by Anne Riley
I heave myself out of bed and walk to the full-length mirror on the closet door. My necklace hangs innocently around my neck and I reach up to touch it, torn between throwing it away and keeping it forever. The smooth gold beneath my fingers sends an ache through my heart, and I stop breathing for a second, hoping the pain will pass.
It does, and my fingers fall away from the rings.
“I’ll take it off soon,” I assure myself in the mirror over my dresser. “Really soon. Like, tonight.”
My reflection and I nod at each other, and I look away before I’m forced to acknowledge my own stupidity.
My brain isn’t even close to settling down for the night, and my answer to restless thoughts is always the same—tea with scones. Nana keeps scones on hand like most people keep toilet paper or coffee. They’re a staple in her kitchen, and to go a day without them would be madness.
Paul’s room is next to mine on the top floor. The master bedroom sits down a short flight of creaky wooden stairs. Mom and Dad stay in the guest room on the first floor, and I’m hoping that’s where Dad is now; if he’s come back out to make more tea he’ll never drink, I might just have to take my snack upstairs. He’s never hurt any of us—well, not me, anyway. I don’t think he’s ever hurt Paul or Mom. But his fits of rage are strong enough to make him damage other things, like dishes and electronics, or whatever happens to be in his way at the time.
The steps complain beneath my bare feet as I creep down to the second floor. Nana’s door is halfway open, her dainty snore drifting from somewhere in the darkened room. Good—she’s getting some sleep.
I glance into the room and notice Papa’s reading glasses on the nightstand, illuminated by the dim hallway light coming through the open door. They’re delicate gold frames with one broken nose pad he never bothered to replace. It’s weird, seeing them and knowing he’ll never put them on again. I don’t know how Nana can sleep in that bed knowing the other side will always be empty. It must feel so cold.
My eyes start to burn, and I hurry down the rest of the stairs to the first floor.
I don’t know if I can handle being in this house all summer.
FIVE
IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS SINCE PAPA DIED. TWO DAYS SINCE a casual walk on the heath turned into a vortex of impossibility. And now, on my third day in London, I’ve entered a different kind of vortex—the kind where my brother makes a quick trip to the grocery store feel like never-ending torture.
“Put the beer down, Paul.” How many times have I said that in the past year? “It’s not on the list, and you’re not old enough to drink. Not even in Britain.”
He shoots me a withering glare while setting a case of Stella Artois back on the shelf. “I know. I’m just looking. Why are you being such a mom?”
“Because,” I say, adding a pint of milk to the basket on my arm, “your actual mom isn’t here. Somebody’s got to keep you in line. Hey, grab that loaf of French bread behind you.”
Nana wants to cook dinner for us tonight. She has cried almost nonstop for the past two days, barely holding back her tears when well-wishers stopped by, and then starting back up the moment they left. Her friend Irene came over yesterday evening. They spent nearly three hours in the back garden, talking over glasses of chilled white wine. What Irene said to her, I have no idea, but Nana’s been marginally less weepy ever since.
Since Paul and I have been busy all day with a whole lot of nothing, I volunteered us to walk down to the Costcutter and pick up a few ingredients for dinner. Conveniently, this also gets us out of the house, which has grown gloomier with each passing moment. The depression weighs on my chest when I’m there, like water pressure at the bottom of a pool. I can’t take it. I’m going to have to find more excuses to leave.
“What time are Mom and Dad coming home?” I ask, perusing a shelf of pastas. Vermicelli, macaroni, capellini, fusilli…I don’t see Nana’s requested gemelli, and the boxes are starting to blur together.
Paul shrugs. “Dunno. Before dinner, I guess. Unless Mom decides to follow a rabbit trail.”
Our parents have been downtown all day doing research for Mom’s latest book on the London working class in the 17th century. She’s a history professor at Vanderbilt— or, as her website bio describes her, “one of the leading historians of culture in the early modern British Atlantic world, with a focus on race, slavery, and empire.” She’s always working on something extraordinarily specific, like 18th century slave clothing or the working conditions of tobacco shops during the Georgian era. This means our London summers often turn into historical scavenger hunts, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to involve Paul and me in the process, she now either goes alone or with Dad.
