by Liana Liu
“Why?” She slides her arm across the table.
“You’ll see.” I stick a star sticker on the back of her hand, and another one, and another one. Stars down her fingers, stars up her thumb. Stars around her wrist. When there’s only one sticker left, I lean forward and stick the final star to the center of her forehead.
“There,” I say. “You’re a star.”
Ella is laughing. She lifts her hand and waves it around so that the stars shimmer. Then she peels a single sticker from her wrist. She wriggles across the table and sticks it to the center of my forehead.
“Now we’re both stars!” she says.
I smile at her. “Yes,” I say. “We are.”
One afternoon, I start reading the last of the three books I bought for Ella. It’s a history of the Arrow family, starting with Godfrey’s arrival on the island. The author is M. R. Arrow, Godfrey’s great-great-grandson, and I had my doubts about it from the beginning: the title is Family Cursed: A History of Arrow Island. My doubts doubled when it arrived: it looked photocopied more than printed, a booklet more than a book. But it was the only information on the family I could find, and if there was something in it that could help Ella, it was worth a look.
I’m just a few pages in when there is thunderous pounding on the door. I think briefly—very briefly—about Eleanor the ghost, but the day is bright and I’m pretty sure I hear giggling behind the pounding.
I yank open the door, and the Morison siblings come tumbling into the room.
“Yes, how can I help you?” I say with mock sternness.
“We’re . . . ha . . . here . . . ha . . . to—haha!” Ella is laughing too hard to talk.
“We’re here because it’s time for your first swim lesson,” Henry announces.
“No!” I say with actual sternness.
“Yes!” say Henry and Ella.
“No way,” I say.
“How can you say no after what happened this weekend?” Henry asks.
“What happened this weekend?” Ella asks.
Henry smirks at me. “Why don’t you tell her.”
I glare at him. Then I turn to Ella. “Well, um, I was in a swimming pool and, um, since I don’t know how to swim I had a moment when I, um, got a little scared. But your brother helped me out.”
“You have to learn to swim. It’s dangerous if you don’t know,” Ella says solemnly.
“From now on I’m going to stay away from all bodies of water. So I’ll be fine,” I say.
“But you’re always telling me how important learning new stuff is,” she argues.
It’s a good point. I glance at Henry. “Did you tell her to say that?”
“Nope.” He grins. “She came up with that all on her own.”
Ella looks at me pleadingly.
I sigh. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later, I am sitting awkwardly at the edge of the swimming pool, wearing my plain one-piece bathing suit that was once slightly too big and is now slightly too small.
“Ready?” Henry is already in the water.
“Not yet,” I say. I’m trying not to remember the feeling of water in my mouth, in my throat, in my lungs. My flailing arms. My fear.
“Want to hold my hand?” Ella asks. She is sitting next to me.
“Yes.” I tuck my hand around her hand. And feel surprisingly better.
“Now hop in,” says Henry.
“Don’t rush me,” I say.
“I’m not rushing you,” he says.
“I feel like you’re rushing me,” I say.
“All right, all right.” Henry plunges underwater and swims a fast lap across the pool.
“Now he’s showing off,” I say.
“No, Henry’s just really good at swimming.” Ella wrinkles her nose at me—no jokes about her adored brother allowed. But she doesn’t let go of my hand.
Henry swims over to us. “I’m not rushing you, but the water’s nice and warm.”
“It’s nice and warm out here too,” I say.
“Right.” He flops backward and backstrokes another lap across.
“You can get in,” I tell Ella. “You don’t have to stay here with me.”
“I don’t mind,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Henry swims back over to us.
“Not yet,” I say.
He swims to the other side.
“Maybe now,” I say.
“Okay, we can use the stairs,” Ella suggests.
I follow her to the side of the pool. She steps down one step. I step down one step. She steps down another. I step down another. I feel equal parts scared and foolish. But Ella keeps going. So I do too. The water gently laps around my ankles. My knees. My hips. My waist. Then I’m submerged to my chest, my feet bouncing on the bottom.
