“Aunt Morgan can’t find what dorm Storm was supposed to be in. Did she tell you by chance?” I ask Cameron.
“Um, I don’t think so.” We are like an island in the empty sea of the parking lot. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Does it really matter?” His words are clipped.
“What’s up? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, could you tell your voice that?”
“Sorry. I’m just tired, I guess.”
Rubbing his shoulder, I say, “You should have woken me up. I would have driven.”
“Not a chance, lady. Last time you drove, the car fell apart.”
I punch his shoulder. “Shut up! You said that wasn’t my fault.”
“I’m teasing. You looked peaceful.” He pecks me on the cheek. “I don’t mind driving, really. Let’s walk around for a bit. I’ll feel better soon.”
We weave through campus, admiring the huge, beautiful buildings, their red bricks and white columns like something from a movie. When we see Dobo Hall, Cameron races up the steps and sits with his back against one of the white pillars. I follow, and when I reach him, he guides me into his lap, nuzzling his face into my hair.
“Better?” I say.
“I am now.”
Storm had tacked a picture of Dobo Hall on the wall above her desk when she was a high school freshman. “This would have been where her classes were,” I tell him. “All those marine biology ones. She would have practically lived in this building,”
“I know. She never shut up about it.”
I hop up and hold a hand out to help Cameron to his feet. “Let’s go find our room.”
It doesn’t take long to figure out that the dorms are closed for the summer. We run into locked doors everywhere we go, and I grow increasingly more frustrated at each barred entry.
“What are we going to do?” I sweep my hair over my shoulder, but Cameron stops my hands before I can start braiding it.
“Stay here. I’ll figure something out. Be right back.”
He runs off, leaving me standing in the middle of the open lawn. I watch him round the corner of the nearest building. To pass the time, I lie flat on my back, the grass cool beneath me, and watch the sparse clouds float by.
Something is wrong. I don’t know what, but I’ve felt it since we pulled into town. It’s like the pieces of this day don’t quite fit, a puzzle forced together by a toddler. It may look all right from a distance, but up close you can see the wrongness of the thing. I open the messages on my phone, read back over my recent conversation with Aunt Morgan. Maybe I’m overreacting. Aunt Morgan finding that form doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s a duplicate and Storm already sent in the deposit. Maybe… I don’t know, but there has to be some explanation other than Storm walking away from the dream she held since she was twelve years old. I text Aunt Morgan.
ME: Was there a check?
AUNT MORGAN: Where?
ME: In Storm’s room. With the deposit form.
She doesn’t respond for a while, my phone finally binging at the same time Cameron appears around the side of the building.
AUNT MORGAN: Yeah. It’s here. Why?
I drop my phone to the grass. What were you thinking, Storm? This school was all she talked about, what she worked for all those years. She had a plan, a goal, and Storm never quit on her goals. Why, then, wouldn’t she send in the deposit—wouldn’t officially enroll?
“I got us a room,” Cameron says as he approaches. When I don’t move, he kneels. “Hey, you all right?”
No, I’m not all right, but I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I force myself to smile at him. “Yeah.” He doesn’t look convinced.
I can’t think about this now, don’t want to deal with what it might mean—that I really didn’t know her at all anymore. I need to focus, to remember why we are here. We’re almost to the end of our journey. The list has only three things left on it—the dive-in movie, kiss in the rain, sleep in the dorms—and I can’t believe we’re so close. Shoving my phone into my pocket, I stand and clasp his hand. “Let’s go see our room.”
“Uh, we can’t actually do that yet.”
“Why?”
“Well, let’s just say that it’s not so kosher for us to be in there. But the guy I found working outside of the building said if we come back after he’s off work, he’ll let us in before going home.”
“How much did that set you back?”
“You might have to flash him to get us through the door.” He says it like it’s nothing. I stop dead in my tracks.
“You told him what?”
“Relax, Anna. I’m kidding. I just told him what’s going on. It’s cool.” He pulls me closer, tucking me under his arm as we start walking. “You sure you’re okay?”
I don’t know why I don’t tell him about the unsent check. It’s like talking about it would be admitting a truth: I didn’t know my sister. Not toward the end of her life, at least. If I knew her, really knew her, wouldn’t I have known something as big as this? So I don’t say it, don’t let myself believe it’s true. Instead, I simply ask, “Where are we going?”
“Jerry told me—”
“Who’s Jerry?”
“The dorm janitor. Keep up.” He winks at me, and I can’t help but rise on my tiptoes and kiss him, tripping us up. When we regain our balance, he continues, “Anyway, Jerry told me about this great burger place, P.T.’s. I’m starving.”
Cameron navigates us to the burger stand I noticed on the way into campus, and we stand in the line, which is thankfully shorter than it had been before. We grab burgers and fries—heavenly—and sit at a little table in the corner of the porch.
In between bites, I say, “What are we going to do until we can get into the dorm?”
“Well”—Cameron stops to chew and swallow a massive bite of burger—“we’re so close to Carolina Beach, I thought we could go find your dive-in and see what’s playing this week.”
I practically spring from my chair. “Yes, please! Let’s go!”
“Calm down, Turbo. We can finish our food first.”