Today’s excursion was probably more of a distraction for Dad than anything else, but Paul’s right—if Mom picks up on an interesting rabbit trail, there’s no telling when they’ll get home.
“Dude!” Paul barks behind me. “Pick out some friggin’ pasta.”
I snap out of my daze. How long have I been standing in front of this shelf? The girl behind the checkout counter is watching me with a slightly open mouth. I arch my eyebrows at her, and she snaps back to her OK! magazine.
“Nana’s pasta isn’t here,” I say, grabbing a bag of fusilli. “This is close enough. You still have the bread? Or have you swapped it out for a six-pack of Corona?”
The words burn as they leave my mouth. I know better.
Paul blinks at the floor and then holds up the bread with a scowl. “I realize I’m a screw-up, but I am capable of holding a loaf of bread for two minutes.”
Resentment lies thick beneath his words. Yes, my little brother has problems, but nobody deserves to feel like a total failure. I put a hand on his arm and wait for him to look at me. “Hey. Just because you’ve made some bad choices doesn’t mean you’re a screw-up.”
“Of course not. Which is why I’m starting Camp Loser tomorrow.”
London is home to a massive counseling program for teens called SPARK (Southwark Program for Addicted and Rebellious Kids) that also boasts a well-respected grief program. I assume this is because so many addictions and rebellions are rooted in some kind of grief—the death of a loved one, the splitting up of a family, or just a general lack of love. Mom enrolled Paul back in April, a mere two weeks before we found out about Papa’s diagnosis. He’ll spend six hours a day talking about his feelings with a counselor and playing icebreaker games. Even though he’s horrified, I’m confident it will help him.
“Don’t call it that,” I say with a sigh. “I know it sucks, but you need to be there—it’ll be way better than hanging out at Nana’s all day. Plus, those people can help you.”
“Help me with what?” His voice is high. Redness seeps into his cheeks. “I don’t have ‘problems,’ Rosie. I have a best friend who’s pretty much dead. They can’t fix Carter, can they? So what’s the point?”
I put a finger to my lips as the cashier’s eyes dart to us. Then I grab Paul’s arm and pull him around a display of pre-packaged dessert cakes.
“What are you doing?” he snaps.
I switch the grocery basket from one arm to the other. “Giving us some privacy. Do you really think you don’t need help?”
His eyes flicker to the floor as he licks his lips—a classic Paul Clayton tell that assures me he knows how bad things have gotten, but he’s too embarrassed to admit it.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” I say.
He shoves his hands into the frayed pockets of his jeans. “Well, it is like this. And a stupid camp isn’t going to change any of it, especially since Mom and Dad are just using it to keep me out of the way.”
“Keep you out of the way? What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Rosie,” he says with a bitter laugh. “The professional counselor isn’t working. The rehab center didn’t work. They know this SPARK thing won’t work either, but it’ll keep me occupied. That’s all they care about.”
How can he believe
that’s true? After everything our parents have done for him, does he really think they just want him out of the way?
“They signed you up before we knew about Papa,” I say. “So that has nothing to do with it. Mom and Dad love you. They want you to stop drinking. They want you to pull up your grades and make it to high school graduation.” We hold each other’s eyes for a moment, and his are full of such hopelessness it almost brings me to my knees. “Don’t you know how much they care? How much I care?”
For an instant, his expression softens. My heart lifts just a little—maybe I’m finally getting through.
“Paul?” I whisper. “Are you hearing me?”
But then his face tightens back up. He shakes his head and says, “Whatever. Let’s pay for this stuff and get out of here.”
My shoulders sag as he turns toward the register. I felt so close to connecting with him—like I was an inch away from unearthing the old Paul, buried somewhere inside this stranger I call my brother. I blink at the grocery list in my hand, trying to clear my mind. Then my eyes focus on the last item we’re supposed to get.