I’m breathing hard. I lurch to the side and cling to the concrete ledge. I tell myself not to be so scared; I am safe here, secure with my hand clenched to the ledge. I tell myself it’s okay to be nervous; it’s only natural after my traumatic experience.
“You made it!” Henry shouts from the deep end of the pool.
“Sort of!” I shout back.
Ella paddles next to me. “Try holding on to the side while kicking. That’s what my swimming teacher taught me,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Like this. Make some big splashes with your legs.” She demonstrates.
I copy her movements. My splashes are not as impressive. I keep sinking. But I also keep kicking. At least until my hands start aching because I’m gripping the ledge so desperately. Then I stop. “I’m going to get out now,” I tell them.
“Already?” says Henry.
“Okay,” says Ella.
It’s a relief to be back on solid ground. I sit on a lounge chair and watch the Morison siblings drift effortlessly around the pool. And I try to imagine that one day I’ll swim with such ease. It’s hard to imagine.
A shadow moves across my feet. I look up.
Old Mr. Morison looms above me, his white hair fluttering with the breeze. “May I join you?” he asks, and slowly lowers himself into the chair next to mine. He lifts his legs one at a time, a grimace twisting his face as he straightens his torso. He does not look well. But I now know better than to ask him any questions about his health.
“Are you enjoying your day?” I ask.
“It’s lovely out, isn’t it,” he says as he watches his grandchildren laughing and splashing in the blue water. It is lovely out, yet he seems unhappy.
I try to think of something that will cheer him up, or at least distract him. “I’m reading a book about the Arrow family,” I tell him.
“I wasn’t aware there was a book about the family.”
“It’s by someone named M. R. Arrow, Godfrey’s great-great-grandson. I’m only at the beginning, but it starts with Godfrey leaving his home in Boston after the girl he loved turned down his marriage proposal.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Morison sputters, his thick eyebrows bristling. “First of all, Godfrey Arrow was from a city outside Boston. Second of all, although he was quite the young idiot, he didn’t leave because of a girl. He left because of a business deal gone bad.”
I suppose sputtering is better than sadness. Also, it’s good to have my doubts about the book—booklet—confirmed. “Interesting,” I say.
“I hope you didn’t spend much on that drivel.”
“A couple of dollars.”
“Well, young lady, I’m afraid that’s a couple of dollars wasted. You should write to the publishers and demand your money back,” he says.
Vanessa wanders through the backyard. She is on her phone. “Yes, we’ll want a full ice setup for the oyster bar. Will you send me some photos?” she says.
Mr. Morison stiffens as she walks by. His hands clench, his shoulders hunch. “It’s ridiculous,” he mutters.
“What’s ridiculous?” I ask.
He doesn’t seem to hear me. His
annoyance over the Arrow book has transformed into something darker. His eyes are rheumy and unfocused. His mouth is trembling. His sudden shift in mood is startling, and a little frightening.
“She’s a fool if she thinks this party will change anything,” he says in a raspy whisper. “He won’t change. What’s going to happen will happen.”
I don’t say anything. He seems to be talking to himself, more than to me.
“Look what came in the mail today!” Vanessa comes over waving a few familiar cream-colored envelopes at us.
“RSVPs?” I ask.
“Three yesses already,” she says.
“That’s great!” I say.
“Isn’t it?” Vanessa smiles and walks back toward the house.
Mr. Morison watches her go. “This party,” he says, “is going to be a disaster.”
And although I know he is just a sick and grumpy old man who despises his daughter-in-law and disapproves of his son, I can’t help wondering if he’s right.
2
DESPITE OLD MR. MORISON’S PREDICTIONS, THINGS PROGRESS smoothly over the next week. With the assistance of her new event planner, Vanessa hires a band and orders a birthday cake: two tiers, six layers, chocolate with vanilla buttercream. Ella keeps making steady progress during our tutoring sessions. Henry relaxes after he finds out he passed his exam and will graduate. And Mr. Morison’s health improves, then so does his mood, and then he stops making such pessimistic predictions.
