhere,” I say, falling into a rocking chair.

  My aunt squeezes my shoulder. “He’s exploring. But he loves you. He’ll be back.”

  At least she’s conceded to the fact that he’s missing. Too restless to sit still, I pop out of my chair and walk the porch, searching the yard for a glimpse of my little cat.

  What will Tucker say when he finds out I’ve lost Buddy?

  “Callie,” Lucy says. “Why don’t you go out for a bit? I’ll stay here. I’ll keep looking. When you get home—if Buddy’s not back—we’ll search together.”

  “I can’t leave.” I look into the rapidly darkening yard. “He’s out there.”

  “You can’t walk the porch all night. Take my car. Go to the pool. Swim for an hour. It’ll do you good.”

  I lack the energy to argue. Besides, she might be right; my neck is stiff and my shoulders are tight and I won’t stoop to smoking—not while my mom’s on her way to a treatment center. A workout’s the one thing that might release the pressure building inside me.

  My drive to the pool’s a blur. Before I know it, I’m plummeting into cool water, exhaling, sinking to the bottom. I push off and sprint down the lane, kicking wildly, pulling hard.

  I’m only a few hundred yards into my swim when I realize it was a mistake to come alone. Solitude at the pool, the deafening silence and the monotonous back-and-forth, make it too easy to lament the ways my life is splintering: my parents, my missing kitten, Tucker. And Chloe … It’s impossible not to think of her as I struggle through my workout, muscles straining, skin burning, like I’m swimming through gravel.

  A sob rises in my throat. I throw myself into a flip turn.

  I hate the clash of improvement and setback, opposing forces splitting me down the middle.

  Will I ever just feel normal?

  I pull up at the wall and yank my goggles off. Freaking Lucy. Swim for an hour. It’ll do you good. No. I feel worse, winded and dizzy, and then a wash of grief crashes over me, so intense tears come even before I’m out of the pool. On the deck, I wrap up in my towel and sink onto a chair, grateful, at least, that no one’s around to catch me losing it.

  I cry until I can’t cry anymore. Then I dress and drive home.

  When I arrive, Lucy tells me Buddy hasn’t returned.

  I’m exhausted, teetering on a dangerous ledge. I go to my room and burn through what’s left of my weed. Then, soaring with the stars, I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling, unseeing.

  41

  I sleep and stir and dream in fragments.

  I see poppies, red and diaphanous.

  I smell poppies, light and sweet.

  I feel poppies, petals like tissue paper, tickling my skin.

  Deep in the night, the moon hanging high outside my window, I wake with a start.

  Chloe.

  I slip out of bed and tiptoe barefoot down the hall. I’m foggy with lingering sleep, but I manage to sneak out the front door and silently cross the porch. The stairs are easy; I know which ones creak thanks to weeks spent traversing them. And then I’m jogging through damp grass until I reach a skyline of evergreens, extending my awareness, searching for my sister.

  She’s there, among the trees, just like my dream.

  Droplets of condensation shimmer around her like a halo. She smiles, eyes creasing at the corners, and I’m overwhelmed with relief. She’s still here. She’s not mad about Tucker. She hasn’t been avoiding me.

  “Let’s go to the poppies,” she says.

  She moves into the trees, drifting noiselessly through the underbrush, undaunted, claiming her forest. By comparison, I’m a freight train, crashing through the scrub, lumbering over fallen logs, sidestepping blackberry brambles. Forever passes before she pulls to a halt. I scramble to catch up, breathless when I reach her side. The sky is black, embedded with twinkling stars. Staring up at them makes me woozy.

  “Look,” Chloe says.

  I drop my gaze.

  Poppies.

  Their red-orange buds are closed, hiding their pollen from the moon, but their delicate, honey scent permeates the misty air.

  They’re stunning.

  Chloe drifts into the meadow. I follow, moving carefully to avoid crushing the flowers. When we’ve found the center, she sits. I do, too.r />
  She says, “You seem sad.”

  I upset Tucker.

  I lost my kitten.

  Mom’s in rehab.

  The thoughts must leave my mouth to drift vociferously among the poppies because Chloe says, “Rehab? For what?”

  “She’s been drinking. Too much.”

  “But that’s not like her.”