“Hold on, we need one more thing.” Pistachio ice cream, it says in Nana’s careful cursive. That’s funny. None of us likes pistachio ice cream.
Except for Papa.
Does she actually want me to buy it, or was it simply on the list before he died?
It’s possible she wants to have it for dessert as a sort of tribute, so I grab the ice cream from the freezer and join Paul at the checkout. The cashier—a slightly built girl with hot pink lipstick and skin so fair it’s practically transparent—looks us over as she rings up our groceries. She seems familiar, but I can’t figure out why. The only people I know here are friends of Papa and Nana’s, or Dad’s old buddies from secondary school; she’s definitely not one of them. She’s probably a couple years older than me, with rings on every finger and fluffy golden hair like a lion’s mane.
“What are you two doing in Blackheath?” she asks in a thick Cockney accent. Our groceries zip through her hands and over a scanner. “Are you on holiday or something?”
“Sort of,” I say. “Visiting family.”
“That’ll be twelve pounds nineteen, love. Are you American? Canadian?”
“American.” I count out the money and hand it to her, watching her slap it into the register drawer. “We’re from Tennessee.”
She chews on a metallic-green fingernail. “Wicked. Things are pretty slow around here most of the time, but you still gotta watch your back. Take care, okay?”
“I always do,” Paul mumbles as I heft the bag into my arms. He heads for the door, and I’m about to follow him when I place the cashier’s face—at least, I think I do. Maybe I’m wrong and she’s not who I think she is. But what if I’m right?
“Hey,” I say, turning back to the register as Paul exits onto the sidewalk. The door falls closed behind him, and I’m glad because I don’t want him to hear this conversation. “This is kind of a weird question, but were you on the heath the other night?”
Her eyes grow wide. “Yeah! You see me on the news yesterday morning?”
Nope. I’d searched for stories about it online, but didn’t find anything. She must have done an interview for the local morning news program, Blackheath Daybreak, and I slept through it. “Uh, yeah. What did you say to the reporter, again? I can’t remember exactly—”
“Oh, it was all about the attack, wasn’t it? Bloody scary, that was.” She shakes her head slowly, staring at the space between us. “If it hadn’t been for that bloke…”
An image of the mysterious stranger’s face, bloodied and bruised, flashes through my mind. “What bloke?” I manage. I want to hear her say it out loud. If she confirms what happened that night—even in part—I’ll have an easier time believing it myself.
“Surely you heard me talking about him in the interview. The bloke who chased them fellas away. He saved my life.”
“Right.” I steady myself with one hand planted firmly on the counter. “So the muggers never touched you?”
“Just the one time, when they grabbed my arm. But it could’ve been quite a bit worse.”
Yes, it could have been worse. It was worse—more so than she’ll ever know. I’ll never forget watching her get shoved into the backseat of that car. I’ll never forget the way her scream cut off so abruptly, and how helpless I felt, desperate to stop those guys but completely powerless to do so.
The cashier glances out the window and then leans closer to me, eyes wide. “They never found the guy who saved me, you know. I think he was an angel.”
I take a deep breath before responding. “Hmm. Maybe. Either way, you’re a lucky girl. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Me too, mate. Things like that don’t normally happen ’round here.” She tilts her head and squints at me. “Feeling all right?”
My emotions must be leaking through to my expression. I stand up a little straighter and force a smile.
“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly. “Just hungry. I better go.”
“Right then. You be careful on your way home, yeah?” Her tone is dark, as if the prospect of walking outside equates to imminent danger. Which, for her, it probably does.
“I’ll be fine.” I nod toward Paul, who’s waiting outside. “I’ve got my brother.”
She gazes at him through the glass. “Hmm, and ain’t he fit.”
“Um…yes?” The cashier meets my eyes, and we both laugh. Wrapping my head around the idea that Paul could ever be considered hot is going to take some time. “He’s available, although I’m not sure he’s boyfriend material.”
