Vera smiled as she eyed Igloo Ice Cream nestled next to Must Love Books, her typical Saturday-night suitors. It was Wednesday, which meant Janet was managing the bookshop and likely about to finish the new Nora Roberts. Last week, she was reading Betty Friedan. The week before, she’d recommended a tome on the ethnomusicology of heavy metal music. Vera waved at her through the plate glass, and Janet returned her greeting with a smile that crinkled her eyes. See? Vera had friends.
A seagull called in the distance—a high-pitched squawk that echoed in four staccato wails, bouncing off the concrete. Gulls usually pilfered French fries during the lunch rush and gave it a rest after the sun set. The bird called again, piercing her ears. It was high in a tree. A breeze rushed in, salty and cool. The temperature dropped. Vera crossed her bare arms, shivering as she shuffled past shops.
Then the seagull swooped down, a blur of white feathers nearly slicing her nose. Vera swatted her hands, sneakers skidding to a halt. A squawk ripped from its golden beak as a baby stroller was pushed from a shop. Vera jolted, avoiding a toddler collision.
“Omigod! Sorry!” Vera blurted.
The mom adjusted the brim of her bright yellow hat, shooting her a look.
A bird just dive-bombed my head! Vera thought as the gull perched on a telephone pole, black eyes trained on her. It let out another repetitious squeal; Vera’s shoulders pushed to her ears as a car missed a stop sign.
Horns blared, and Vera spun toward the sound, catching a white SUV swerving into a crowded crosswalk. Pedestrians scattered, yelping. More drivers slammed on their brakes and laid on their horns.
“Watch where you’re going!” a driver yelled.
The white SUV peeled off, not pausing, not apologizing.
“You’re gonna get someone killed!” another screamed.
Vera’s heart thumped at the scene.
Earlier this school year, five of Vera’s classmates died in an unexplained car wreck. It wasn’t an isolated incident. Local news consistently raised alarms about the increase in vehicular deaths over the past several years. The per capita rate for Roaring Creek far exceeded the national average. So did the town’s drug problem and its rate of tragedy in general.
If you asked anyone, they’d likely say the problems in Roaring Creek began with the gas explosion. And that was probably true, just not for Vera. Aunt Tilda had been the executive director of the community center at the time, only, she wasn’t working that day. Still, she stepped down immediately after the tragedy, not because of any wrongdoing, but because she didn’t want to be near “so much darkness.” A new director handled the rebuilding, and Aunt Tilda dedicated herself to the church (even more so than before). She also became Vera’s primary caretaker when her parents were out of town, which was often.
It was Maxwell’s family whose pain was exploited on national TV. A photo of young Maxwell holding his mother’s hand while she went into labor, the baby’s father burning in the flames behind them, instantly went viral. Chloe’s birth was the miraculous moment the town, and the nation, desperately needed. But the reporters didn’t follow the aftermath. They didn’t cover the past seven years of walking depression from citizens who lost limbs, sleep, and loved ones. That wasn’t sexy. That wasn’t a “miracle.” That was just real life.
You’re sending me away…. Maxwell’s words haunted Vera as she trudged past the florist filled with splashes of petal-infused sunshine and a clutter of antiques. It was owned by Seth Durand’s widow, Mary. Despite whatever role her husband may have played in the explosion, no one blamed her. She was caring for a terminally ill child at the time. In fact, many believed that if society, if employers, had been kinder, then her husband would never have been working during such a difficult time. The human error was likely caused by his emotional distress.
If he’d only known his son would live.
Vera ran her hands up and down her icy arms, unable to get warm. She couldn’t shake the image of Maxwell’s pleading face. What would she want someone to do if she was as desperate as he looked today? What might have happened if someone intervened when Seth Durand was at his lowest, too distracted to make good choices?
But I can’t do anything, Vera reasoned. I’m not my mother—I’m not clairvoyant. And I’m not my father—I’m not an exorcist. Even if I feel bad for Maxwell, I can’t help. Not in the way he wants.
