The Bright Effect

by Autumn Doughton

I swivel around to see Nancy hurrying down the hall. She worriedly brings her hands to her face. “You shouldn’t be out of bed like this, Amelia.”

  “Why?” I was cold just a second ago, but now I’m starting to feel clammy. I peer into the bedroom, looking around the corner to Daphne’s closet. “Where is she?”

  Nancy’s shoulders and face crumple in harmony. “Amelia… no, sweetheart. This is the sedatives talking.”

  “Sedatives?” I shake my head, thinking again of the hospital. What is it? My fingers absently brush the bandage around my middle.

  “Shhhh, they said you’d be woozy for a few more days.” She tries to pull me into an embrace.

  My heart is pounding hard now. I push away so that I can look again. “Where is she? Where is Daphne?”

  “Amelia, you’re weak as a kitten. Let’s get you back into bed first,” she coos, attempting to walk me out of Daphne’s room, “and then we’ll talk. Remember that the doctors want you resting as much as possible.”

  “I don’t…” A chill rushes up my spine, making my whole body tremble. I grab onto the doorway, my nails hooking into the curves in the painted wood. “Where’s my sister?”

  Daddy comes running up the steps. He sees me clawing at the door to Daphne’s room and his face goes slack. “Oh darlin’, not again.”

  Nausea swims inside of me. “Daddy?”

  He continues to stare at me. “You need to let Nancy and me get you back to your bed.”

  “But I don’t want to go to bed.”

  Daddy reaches for me, but I stumble back away from him and fall against the wall, the weight of memories pouring over me like fast water.

  The hospital.

  Red and blue pinpricks of light against a sober sky.

  Sebastian’s arms around me.

  A sound like the world ripping into pieces.

  Daphne’s body on the floor beside me.

  And all at once, I can remember what I already knew three days ago. What I knew the moment Spencer McGovern stood across the school gym, pulled a shiny black handgun from his backpack, and took aim.

  “No!” I wail, crawling on my hands toward my sister’s bedroom. If I can just get in there, it will be okay. I’ll see that she’s safe in her bed, tucked under the covers where nothing bad can ever happen.

  “Oh dear, I’ll go get him,” Nancy says, slowly backing away.

  “Good idea,” Daddy replies as she scurries off. Then he grabs my shoulders and tries to get me to look at him. “Now, Amelia Laine, you’re starting to panic again. Take a deep breath and try to calm down.”

  But I can’t calm down and I can’t breathe. The water is coming on too fast. My lungs are screaming for oxygen but I’m stuck in the rip current. I know I need to come up for air, but I just can’t move.

  Is this what it’s like to die?

  Is this how my sister felt?

  Take me with you, I silently plead, closing my eyes and wishing for the bitter blackness to sweep me away once and for all.

  “Amelia.”

  I lift my head and see Sebastian coming for me. The instant I feel the warm touch of his skin against mine, the surface of the water breaks and I can breathe again.

  “I’ve got you,” he says, catching me to his chest and pulling us both onto our knees.

  “Sebastian, you have to help me,” I sob, thinking of how Daphne was on the gym floor—with one hand curled up under her chin and her eyes closed. I grip his shirt and pull his face to mine. “She might be sleeping!”

  Sebastian’s face is ashen and seriously set. “Amelia she’s not asleep.”

  I knew it was a stupid thing to think. There was too much blood and her skin was so pale that she looked like a creature from another world—like a mermaid dragged from the depths of the sea. But I want to believe it so badly that I can’t see straight.

  Take me with you...

  This time I think I’ve even said it out loud.

  But no one is listening anymore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bash

  I stare down at the swirls of color on the page. “What’s this?”

  “It’s you!” Carter says. He leans over and points to a circle with brown lines coming out of it. “See your hair right here?”

  “Of course I see it. This guy looked familiar but I thought he was too good-looking to be me.”

