The Bright Effect

by Autumn Doughton

  “Shit,” I grumble as I look in the bottom dresser drawer for a clean pair of jeans. I can’t believe I overslept like this, but I guess that’s what happens when you stay up until four in the morning trying to figure out a way to pay the electric bill with zero dollars in your bank account.

  It’s deep winter in the Lowlands and the floor of my room is freezing cold. Still barefoot, I hop onto a pile of dirty laundry and bounce from foot to foot while I step into my jeans and yank a brown hoodie over the t-shirt I slept in.

  There isn’t enough time for coffee, but after pulling on my boots, I dash into the kitchen hoping to dig up a banana or a Pop-tart. In the middle of the kitchen table I spy a note written in Seth’s messy handwriting.

  Took Carter out for donuts. He says to tell you we’ll pick you up a chocolate cream one for you.

  No time to wait. Grabbing one of Seth’s granola bars, I tug my phone from the wall charger and make a dash for it. I’m mid-bite when I wrench the front door open and nearly step on my aunt.

  She’s stooped over a small pile of presents, writing a note on the backside of a sealed envelope.

  “Oh! Bash, you surprised me!” she exclaims, springing to her feet and clasping her hand over her heart.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask gruffly as I eye the presents. There are five of them wrapped in Christmas paper. Shiny red bows and laughing Santas wink up at me merrily.

  “Well, I just…” Aunt Denise looks uncomfortable and I suppose that makes sense. The last time we were face-to-face, things didn’t exactly go smoothly. And since then, the only communication we’ve had has come in the form of that letter from her attorney.

  She exhales sharply and I watch the puff of her breath melt into the cool morning air. “I haven’t seen you or Carter in so long and Mike and I missed you on Christmas. I knew I’d be in the area so I thought I’d try to catch you while you were at home.”

  It’s a lie. Nobody is “in the area.” This is Green Cove—halfway between Charleston and No Man’s Land.

  “If you came to the house trying to dig up dirt on me to prove to the courts how bad I am for Carter then you’ll be disappointed because he’s not even here.”

  She makes a pained face and shakes her head. “No, that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to bring by your Christmas gifts.”

  “Oh.” I look down at the presents again. I’m unsure what to do.

  “And I’ll admit that I was hoping to see Carter,” she continues, nodding toward the house.

  “Aunt Denise…” My shoulders slacken. “This really isn’t a good time. Like I said, Carter isn’t here and I’m on my way to get my girlfriend.”

  “How is Amelia? Mike and I have been watching the news every night and praying for her. I can’t even fathom how something like that happened here in Green Cove,” she says. “Her poor sister and her family. She has to be devastated.”

  Amelia is devastated. And now, because of me, she’s also going to be late for her doctor’s appointment at the hospital. “It’s been hard but she’s getting through it. Anyway,” I say dispassionately as I pull the door closed and use my key to lock it. “I really do have to go. I’m late.”

  “Right. I’ll get out of your way.”

  My aunt looks so disappointed as she descends the porch steps that I almost call out and tell her if she waits a few minutes, Carter and Seth will probably be home. Then I remember that this is the same woman who is suing me for custody of my little brother and I keep my mouth closed.

  “Will you give him his gifts?” she asks, stopping a couple steps from her car door and looking back to the house where I left the presents sitting by the front door. I’ll have to text Seth about them later.

  “I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea considering everything.”

  She nods. There are tears welling in her eyes and her nose is red. It’s possible that both are products of the cold, but I don’t think so. “Mike and I miss him.” She sniffs. “And you, Bash. I’m sorry that you’re angry with us.”

  I lean my hand against the top of my Bronco. The silvery frost coating the chipped paint stings my skin. “I’m not angry.” My head drops forward. “I’m tired.”

  “But that’s why we want to help you. Carter is too much for you.”

  I pick my head up and look at her. “Don’t you get it? Carter is not too much. My girlfriend being shot, her sister dying, my school being swarmed by reporters and the FBI and a dozen psychologists, and getting a threatening letter in the mail from your lawyer... Those things are too much.”

  “Bash…” Her face contorts. “I know you don’t understand where we’re coming from, but you and Carter are my family and I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to do what I think Jean Anne would want me to do.”

  “Don’t you dare bring my mother into this,” I warn.

  “But can’t you see that this is about her as much as it’s about you and me and Carter? I loved my sister—I still do—and I want what’s best for her kids. And right now, I firmly believe that raising Carter is a burden that you don’t need,” she pleads, walking closer. “If you would just come to the house and sit down with Mike and I, I think we could figure something out without having to go to court. I don’t want that anymore than you do.”

  “Then drop the case!” I shout so loud I’m sure Paul and his mother and the rest of the neighborhood think I’m having a fit. “That’s all you have to do, Aunt Denise. See how I’ve solved the big problem?”

  She sighs. “I can’t, Bash. You don’t want to hear this because you’re only eighteen years old, but I think one day you’ll see where we’re coming from.”