Over the years, Vera had watched her mother convulse in fits of uncontrollable “visions.” Her mom could enter a home and tangibly feel spirits, the way others sense tension. She could see them, black shadows clinging to the possessed, or former residents roaming the halls. And her father had an otherworldly strength of body, mind, and spirit, with enough faith to actually drive out inhuman spirits. He and a priest routinely descended into the basement to bless the artifacts they kept locked away from the world. Vera had heard families thank her parents for saving their lives and their souls. Her parents’ work was real.
But Vera wasn’t like them.
She chewed her lip as she neared the end of Main Street, preparing to turn off onto Broadway with its double yellow lines and cars swerving too fast around curves. A man walking a rottweiler approached wearing yet another highlighter-yellow cap. The Sunshine Crew. The book, the hat, it seemed to be everywhere now. Or was Vera just noticing it more?
She met the man’s eyes with a friendly, it’s-dark-and-I-don’t-want-you-to-assault-me smile, and he held her gaze, staring intently, his smile eerie. His gaze never shifted, and slowly her brain registered his face, same as the image printed on the back of Samantha’s book. It was him, Anatole Durand, the creator of the Sunshine Crew.
“Hello,” he said, his tone formal. Then he nodded his head and lifted the brim of his yellow hat in an almost Victorian gesture.
The look in his eyes, it was playful. Vera broke away, staring into the middle distance. “Hey,” she muttered, ignoring the ice luge forming down her back.
This is the guy everyone’s obsessed with? She smiled, friendly, as her arms wrapped tighter around her chest.
“Have a lovely evening,” he added as he passed. His guard dog sniffed her leg, straining against its leash.
Vera kept moving, quickening her pace, eager to put distance between them.
She shook it off, feeling guilty for being rattled. Anatole Durand was not responsible for his father’s mistakes; he was literally a child on his deathbed at the time. Now he was giving back to the community and making things right. She, of all people, knew not to judge others by their parents’ actions. She should have been nicer.
Actually, she should have been nicer to Maxwell today too.
Her rubber soles halted at the Don’t Walk signal, and she tugged her necklace from the V-neck of her scrubs, squeezing the golden cross between her thumb and forefinger. It was a gift from her parents. She closed her eyes, a warm breeze brushing over her, lifting her wavy locks from her shoulders.
Then a melodic pulse rang out, and she opened her eyes to see the signal changed—Walk.
I’ll call my parents, she thought. There was no harm in telling them what was going on. She could ask for their advice. They could point Maxwell in the right direction, whether that be the hospital or somewhere else.
Vera turned onto Broadway, the cracks in the sidewalk disappearing into an even denser fog. She squinted into the mist and reached for the elastic around her wrist, tying back her damp hair. She checked her phone’s battery; plenty of charge, no messages. A car rumbled past, its high beams blinding. She flinched, shielding her face with her palm, and caught a swish of movement in the powder-blue hydrangeas lining the grass. She gazed into the haze, expecting the yellow corneas of a deer or a raccoon.
Only, what she saw lacked life.
Hovering in the air a few feet ahead were the black-pitted holes of a skeleton, formed from a dewy cloud. The image was distinct—two hollow pits hung
above the angular holes of its fleshless nose, black tears streaming toward the silent shriek of a gaping mouth. Behind the bony face, white wisps of fog formed long, feathery wings.
This wasn’t her imagination.
It was the Angel of Tears, dancing so close she could extend an arm and touch it.
A vision of Mr. Gonzalez’s shrine flashed in her mind, and every hair on her body spiked. Her pulse turned into the rattle of cymbals.
Then a seagull called in the distance, and her face shot up, unable to see the bird in the haze. When she lowered her head, the skeletal face was gone.
She dropped the necklace she was clutching and reached into her pocket.
This was a sign.