  Carter shrugs his shoulders. “It’s art.”

  I chuckle as I find a free magnet so that his drawing can be on the front and center of the refrigerator. “Well, I love it. Thanks, bud.”

  “Mrs. White told us to draw our hero.”

  I twist around, emotion pinching inside of me. “And you drew me? Why?”

  “Because you’re my hero,” he says proudly.

  I swallow and look back to the drawing. Funny—these days I feel wrecked and broken—not much like a hero.

  “Nate drew George Washington,” Carter says. “But I don’t even know George Washington. You take care of me.”

  “Hey—what about me?” Seth interrupts. “I’m like Mr. Mom over here. Jesus—it’s Friday night and I’m making a meatloaf. I think that deserves at least a drawing, don’t you?”

  I laugh but it’s actually pretty accurate. Seth has been staying with us for almost two weeks, helping out with Carter, making lunches and dinner, giving him rides to school so that I can go over to Amelia’s in the afternoons to try to coax her out of the silence she’s been in since the shooting.

  “Seth,” Carter says, his tone serious. “I’ll make you a drawing if you promise that I don’t have to watch one of your boring movies tonight.”

  “They’re called rockumentaries, and, kid, you should be grateful that I’m introducing you to the greatest rock bands of all time. It’s a privilege.”

  Carter scrunches up his face. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  Seth shakes his head. “It means that you’re lucky I’m here to assist your bro with your music education. Now grab that pot holder over there and let’s get this baby into the oven.”

  An hour later, the three of us are on the couch with Jinx watching a documentary about Iron Maiden. Beside me, Carter yawns.

  “C’mere,” I say, putting my arm over his shoulders and pulling him half onto my lap.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he whispers, his eyes anxiously blinking up at me.

  “Yeah, bud. Ask me anything.”

  “Did you see her today?”

  I struggle to control my reaction because I know the her he’s asking about is Amelia. “Yeah,” I say, my throat tightening painfully. “I stopped by her house this afternoon.”

  “Is she okay?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. She’s not okay. She’s functioning, but she’s not my Amelia. She’s too thin. Her face is still pretty, almost porcelain, but the shadows under her brown eyes grow darker every day.

  “She’s getting there,” I answer hesitantly.

  “Do you think she wants to come over? We could take her on a shark hunt like we promised. It’s winter break now and there’s no school so I thought she might like that!”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Carter asks. “She’s never at tutoring anymore either.”

  “Remember we talked about this, bud? Amelia’s probably not going to be around for a while.”

  “I know.” His expression falls. “You said a bad thing happened to her and she’s sad right now.”

  “That’s right. Remember when Mama died and you felt real sick?”

  “Like I was gonna throw up all day long,” he says. “Is that how Amelia feels?”

  “Kind of.”

  “And is that why you stopped working so much at Kane’s? Seth says your boss is a big butthole.”

  My chest rumbles with laughter. “Seth shouldn’t have told you that, but yeah, I had to cut my hours down to be able to help Amelia if she needs me, and while I was looking the other way, my boss hired someone els
e. But I don’t want you to worry about my job, bud. I’ll get another one,” I say though I’m not sure that’s true. I’ve been looking for something with good hours all week with no luck. “Carter, we’re going to be fine and Amelia is going to be fine soon too.”

  “I know but… it’s still not fair. I wanted to tell her that I finished the book she brought me right before Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ll tell her for you.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” he says on a sigh. “I miss her, Bash.”

  I touch his hair, feeling the cool strands against my fingertips. “Me too, bud.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Amelia

  I’m on a pillow on the floor of my room staring up at the ceiling fan. Round and round it goes. Huh—isn’t there an old saying like that?

  Like every afternoon for the past couple of weeks, Audra is here. She’s talking, but I’m not really listening to her. Blah, blah, blah. Like I want to know about anyone at school. Like I want her to tell me about the prayer circle they had on the last day before winter break or the assembly to honor the victims.