  It didn’t used to be. Before last summer, Mom would have a glass of wine with dinner, maybe once a week. She’d go to UW faculty parties with Dad, and while he’d occasionally come home tipsy, she was always clearheaded, content to chauffeur him safely through the city. She’d go to her Garden Club’s monthly brunches and come home sober, with anecdotes about how many mimosas the other ladies swigged. After Chloe died, though, one glass of wine a week became one glass of wine a night, then two or three, and then, in the space of a month, she was downing full bottles before bedtime. She wasn’t subtle about it, either; I came down to the kitchen on innumerable mornings to find merlot-stained corks left overnight on the countertop.

  “Dad says she needs help,” I tell Chloe. “She says she needs help.”

  “When did this start?”

  “Last summer.”

  She nods, somber, as if she were expecting as much.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say reflexively.

  She looks beyond me, beyond the poppies, into the blackened trees. “That can’t be true.”

  “Chloe, what happened … you aren’t to blame—not even a little bit.”

  “Then who is?”

  You tell me.

  A beat of silence passes. “I am, maybe.”

  Her gaze collides with mine and holds tight, like I fetter her to this strange night, this surreal place. She wants me to go on—her expression pleads for information, for understanding—but I don’t know how to explain that I’m the reason she left for the beach. I’m the reason she felt compelled to swim alone. I’m the reason she exists the way she does.

  Her death was an accident—but an avoidable one. Culpability sits with me. And Isaac, maybe.

  “That night,” I say, “before. We were in Lucy’s yard. Please, Chloe. Try to remember.”

  Her eyes narrow as she focuses. I give her time, silently straining to relay what happened across the space between us, like my ability to commune with her spirit might have come with the added bonus of telepathy.

  She has to remember; we have to talk about this.

  Her face changes, clears, like steam wiped from a mirror. “We fought,” she whispers.

  I nod through the whirring in my ears, a drone that makes me light-headed.

  “We fought over a boy,” she says.

  She’s doing it—she’s calling what happened out of the dark, reclaiming it as her own. Except, instead of finding strength in the knowledge, she’s dimming, fading, as if the fight and the boy and the memories are stealing a share of her essence.

  “Chloe?”

  She’s silent, a girl in a yellow dress, evaporating into a field of flowers.

  I reach for her, the tiny diamonds in my ring twinkling like the stars overhead, but she wrenches away before I make contact. “You shouldn’t.”

  My cheeks heat with the devastation of her snub.

  The poppies murmur their disapproval.

  She’s luminous in the moonlight, almost transparent now, and I know with certainty: This will end. When she collects the pieces of her shattered memory and fits them back into an image that tells the whole story, the circle that’s been broken for the last year will close. When she remembers, I can apologize. I can ask for forgiveness, and she can grant it, if she chooses. But for Chloe, remembering is the same as finishing her business—the same as saying goodbye.

  A valve opens, releasing pain into my spine, forcing it through my neck, until it pools behind my eyes, surging and sloshing. I draw a sharp breath and press my palm to my forehead.

  This is as bad as it’s ever been.

  Chloe’s mouth moves, almost imperceptibly, but a breeze takes her words. The look in her eyes scares me: a discernible desperation that makes her appear untamed. She tries again: “I’m sorry. About Tucker. About the shed.”

  “I know,” I say, weak, almost weepy.

  Her eyes dim with worry. “Lay back.”

  I do, into flower buds that tickle my skin.

  “I hate to see you in pain.” She pauses, glancing skyward. When she speaks again, her voice is thick and sorrowful. “I’m not sure we should keep meeting.”

  We have to. I need the truth.

  But I’m too miserable to form the words. My throat is parched, and the pressure in my head is inescapable. My vision comes in ripples and waves, like Stewart House’s windows.

  “Close your eyes,” Chloe says.

  Her face, pale and resigned, leaves an impression on my eyelids.

  “Breathe.”

  I inhale.

  I hear a rustling.

  I taste copper, faint but metallic.

  I feel dampness on my cheeks: tears.

  My sister sweeps my hair away from my neck, as she did that first night in the bathroom.

  A cool waft, an emphatic whisper, “Callie, sleep.”

  * * *

  When I drift into consciousness, my head is too heavy to lift.