  “I might be eighteen years old but I feel forty. My life is falling apart.” I’m struggling not to choke up. “I trusted you and now you’re suing me. And the first person I’ve let myself give a shit about since Mama died is going through a goddamn hell and I don’t know how to help her. Can you understand how that feels?”

  I can see the guilt written all over Aunt Denise’s face. She tries to grab hold of my hand, but I evade her and climb into my truck.

  “This isn’t going like I want,” she says, staring off.

  I shrug. “Then leave it alone with the lawyers and let’s just go back to how things were.”

  She takes a couple breaths. “It doesn’t work like that. They’re already working on getting a court date set up.”

  I start the truck and crank on the heater, hoping it will warm up fast and I can stop feeling this way—cold and frustrated and miserable. Then I turn to the open door, looking up at my aunt.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I tell her. “But Carter is the only thing I’m sure of in the world. And staying together? What you said before was wrong. It’s not a burden. It’s a privilege.”

  ***

  I know it’s cowardly of me, but when the doctor peels back the final layer of gauze, I look away.

  “The swelling is just about gone,” he says.

  I peek slowly, like I’m sticking my big toe in ice cold water. Amelia is flat on one of those padded medical tables that’s covered in a piece of white paper. She’s laying back with one hand down and the other curved over her head.

  The doctor is on a wheeled stool leaning over her, holding her shirt up and prodding at her stomach. “Yes, this is looking very good,” he says.

  I step closer and crane my neck. The line that cuts from her bellybutton to her hip bone is pink and jagged, but it looks nothing like it did that day. I shudder thinking of the warm and sticky blood that coated my hands and how I worried that she’d die right there on the floor of the gym and that would be the last memory I’d ever have of her.

  “Do you think I’ll be ready for tennis?” Amelia asks. Her eyes are staring straight up at the fluorescent light panels that checker the ceiling. “The season starts back soon and I’d like to be on the court as soon as I can be.”

  She shouldn’t be worried about tennis. She
should be crying or angry or anything but thinking about getting back on the team. But this is how she’s been ever since those first days after Daphne died. It was almost better when she was crazy sad and crying all the time. Now she’s… off. It’s like the power’s been cut and the back-up generator hasn’t kicked on yet.

  “You’ll still need to take it easy for a few more weeks, but this is healing up beautifully,” the doctor says, moving her shirt back into place and kicking his stool toward the blue formica counter. “I’m very happy with the progress so I’m going to leave a bandage off, but you’ll still need to keep the area clean.”

  “And tennis?” Amelia presses.

  “You don’t need to push yourself,” I say.

  She doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “I’m captain of the school team, Sebastian. I’ve got to play.”

  “No, you’ve got to get healthy. You were shot a month ago.”

  “I was grazed.”

  “That’s still shot.”

  The paper crinkles as she sits up and swings her legs over the side of the exam table. She crosses her arms over her chest and pointedly does not look at me. “What do you think about tennis, Dr. Faris?”

  The doctor is bent over the counter writing something on his clipboard. “As I said, you still need some time to heal. But give it a few more weeks and as long as everything progresses as it is now, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to play tennis.”

  “So mid January?”

  “That sounds about right.” He nods and stands up. “I’m going to finish up your paperwork, Amelia. Someone will be here in a few minutes with the new instructions for wound care.”

  “Okay.”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re in the Bronco, headed in the direction of her house. “Do you want anything?” I ask since we have to drive through the small downtown area and I’ve haven’t eaten anything but a granola bar today. “Food? A coffee?”

  “No,” she says and goes back to staring out the window.

  “All right.”

  Other than the rumble of the engine, it’s quiet. This silence has become our new norm. No more ‘this or that’ games to pass the time. No more laughter. No more sharing ideas or stories. I desperately want to tell her about the conversation with my aunt this morning and the court case that’s looming over me, but I don’t even know how to start.

  “Everything back there was cold and white,” she says after a long time.

  “At the hospital?” I clarify.

  Still looking out the window, she nods. “They told me that Daphne hung on until she got there.”

  I start to say something but she interrupts me. “Do you think that white ceiling was the last thing she saw? They won’t tell me much and I keep trying to think about what it must have been like for her. Was she scared? She must have been. She was all alone, Sebastian.”

  “She wasn’t all alone.”

  “She was,” she says in a barely audible voice. “Do you think she wondered why I wasn’t with her? Do you think she was in pain?”

  The guy behind me honks, but I don’t give a shit. I cross two lanes and pull off the road, the whole truck quaking when the wheels jump the cement curb.

  “I don’t think she was in pain.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t,” I say. “And maybe this is just me digging my heels in like Mama used to say, but I don’t think she suffered. I think that asshole shot her and that was it. Her body might have held on until the hospital but I think her soul had already escaped.”

  Her lip trembles. “Did you see her?”

  I shake my head because I refuse to tell her how it really was. I refuse to fill her head with details about the blood and the ripped flesh and the pungent scent of gunpowder that clogged my nostrils that day.

  “I just wish I knew for sure what she felt,” Amelia says, her eyes shiny with tears. “Twins are supposed to know, aren’t they?”