  I close my eyes, mad at myself for even thinking it.

  Victims.

  I hate that word. I actually looked it up the other day and one of the definitions is someone who has been sacrificed. Is that how Spencer saw us? Was Mr. Brickler a sacrifice? Was Daphne?

  “Did you hear what they’re sayin’?” Audra is still talking.

  I’m done with this. I’m about to tell her that I’m too tired to hear this crap and she should just go home when she continues, “About Spencer?”

  “What about him?” I croak out.

  Her blue eyes meet mine. I can see the relief there. Relief I guess that I’m not comatose or mentally planning out my suicide. “It’s all over the news.”

  I don’t watch the news. Most of the vans are gone from in front of our house now—off to document another tragedy and turn those people’s lives inside out all for the sake of journalism—but I know that “The Green Cove Shooting” still makes the nightly rounds. I know that the gun people and the anti-gun people stand in front of cameras waving my sister’s picture around like they have something important to say.

  All those people and all those reporters act like they knew Daphne and now they have a right to sadness.

  But that grief they’re toying with? The grief of a community? A nation? The whole world?

  It’s mine.

  Because not one other person can feel like this—like they’ll never be able to look into a mirror again without remembering. Not one other soul feels like their heart has been cut out of their body and beaten down to nothing but blood and pulp.

  “Amelia?” she prompts.

  “I haven’t watched the news,” I tell her, letting my eyes drift to the fan. Round and round.

  “Well, he had traces of enough steroids in his system to gag a maggot and Spencer’s parents are sayin’ that he was on a prescribed medication, but it looks like he stopped takin’ those pills months ago. They didn’t know that at the time, of course, but now they’re countin’ up pills or whatever and the numbers don’t add up. He was, like, supposed to be on some sort of antipsychotic—starts with an ‘r’—but I can’t remember the name of it.”

  “Why?”

  “His parents are tellin’ the police that he was supposed to be seein’ a psychiatrist but he stopped going in August because it was too much with football practice and he didn’t want anyone on the team to know. Can you believe that? Maybe if someone else had known he was strugglin’ then maybe things would have been different.”

  “Don’t,” I say, looking at her.

  Audra jerks her head back. “Don’t what?”

  “You’re making excuses for him.”

  “No, I’m not doin’ that.”

  “You are. You’re acting like Spencer couldn’t help himself. Like he didn’t want to hurt anyone,” I choke out.

  “No, I’m not. I’m just tellin’ you that Spencer was sick. He killed himself that day too. And maybe if he had stayed away from the gym candy and had been takin’ his prescribed meds like he was supposed to then...”

  I’m angry for Daphne. For myself. “Then what? He wouldn’t have shot me? Would Daphne still be alive? Or what about Mr. Brinkler? Spencer shot him in cold blood just for trying to help us! Can your maybes bring them back or take that gun out of his hands? No, they can’t. So just... don’t try to analyze him or explain it away.”

  She sighs. “Maybe I shouldn’t be bringin’ this up, but I know his mom has tried reachin’ out to ya’ll.”

  “So?”

  “I thought you might give her a chance.”

  “Why would I care what that woman has to say? There’s nothing she can say that makes up for the fact that she raised a murderer.”

  Audra is quiet for a long time and then she says, “Amelia, I didn’t mean to make things worse. I’m just tryin’ to talk to you and make sense of all of this.”

  “I get it, but there is no sense to any of it. And I don’t want to hear about Spencer or his mother,” I say, my eyes going back to the fan. “What’s the point?”

  Round and round it goes, and where it stops nobody knows.

  ***

  “What is it?” I ask, bending closer.

  Daphne is crouched over her clasped hands. She looks up at me, her light brown eyes glittering with elation and says, “Open your hands.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to show you something.”

  We’re outside, sitting cross-legged in the dirt with our knees touching. Above us, the branches of an old oak create a mossy canopy that ensnares the sunlight.