She pulled out her phone and found Maxwell’s number.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Max
Max sat on the edge of his sister’s bed, her black curly hair fanning across every speck of her pillow. Their Jamaican, Dominican, Swedish, and Italian roots left them both with hair so spiraled that Max buzzed his scalp rather than learn to care for it. Chloe’s hair was his mother’s responsibility, or it used to be. This week, Max was forced to tie an elastic at the base of Chloe’s neck, opting not to comb it at all and instead grouping all the knots together. She was teased at school, Chloe told him at dinner, and a stiff jab to the kidney would have hurt less.
He thought of his mother sleepwalking into Chloe’s room to comb it out. Part of him was grateful, and the other part was terrified.
“One more book,” his sister pleaded.
“I’ve already read three.” He cocked his head.
“Maybe Mom could read one?” Chloe’s voice was soft like she knew the answer, but she was asking anyway.
His sister was young, but not that young. She knew something was up.
“She will soon.”
“When?” She pouted.
“When she’s better.” Max reached for the Hello Kitty night-light on her bedside table and flicked on the rainbow strobes.
“What’s wrong with her?” Chloe’s eyes flexed the way kids’ do when they know they’re not being told the whole story. But the truth was, Max had no idea what was wrong with their mother.
“She’s sick. You know how sometimes you get a stomachache, and you have to stay home from school?”
“Her stomach hurts?” Chloe wasn’t buying it.
“No, more like her head.”
“Well, she seems better to me.”
Max jutted back. “Why would you say that?”
“The other night, when she came into my room, I told her what happened with Sophie, about her calling me a poufy poodle.” Chloe scrunched her nose at the memory. “Mom said if I left a gift by her door, she’d make my troubles go away. So I put the chocolate bunny I had left over from my Easter basket by Mom’s bedroom, and at recess, Sophie played with me. She didn’t say anything about my hair.”
Somewhere in Max’s brain, a plug got pulled and all the blood drained to his toes.
When did his mother speak to her? He thought he caught her before she’d said anything. Had this happened more than once? And what was the deal with the gift?
“Maybe Mom is feeling better.” This was a lie. “But be careful around Sophie. Bullies usually stay mean.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve met a few in my day.”
“Yeah, well, maybe Mom can make Sophie stay nice. I have more Easter candy!” She smiled wide.
Moms didn’t help their kids in exchange for gifts, but he wasn’t about to rip that grin away from his sister. Besides, Chloe deserved a caring mother who helped solve her problems at school—the kind of mom that Max grew up with.
He said good night, and Chloe hugged her pink seal, rolling onto her belly.
He left her bedroom door cracked, then headed toward the kitchen. The dryer buzzed in the basement as Max stepped on a creaky floorboard, the wood buckling. He pulled at his tense neck, moving about three steps before the smell hit his nostrils, rolling him back onto his heels. That scent used to permeate the house—back when his family was happy and his father gave flowers to his mother.
Lilies.
Sometimes pale pink, sometimes goldenrod, sometimes as orange as the sunset through a windshield, but always so fragrant it would make Max’s throat itch.
Robotically, he turned toward the source, expecting his father to be standing in the hall holding a bouquet. But the scent was coming from the master bedroom. They didn’t grow lilies in their yard, and his mom hadn’t had a car all day. Either someone sent her flowers, or they miraculously appeared. He padded to her door and reached for the long, curved handle.
He didn’t push. Instead, he leaned closer, almost touching his ear to the wood. Pollen seeped in with his every breath, watering his eyes. A clock ticked at the end of the hall, keeping time with his heart. Sheets rustled inside.
“It is through suffering that we reach a pure state of being….” The voice was so deep and flat that at any other point in his life, Max would have grabbed the fireplace poker and flung the door open, expecting to encounter a stranger. But he knew it was her.
“Death is just sleep, just sleep…,” she groaned, then broke into a throaty sound (maybe a chuckle?) that squeezed at the depths of Max’s chest.
He let go of the handle, blinking rapidly as he fell back a step.