My swim lessons progress . . . less smoothly. I manage to advance from clutching the ledge and kicking to clutching a foam board and kicking. With the foam board I can make short laps across the shallow end of the pool. But that’s the end of my accomplishments, because, to Henry’s frustration, I refuse to put my face into the water.
“I can’t. I just can’t. I’m trying,” I tell him.
“Try harder,” he commands.
This afternoon it’s only the two of us at the house. Mr. Morison took Ella into town. Vanessa went to meet a friend for lunch and shopping. Mrs. Tully is out running errands or something.
“I’m trying as hard as I can.” I dip my chin down. But as soon as the water licks my lips, I jolt back up, legs thrashing, arms flapping. Henry gets thoroughly splashed.
“Sorry,” I say. “Or is this one of the things I don’t need to apologize for?”
“No, this apology is accepted.” He wipes his face with the back of his arm. Even though I can’t see most of him, the part I can see is grinning. I find myself grinning back. And I feel a wave of something—at first I think it’s the pool, but then I realize it’s inside me. A wave of emotion.
It panics me more than getting my face wet.
A moment later, Henry drops his arm and looks up. He looks around. He looks puzzled. Because I’m no longer next to him. I’m no longer anywhere in the water.
“Hey,” I say from the ledge next to the pool.
“Whoa, how’d you get out so fast?”
“I swam,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Get back in and show me.”
“If I show you I’ll have to kill you.”
“That seems worth it to me.”
“But it’s not worth it to me.”
“Because you don’t want me to be dead?”
“Because I don’t want to go to jail for murder.”
Henry swims toward me, and when he gets to the side of the pool, he pushes himself up and out. His arms muscle from the effort. Water streams down his shoulders. I fiddle with the straps of my too-tight bathing suit and go sit at the end of a lounge chair. He comes over and sits on the same chair, at the same end. He is close enough that I sense the damp warmth of his skin on mine. He is close enough that I can feel him breathing. We are as close as two people can be without touching.
I jump up. “It’s getting cold. Don’t you think?”
“Nope,” he says. “I think it’s hot, even hotter than yesterday.”
“Well, I’ve had enough. I’m going in to shower.”
I hurry inside the house, propelled by an inexplicable pressure in my stomach, an intense straining pain that is not exactly painful, but I don’t know how else to describe it. I walk quickly up the stairs, trying to outwalk this uncomfortable sensation, and as soon as I get to the pink bedroom, I peel off my bathing suit. It helps. I take a hot shower and that helps too.
Then I sprawl across the floral bed and finish reading Family Cursed. The conclusion is as dramatic as the beginning. According to the author, four of Lionel Arrow’s five sons owned a real estate company but were eventually accused of fraud. The four brothers disappeared. The fifth, although he had no involvement with the family business, became the scapegoat. Despite the lack of evidence against him personally, he was sent to jail. He came out a broke and broken man who was convinced that his family was cursed. A few years after getting out of jail, he got married and had one child. A few years after that, he died of liver disease. His only child’s only child was M. R. Arrow, the author of this very book and possibly the last living descendent of Godfrey Arrow. The end.
I’m not sure what to think. The story is sad, but I’m skeptical after what Mr. Morison said. Still, there’s one section I want to show to Ella. Since I definitely shouldn’t give her a book called Family Cursed, I go to make a photocopy of the chapter.
As I walk upstairs, the only noise is the soft slap of my shoes on the steps. But when I reach the landing, I hear something behind me. I spin around.
No one is there.
I continue walking. As soon as I do, I hear something behind me again. Then I realize that it’s just the echo of my shoes on the floor. I laugh at myself, and the sound bounces down the hallway, seeming to grow louder, bolder, almost hysterical. I stop laughing. I stop moving. Instantly, everything is silent.