  “Where are we?” I ask my sister. In the distance I think I can see a white farmhouse but I’m not sure.

  “That’s not important right now. Amelia, open your hands for me.”

  This time I do as she asks and she places something warm and soft on my palm then folds her hands around mine to keep them closed.

  “What is it?” I ask in wonder, trying to peek through the cracks in my fingers. I can feel the thing’s rapid heartbeat fluttering against my skin and it reminds me of rain.

  Daphne laughs. “It’s a bird, silly. What did you think it was?”

  And then I’m awake, my sister’s voice fading as the dappled sunlight of a luminous and sunny afternoon is swallowed by the darkness of my bedroom.

  My mind whirs as I try to keep hold of the tendrils of the dream. Why would Daphne have that bird? Did she catch it? Or maybe it fell out of a nest and she found it on the ground?

  I close my eyes, desperate to get back inside the dream world, but my body rebels. I’m too fuzzy even for sleep. I’m too dim to dream of her again.

  I need water.

  I shuffle from my room and down the stairs. All around me, the house is mute and black. It feels vacant—like no one lives here anymore.

  On the bottom landing, I can see the shadow of the Christmas tree in the living room. Nancy tried to get Daddy and I excited about Christmas this year, but the whole thing is a ridiculous waste of time. How can we be expected to care about ornaments and presents and stockings when we all know Daphne is cold and six feet under the earth?

  When I get to the kitchen, I drink three glasses of lukewarm water so quickly that water dribbles down my chin and neck. I consider the food in the refrigerator, but even though I haven’t eaten anything but crackers since yesterday, I’m not really hungry. Especially not for this sympathy food.

  People keep showing up here with their stupid casserole dishes and their sad cards and their dying flowers and their freaking honey baked hams and we’re supposed to play along like those things mean something to us. Like a piece of well-cooked pork is supposed to make us less depressed.

  I slam the refrigerator closed and turn to head back to the stairs. That’s when I notice a sliver of warm light spreading from under the door to Daddy’s office. Hesitantly, I poke my head inside.

&n
bsp; Daddy is in the big leather chair behind his desk. He’s slumped forward, looking down at something in his lap. A half-empty bottle of amber liquid is beside him and I watch as he lifts the bottle to his lips and tips his head back for a long swig.

  In those first few days, he was Mr. Put-Us-Back-Together, trying to get me out of bed, encouraging me to eat something. Then around week two, he gave up. He stopped shaving and going to work. Now he spends his days locked behind his office door doing who knows what.

  His face is drawn and his greying hair is sticking up in all directions. God, when was the last time he showered? Or consumed something beside liquor?

  “Daddy?”

  He looks up, startled when he sees me, and he tries to hide the bottle behind his chair.

  “Where’s Nancy?” I ask him.

  He gestures sluggishly around his head. “Probably at church.”

  “But it’s night.”

  “Who knows? She’s always there lately.”

  Lately.

  I start to turn away but he calls me back into his office. “Amelia—”

  “Yeah?” I stop beside the desk. Now I can see what he was looking at in his lap. It’s a picture of Daphne and I with our arms around each other and I can remember exactly when it was taken. Nancy had driven us to Charleston and we’d gotten our nails done for the first time. I picked pink polish and she picked red. In the photo, both of us are showing off our fingernails to the camera and sporting wide matching smiles.

  “She was so happy,” I murmur, kneeling so that I can look more closely.

  “She was always happy.”

  Daddy takes my face in his hands then and he stares down at me for a long time, his eyes searching every single one of my features.

  Who are you seeing?

  Is it me or is it her?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Bash

  I wake up thirty minutes late. My mouth is smushed up against the mattress and my hair is plastered against my eyelids.

  The digital clock next to my bed tells me that it’s already nine fifteen, which means that I’m supposed to pick up Amelia in exactly ten minutes to take her to her doctor’s appointment.