We do, me wolfing down my burger and fries in record time, and Cameron moving slowly, savoring every bite. By the time he finishes, I’m about to explode.
“Geez, Anna, what’s the rush?” he jokes.
We refill our sweet teas and head to the car. As we pull out of the parking spot I say, “I don’t know if I can explain it, but it just feels like… everything has been leading up to this moment. This is the only thing on the list that I had a concrete plan for, and now we are almost there. It’s surreal.”
“Are you ready? To be done, I mean?”
Am I? I’m not sure, and suddenly, inexplicably, I’m nervous. “Not really, but I’m excited, too.”
He squeezes my hand in agreement, and we head to Carolina Beach.
The drive is beautiful. We make our way past the campus and out of town. Trees line the road for a few minutes, and then we climb a hill to a bridge. I gasp. The marshes lining the Intracoastal Waterway shine in the bright sun, gold and green with water sparkling among them. Birds flit above the water, and a boat trolls slowly beneath us. We cross, and a sign greets us at the other side of the bridge: WELCOME TO CAROLINA BEACH, HOME OF THE PLEASURE ISLAND SEAFOOD BLUES AND JAZZ FESTIVAL.
I can’t believe we’re actually here.
The park isn’t hard to find. A sign directs us to the right, past the boardwalk entrance on the left. We stop the car in a small parking lot at the entrance of the park then walk in, neither of us saying a word.
Carolina Beach Lake Park is a world of its own. Lined by colorful beach houses, it’s an oasis of grass, trees, and flowering plants. The lake at the far end is more of a pond, really—small but beautiful. We walk directly toward it, following a path around the perimeter until we’re back where we started.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, staring at a family of ducks gliding in the water.
“Maybe they s
et up the dive-in right before it starts?” Cameron tosses a rock into the water, and we watch the ripples spread across the pond’s placid surface.
A middle-aged man is walking toward us from the other side of the pond, a tiny fluff ball of a dog at the end of the rhinestone-encrusted leash. We wait for him to reach us. The dog immediately jumps on my shins, tail wagging, and I bend to pet it.
“I’m so sorry about that,” the man says, tugging on the leash. “Come on, Clyde. Leave ’em alone.”
“It’s fine.” I scratch the dog behind its ears. “He’s cute.”
“Excuse me,” Cameron asks the man, “but do you know what the deal is with the dive-in?”
“The dive-in?” The man looks confused.
“Yeah, the movie thing,” I clarify.
The man laughs. “Oh, I know what it is, darlin’. But they haven’t shown movies here in years.”
“They haven’t?”
“Nah. Hurricane Irene tore up the screen a few years back, and the HOA decided it was too expensive to keep it up, so they stopped the movies. They play water volleyball once a week now instead.”
“So it’s gone,” I whisper in disbelief. All these miles, anticipation, everything for the past week brought us to this. The only thing I had a concrete plan for. And it’s gone. Just like her.
It’s fitting, actually.
I’d been stupid to think I could complete a list. I can’t remember a single summer when we finished one—why should this summer be any different? I guess I thought if I could do it, could actually tick off each item this one time, then it would be like I was giving her the thing she couldn’t give herself. As if completing the list would keep Storm alive. But it hits me now that I can’t complete the list: she’s really gone. And I’m not ready for that reality.
Cameron thanks the man and leads me to a bench. As soon as we sit, my face is on his chest, tears flowing freely. It’s the after-funeral day all over again, the pain of loss just as raw as it was then, as I let go of the last strings holding me to my sister. She’s not here to guide me anymore. It’s time to figure it out on my own.
I’ve never been so terrified.
We sit on the bench for minutes or hours, or days even. Cameron holds me as my heart breaks open. And then, I’m done, too tired even for tears. I stand abruptly. “Let’s go.”
“Do you want to walk around a bit more?”
I shake my head. “I just want to go home.”
“Okay.” He takes my hand, and we head toward the car. “I’ll ask Jerry if he can let us in a bit early.”
“No, not there. Home, home. It’s over. I want to go home.”
“Come on, Anna.” We’re at the car now, and I lean against the hot metal, Cameron hugging me close. He says, “Let’s just go to the dorm. We can sleep on it, mark one more thing off the list. Then, in the morning, if you still really want to go back home, we can. Okay?”
I nod, and he stoops to kiss me. There’s sadness in his kiss, and I can’t tell if it’s coming from him or me. Maybe it’s both.
We stop at an ice-cream shop on the way back, Cameron ordering each of us tall cones of vanilla with gummy bears mixed in. The candy turns hard in the cold, making my jaw ache as I chew them. It takes the entire ride back to campus to make my way through the cone.
We park off campus, on one of the roads away from the dorms, so our car won’t go noticed overnight, and then we head across the lawn toward our place for the night.
Jerry is nowhere to be seen. “You’re sure this is the right building?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m sure. He said he’d be right here.”
“Well, he’s obviously not.”
“Thanks for that astute observation.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m a jerk.” He kisses my cheek and releases my hand. “Wait right here. I’ll see if I can figure something out.”