Part of me wants to run back to the pink bedroom. Most of me knows I’m being silly. It’s just that the house is so big. It’s just that I’m the only one around. I force myself to keep going, all the way to the end of the corridor.
Vanessa told me I was free to use the photocopier anytime, but I still get nervous coming here, to this large room filled with light and not much else. Though there is a desk and a swivel chair and a filing cabinet and one potted plant, these items do not take up very much of the expansive space. Maybe it’s the emptiness that makes the space feel neglected, even though there’s not a dot of dust or a smudgy surface anywhere, and the plant has recently been watered. Obviously someone takes care of this room. After all, it’s Jeffrey Morison’s office.
The photocopier is in an alcove in the back corner. I copy the relevant chapter from Family Cursed and turn off the machine.
A sudden bang shakes the walls.
I jump farther into the alcove, into the shadows. Footsteps tap toward me across the bare hardwood. Then stop. Then they tap in the opposite direction. Then stop. Then a voice, a startlingly deep rumble, a man’s voice, says, “Yes, hello, are you there?”
It takes me a second to recognize the voice. It’s Jeffrey Morison.
Of course it’s Jeffrey Morison. This is his house. This is his office. Today is Friday, the day he comes, if he comes—though he usually doesn’t arrive until much later. I’m about to emerge, to respond to his greeting and explain that I was startled by the slamming door. But then Jeffrey speaks again, and I realize he is on the phone.
“Lorraine,” he says, “calm down. Tell me exactly what he said.”
There’s a long silence. I have no idea what to do. I don’t want to eavesdrop, but it would be awkward to come out now. And I seem unable to move.
“So he doesn’t have any proof,” Jeffrey says. “And you didn’t give him anything, right? You denied it all.”
A pause.
“We should be safe then,” he says.
Another pause.
“It’s only suspicion,” he says.
Another pause.
“Lorry, sweetheart, have I ever failed you?” he says.
A shorte
r pause.
“And I won’t fail you now. Sit tight and I’ll figure out what we can do. We’re going to find our way out of this. I promise,” he says.
A moment later there is a thud, presumably the sound of Jeffrey Morison putting down his phone. Then he starts cursing. Goddamn motherfucker bullshit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A pause. And then a giant crash.
I bump into the photocopier, thump it hard, making a noise that I can’t believe Jeffrey Morison doesn’t hear, but he doesn’t seem to. Probably because he is cursing again: “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he says as he stomps out of the room. The door slams and the walls shake.
Though I can now freely move, breathe, leave, I don’t. I stay perfectly still, trying to make sense of what I just overheard. I stand there for a minute, two minutes, three, but I make no sense and figure out nothing.
Finally I pick up my photocopies and book. My body moves stiffly, as if I’ve just awakened from a long sleep. I step out from the alcove. I stop to stare at the swivel chair. It’s now on the floor, on its back, and there is a deep crack in on one of the armrests.
I’m still staring at the overturned swivel chair when the door opens and Jeffrey Morison barrels back into the room. His face is red and shiny with sweat. He jolts when he sees me. He looks at me with none of his usual friendly charm. He looks at me with pure rage.
“What are you doing in here?” he demands.
“I was making photographs. I mean photocopies. For Ella. Vanessa told me I could. Anytime.” My voice is sluggish. I sound stupid. I feel stupid.
“How long have you been in here?”
“Just a minute.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?” I stumble over the last word. Wrong.
His gray eyes darken. His thin lips press together. He stares at me. “Get out,” Jeffrey Morison bellows. “Get out now, and I better not catch you sneaking around here again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Then I run out of his office and down the stairs. My face is burning, flushed as red as his, though for different reasons. I’m embarrassed. I feel ashamed and dumb and wounded and outraged and afraid and confused; I feel physically ill. My rational self recognizes that my feelings are all out of proportion, but I feel them just the same.