“Uh-oh,” she says with a grin. “Trouble, is he?”
I amble toward the door. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Too bad,” she mumbles, and goes back to chewing her green nails.
I have to focus on each step as I walk across the floor and push the door open. As soon as I’m outside, I thrust the bag against Paul’s chest and take several deep breaths, leaning back against the plate glass window.
He wraps an arm around the groceries. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
There’s no way I can tell him what happened on the heath that night—at least, not yet. The details are still too sketchy in my mind, and even though I know I experienced something out there, I don’t know what it was.
He frowns at me. “Well, ‘nothing’ has made you white as a ghost. Are you sure you’re okay?”
And there it is. A glimpse of the brother I used to have, the one who cried when I skinned my knee and stayed by my bed when I had the flu, even though Mom did her best to keep him away from my germs. The one who picked violets in the backyard and gave them to me while I sat in time-out, stricken with grief over lying to Dad about how many cookies I’d had before dinner.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. I would give anything to get the old Paul back— anything. If he still talked to me the way he used to, I would have told him everything about the heath, whether I had all the details straight or not.
“I’m okay,” I say, looking away from him. “Let’s go home.”
“Hold on.” He puts a hand on my arm. “Did the cashier say something to upset you?”
“No, no,” I say, even though this is not exactly true. “We were talking about you, actually. Good news—you’ve got a date with her any time you want. She thinks you’re fit.”
He scrunches up his nose. “Hmm. I might be interested, if her hair didn’t look like a wild animal’s. Did she say whether our date would involve bringing down a wildebeest?”
“Like you have so much room to be choosy,” I say, biting back a smile. Paul’s giving me a snippet of our old relationship, but the moment he realizes it, he’ll stop. “Come on, let’s get back to the house. Nana will want to start dinner soon.”
“Can we get a movie first?” He nods at the Prime Time video store.
I raise my eyebrows. “From a video rental store? Wh
at is this, 2003?”
“It’s not like Nana streams movies on her TV,” he says, throwing his hands out to his sides. “Dad convinced her to buy a DVD player just for us. It’d be rude of us not to use it.”
I want to ask why he suddenly cares about being rude, but I’d better keep my mouth closed. If he wants to get a movie, we’ll get a movie—rental store and all.
“Can’t argue with that,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We set off down the sidewalk into the village, passing the travel agency and Nana’s favorite wine shop on our way to Prime Time Video. Logically, the place should have shut down years ago, but the locals make sure it stays in business. Paul hands me the bag of groceries as we reach the door.
I give him a wry look. “Need both hands for movie browsing?”
“It’s a big job, love,” he says in a terrible impression of an English accent. “Can’t be hampered by groceries and whatnot.”
He smiles at me as we push through the door, and I can’t help grinning back, which alerts him to his cheerfulness. His expression sours instantly, and the metaphorical cloud settles over his head again. New Paul has returned. But I got to spend a moment with Old Paul, and now I’m even more determined to get him back for good.
The inside of the store is pleasantly cool, with funky red carpet and a circular checkout desk set into the center. I roam the aisles, only vaguely registering the movies lining the shelves. Paul already has his nose in the video games—funny, since he’s the one who insisted we get a movie—so it’s just me and the groceries, loitering in the drama section. A jingling bell announces someone else’s arrival. I turn toward the door.
It’s him. The mysterious stranger from the heath. His split lip has halfway healed, and the gash on his eyebrow has been stitched up. Imaginary people don’t go to the doctor for stitches. His injuries are real. He is real.
Spots cross into my vision and I turn around before he sees me. First I talk to the cashier, who just happens to be the girl who got mugged and then didn’t get mugged, and now I see the guy who saved her. It feels like fate—or whatever controls the universe—is trying to convince me that everything I experienced that night was real. But as far as I know, it’s impossible to see the same event unfold twice with two separate endings. So how can this guy be standing twenty feet away from me? If he’s real, and the cashier is real, does that mean all of it was real?