  This is breaking my heart. I unbuckle both of our seatbelts and pull her into my lap. She resists at first, but then she gives in and crumples into my chest.

  I know I shouldn’t think it, but it feels good to hold her like this, even if she is crying. I run my hand over her neck and down her back, feeling her whole body shake with each breath.

  “I don’t even remember the last thing she said to me. Was it at breakfast? On the way to school? How can I not know that, Sebastian? What kind of sister doesn’t remember?”

  I kiss her hair and murmur, “Amelia, you weren’t thinking about it. None of us were. It was just a normal day.”

  “But that’s it,” she says, wiping at her eyes.

  “That’s what?”

  “It wasn’t a normal day, was it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Saturday night. About all of my suspicions. I should have known Spencer was dangerous. I did know, but I didn’t do anything about it.”

  I brush her hair from her face and hold her chin up so that she’s looking at me. “That’s not fair.”

  “Why isn’t it fair? How many times did you tell me to talk my parents about Spencer?” she cries and jerks her head away. “How many chances did I let slip by?”

  “Amelia…” The helplessness I feel is tearing me up inside.

  “It’s the truth Sebastian! Now people are saying Spencer was off his medication and that he needed help and it’s like... I knew that.”

  “No one knew for sure.”

  “Yes I did! Maybe I didn’t know everything, but I could tell there was something wrong with him and I still did nothing to stop him.”

  “You were going to talk to your parents,” I remind her.

  “Too little too late,” she snaps, pushing away from me and shifting back to her own seat. “What good are my intentions if Daphne is still gone? I can’t bring her back now. I can’t turn back time and go back to those last few weeks.”

  “You couldn’t have stopped him. Even if you’d told someone, it’s not like they would have locked him up for being a possessive boyfriend or an asshole.”

  “They might have done something!” She throws her hands up. “Maybe Spencer would have gotten the help he needed or maybe his father would have locked his goddamn gun cabinet! But we’ll never know, will we? Daphne is dead,” she shouts. “And she will always be dead.”

  The naked pain in her voice nearly suffocates me. It’s torture. Worse than torture actually because it’s like watching someone else being flayed alive, their skin peeled from their body piece by piece, and not being able to do a single thing about it.

  I reach for her again, taking hold of her hand, but I have no idea what to do or say to make this better for her. She’s right. Daphne is dead and that is forever. And in the face of that loss, anything I can say or do seems inadequate.

  “Amelia, I’m sorry.”

  “Nevermind,” she says, turning back to the passenger window.

  “Nevermind?”

  I let go of her wrist and she waves her hand in front of her face. “I mean… just forget it, okay? I shouldn’t have freaked out like I did. I was just being stupid.”

  “There’s nothing to forget. And you’re not being stupid.”

  She shakes her head. “I just want to go home. I’m fine now,” she says and I’m surprised by the sudden tonelessness of her tone. “I promise.”

  “You sure?” I ask, my heart sick.

  She nods.

  We both know she’s not fine, but I let it go, turning the car key and merging back onto the road.

  I hate pretending, but the thought of losing her looms over me. Because right now this whole thing feels flimsy as a house of cards. One tiny breeze and everything will come crashing down around us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Amelia

  So guess what?

  I got into Emory today.

  I haven’t been able to make myself open the thick cream-colored envelope that lays on the counter in front of me, b
ut I know it’s an acceptance letter—it’s too thick not to be—and I’m not sure what to do about it.

  Before, we all would have celebrated. Daddy would have grilled steaks. Nancy would have started calling her friends, boasting about me and my big brain. I know that Daphne would have squealed and done a happy little dance right here in the kitchen. That was how it should be, but that’s not how we live now, is it? There will be no steaks, no calls, and especially no dancing tonight.

  This is supposed to be a big deal, the kind of moment I keep tucked away for rainy day trips down memory lane when I’m eighty years old. Emory. This is what I always thought I wanted—a brilliant future waiting for me with a shiny, red bow on top. I should be happy, but I can’t even remember what happy feels like.

  “What is that?” Nancy asks, bending over my shoulder to eyeball the envelope in my hands. “It’s from Emory.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She sets two brown paper sacks full of groceries down on the counter. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Maybe I will later.”

  She purses her lips. “Amelia, that looks like it might be an acceptance letter.”

  “Fine.” I throw her a look of annoyance as I rip open the letter.

  It is with great pleasure that we inform you of your acceptance into Emory University.

  “I got in,” I say in a flat tone, not even bothering to finish it. I don’t want to do this. All I want is to ball the letter and watch it roll off my palm and into the trashcan.

  Nancy bends over and hugs me. I probably should stand up and hug her back or something, but I don’t move. “Of course you did! Congratulations, dear. Your father is going to be so proud of you.”

  I snort. “I doubt Daddy will even notice.”

  Nancy looks away briefly, then she says, “Nevermind that. We should celebrate. You could invite your Sebastian.”

  Did I land on an alien planet? “You want me to invite Sebastian? What do you mean—like, for dinner?”