  With my eyes closed, I struggle to roll over. A breeze strokes my cheek, the air misty and cool. My head rests on a hard surface—not my pillow. The pounding within it is regular and concentrated, vibrating the length of my bones, stiffening my joints.

  I could throw up, but I don’t have the strength to move.

  I’m increasingly aware of birds’ singsong, the almost constant kiss of wind on my clammy skin, the subtle taste of sea salt on my tongue. Without moving an unnecessary muscle, I open my eyes.

  I’m not in my bed.

  I shift. Red-orange flowers curtsy on long stems.

  A fist of fear squeezes my stomach.

  I’m alone.

  In the woods.

  No one knows.

  I struggle to grasp last night’s slippery memories. I left Stewart House. I followed my sister. We walked. Found the poppy meadow. We talked. And then she was gone.

  Now I’m trembling, lost in an illness I can’t shake.

  It’s early morning, I think. The indigo sky is just beginning to reflect light. I’m supposed to meet Tucker at the pool—even after the way he left me standing in the yard yesterday, I think he’ll worry if I don’t show up. And my aunt … She’ll panic if I don’t come home for breakfast.

  I try to sit up. Pulling my knees to my chest, I rest my head on them. I close my eyes against surges of vertigo, swaying as if Earth itself is rolling beneath me.

  I fall back to the ground. Sweat coats my face, but I’m covered in goose bumps, burning up, and freezing. I focus on breathing, on the simple act of inhaling air and blowing away what’s left.

  This is my fault.

  I got high, then wandered out of the house.

  Now I’m sick and stranded and scared.

  How long will it be before someone realizes I’m missing?

  42

  My name tumbles into the meadow on a deep, smoky voice.

  Sleep has dulled my headache, and it’s easier to open my eyes now. The sky is brighter, more periwinkle than indigo. The sun, suspended in the east, warms my face.

  “Cal! You out here?”

  My throat is so dry and my head is spinning, spinning, spinning and I feel awful, but I prop myself up and rasp, “Tucker?”

  The muffled crunch of underbrush, the snapping of twigs … He’s hurrying.

  I don’t know how much time passes before he’s kneeling over me, blocking the sun’s light. He touches my hair, my face, presses his fingers to my neck. He’s feeling for my pulse—an alarming realization that motivates me to sit up in earnest.

  The joy I feel at seeing him is chocolate malts and easy swims and long walks, flawless kisses and firecracker smiles.

  He goes st
ill, gazing into my eyes for a long moment. The birds quiet their chirping, the wind dies down, the trees cease to swish their branches. We consume the space of the meadow, him and me, a closed circuit of energy.

  Then, in one swift movement, he lifts me.

  He trudges away from the poppies and, over his shoulder, I watch sunlight pour through the trees, drenching the flowers in light. It’s beautiful and terrifying, a bizarre wonderland.

  “What happened?” Tucker asks, stomping through the scrub.

  I’m too full to speak, brimming with sadness and confusion and gratitude.

  Despite what happened yesterday, he came back.

  Perennial.

  He lets me get away with silence because he’s generous and kind and, I think, he knows me really, really well.

  He treks on, and I feel every high step, every bend around a tree, every branch snagged on clothing. He doesn’t slow, and though his neck grows damp with sweat, his breath never comes labored. He speaks continuously, barely a whisper, his words studded with worry. “You’re safe. You can tell me what happened, whenever you’re up for it. You’re okay.”

  I look up at him as he makes an abrupt turn. “Tucker? I lost Buddy.”

  He gives a short laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking about? Lucy found him on the porch this morning when she was looking for you. He’s fine.”

  “Really? He’s home?”

  “Shit, Callie. Tell me you weren’t in the woods looking for him.”

  I can’t tell him why I was in the woods—I don’t understand myself. I rest my head against the softness of his T-shirt. I want to wrap myself in cotton; I want to wrap myself in him.

  “Yesterday,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have said anything about your mom. It’s not even my business—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It’s not important. Don’t give it another thought, okay?”

  He walks another few minutes before we break free of the trees, into the yard that surrounds Stewart House.

  “You found her!” My aunt’s voice, from the porch.

  Tucker treks into the cooler air of the house and down the hall. He lays me on my bed … smooths my hair … touches my cheek.

  “Where was she?” Lucy’s close and either very angry or very upset. Cigarette smoke clings to her as their conversation meanders around me.