Dropping my bag to the ground, I sit with my back against the building and close my eyes. Suddenly, I want to cry again, but instead, I force deep breaths, trying to calm myself, to ease the anxiety brewing in my chest.
My phone bings. Saved by the bell.
CAMERON: 4th window to the right of center door.
ME: The yellow duck flies at midnight.
CAMERON: What?
ME: You first.
CAMERON: Please come to the 4th window to the right of the door.
Faintly in the distance, I hear the scraping of a window being lifted on its track. I heave myself off the ground, grabbing my bag, and run toward the sound. Cameron’s there, inside a room, prying the screen off the window. He waves me in, grabbing my bag and helping me scramble over the ledge. As soon as I’m in the room, he presses the screen back on and closes the window.
“What the heck was that?”
“I got us in, that’s what.”
“How?”
He shrugs. “Found a service door.”
“Cameron…”
The room is barren, just two twin beds, their mattresses naked, and two built-in desks. Cameron drops to one of the beds and pulls me down next to him. “Remember that year when Storm and I wanted to be PIs?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, we were totally into it. Learned to pick locks and everything.”
I stare at him. “Seriously? We can get into huge trouble for this!”
He kisses my forehead. “Relax. I’m kidding. Jerry left the back door propped open. We’re fine.”
“Jerk.”
“It was funny, and you know it.”
“If you say so.”
Cameron runs his fingers through my hair, working out the tangles, his breath moving slowly across the top of my head.
“Do you remember our first sleepover?” His voice is so quiet only the rumble in his chest gives the words away. I nod.
“I was four,” I say, “and it was the first time I was allowed to sleep in the tent with you and Storm.” It was a huge deal for me, the first time I was really included, a part of the group instead of just the little sister following them around. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Of course I do. I remember everything.”
“Sap.”
“Yup. Remember when you got scared of the wind?”
“Did not.”
“Did too. Storm was sick, and we had to go inside early, remember?”
I nod.
“She wasn’t actually sick,” he says. “She faked it so we could go in and so you wouldn’t be scared anymore.”
I think back to that night. Mom had to come outside and move us into the house after midnight. We set up our sleeping bags on the living room floor, and Mom brought Storm a bucket, just in case she needed to vomit.
“She wasn’t really sick?”
“No, she wasn’t. She was always looking out for you. Always.”
I trace a finger along his jaw, feeling the sandpapery stubble growing there. “I miss her.”
“Me too.”
When we come together this time, it isn’t the frantic, desperate need to be together. This time, we reach our rhythm immediately, slower, sweeter. Coming from a need of comfort and connection. Coming from love.
Chapter 30
Cameron and I sleep tangled together on one of the twin beds, and even though my neck hurts and my lower back aches from the strange angle I’ve been in all night, I don’t want to leave his embrace. I stay wrapped in his arms, my head resting on his chest, as I study the room in the pale morning light. The walls are white, painted cinder blocks. I wonder what the room looked like during the school year, with students living in it.
I can image these walls crammed with Storm’s Polaroid pictures, neat little squares lined up side to side, black Sharpie phrases scribbled over them. Her side of the room would have been crisp and orderly, everything in its place, neat lines and patterns.
What would her roommate have been like? Storm filled out a survey about her likes and habits so the school could better match her with a roommate. Would the girl have been jus
t like her, clean and neat? Or would the other side of the room have been chaos, a contrast to Storm’s orderly nature?
“I don’t get it,” I say aloud suddenly.
“What?” Cameron has clearly been awake, too.
“Why Storm would put this on her list—sleeping in the dorm. She was coming here to live in the fall anyway. Why would she make this part of a summer list?”
Cameron remains quiet, but I notice his body go oddly stiff. His heart races under my ear. I prop my head on my hand and stare at him.
“Oh, you know her secret,” I tease, poking him in the side. “Come on, spill!”
He looks at me now, the pain on his face enough to break me in half. I hold my breath, my eyes pleading with him to say something. Reluctantly, he sits up, rolling me off of him. He pulls his pajama pants on, letting them hang low on his hips. He slips on his glasses and digs through his bag. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as he extracts a small envelope from the bottom of the duffel.
It’s battered and worn, as if it’s been opened dozens of times. Cameron holds it protectively against his chest, and I can tell he doesn’t want to show me what’s inside. Fear overwhelms me. I have to know what’s in there, but don’t want to at the same time.
Finally, he extends the envelope to me. His voice is barely a whisper when he says, “I’m sorry.” He sits on the opposite bed, and he feels worlds away.
My hands shake as I flip open the blank envelope. I pull out a few papers, and a small scrap flutters to the bed. I reach for it, but find myself paralyzed by the logo on the letterhead in my other hand. It’s from the hospital.
Storm’s oncologist.
The words blur in front of me, and I struggle to read the page, unable to focus through the panic rising in me. But I get enough, individual words jumping at me, forming a disjointed picture:
Relapse… metastasis… migration… aggressive… brain… palliative… noncurative
6–9 months.
I stare at the numbers, not letting myself comprehend what they are telling me. The page falls to the floor. The next sheet is a sparse form, the blanks filled in with Storm’s scrawl. I hone in on a typed paragraph halfway down the page:
Someone Else's Summer Page 19