He should go inside. He should check on her. But he couldn’t stop backing away. He clutched the sides of his head, trying to block out the laughter, knowing that his mother was not only aware of his presence, but that she was laughing at him.
Only, that wasn’t her laugh.
He stumbled farther, still choking on lilies as he fumbled for his phone. He yanked it from his pocket, and it vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the screen.
The text read:
Hi, Maxwell. I hope this is your number. It’s me, Vera.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vera
Vera sat on an unpainted wooden picnic bench, peeling a thick splinter from the board. When she texted Maxwell last night, it was as if he’d been waiting by the phone. He called her back immediately. He didn’t text; he called. She didn’t have too many phone conversations with people who weren’t her parents or who weren’t offering her a free cruise, so the entire interaction should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It was almost prophetic.
“You’ll help me?” Maxwell said as soon as she picked up, like he already knew.
“Yeah.” She nodded, though he couldn’t see her, and they arranged to meet at his family’s restaurant the next day.
Vera had the day off, and thankfully, with a spare gallon of gasoline, she was able to get her aging hunk of metal started. Maybe there really was a patron saint of mechanics. Or maybe she was supposed to walk home and see that winged skeleton in the fog. Either way, it brought her to Oliver Seafood.
She glanced around the open-salt-air restaurant. Galvanized metal buckets rested on tables holding laminated menus, paper napkins, and condiments in yellow and red plastic bottles. Live lobsters crawled in a tank near the register. Through a giant glassless window, Vera spied chefs bustling in white coats, steam rising into their faces. At the table with the best view sat an elderly couple with a fully unobstructed expanse of ocean spread before them. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, a breeze fluttered the woman’s white hair, and seagulls called in the distance. The tables around them were empty.
It was June, in a beach town, during what should be the lunch rush, at one of the only oceanfront restaurants in town, and Vera made up fifty percent of their tables. She wasn’t even eating.
Maxwell stepped out from a door marked Employees Only.
“Benny, thanks, man.” Maxwell slapped a heavyset guy on the back. “I owe you one!”
“Don’t worry about it,” the midd
le-aged man replied, scratching his bushy black beard.
“Someday, and that day may never come,” Maxwell lowered his voice into a husky gruff, “you may call upon me to do a service for you….”
Benny let out a hearty laugh you wanted to hug. “You’re quoting The Godfather to your godfather—I love it!”
“Always!” Maxwell extended his arms and Benny squeezed him so tight, he lifted Maxwell’s six-foot frame from the ground.
“You tell your mutha to get well soon, capisce?” He placed Maxwell back on the floor.
“I’ll send your love.” Maxwell straightened the hem of his shirt, smiling all the way to his ears.
He watched Benny leave, and as soon as the man stepped into the parking lot, Maxwell turned to Vera and his face collapsed.
He plodded over and sank onto the wooden bench across from her, no longer pretending. “Sorry about that. He’s a family friend, and our seafood vendor, and now sort of a manager. He’s helping us out. Things have fallen…behind.”
“I understand. You’re busy.” As she said it, her eyes flitted between empty tables, not intentionally, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Maxwell caught her meaning. “Yeah, every summer there seem to be fewer tourists. Ever since the hurricane.”
Vera bit her lip. While the gas explosion gripped the nightmares of most people in Roaring Creek, it was the hurricane that plagued Vera, with images of rain battering her house and sounds of glass breaking. The fear of that day lived inside of her.
Maxwell sighed. “We’ve had seven summers like this. It’s so weird, ’cause it feels like yesterday and a million years ago all at the same time.”
Vera nodded. It was hard to remember life pre-hurricane, or pre-explosion, as if her time before had been shot on grainy black-and-white footage that was starting to erode. “Do you go to the memorials?”
The first year after the explosion, the town carved the names of those lost into a fountain. The next year, they planted eighteen trees in the park. And every year, they held vigils and rallies. Society excelled at remembering the dead, but it didn’t always do so well at supporting the living.
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