The Summer of Lost Things

by Chantele Sedgwick

  “I do trust you, Mira! And you are my friend. It’s just . . . you don’t know what it’s like . . .”

  Her frown deepens and she folds her arms. “Don’t I?”

  “You couldn’t possibly—”

  “My brother’s been in and out of jail for drug charges, theft, and DUIs, among other things. My mother died because she overdosed on prescription drugs that helped her with her depression and pain from her medical issues.”

  I stare at her. I had no idea.

  “And you think I wouldn’t understand? You think lying about a parent being dead to someone who has actually lost a parent is funny? Were you trying to get sympathy because you thought your problems were worse than mine?”

  “No!” I stand and take a step toward her. “Mira, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to think less of me. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Think less of you? Is that what this is about?”

  “No! I don’t know. I honestly don’t really know. I wanted to tell you. I tried to tell Jack, I just . . . couldn’t. I don’t want to feel like I did when my dad went to prison. Everyone was so weird around me. I just want people to be my friend because they want to. To like me for me.”

  “Then why did you lie? I don’t understand! Pretending your dad was dead to fit in? What a horrible thing to do to someone. Make someone feel sympathy toward you because you pretended to share the same loss.”

  “Mira, please.”

  “Where do you think I go every Tuesday, Lucy?”

  The question stops me. “I—”

  “I go to a group therapy meeting for teens. Because I can’t deal with my life. Everyone has hard things they’re dealing with—not just you. And I trust those people because I know they have my back and don’t judge me for what I’m going through. They trust me too! And they don’t lie!” She stares at me, breathing hard, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know what else to say to you right now. I need to get out of here.”

  “Mira, wait!”

  She storms out of my room and hurries down the stairs. I trail behind her.

  “Mira!”

  She throws open the front door and I grab it and shut it behind me, still following her. She walks toward her car, and that’s when I see him.

  Jack.

  He glances between us, then heads for Mira, who wipes tears from her eyes.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” He looks to me for answers, but I have no idea what to say. What do I say?

  Tears trail down her cheeks as she turns toward me. “She lied to us, Jack. To all of us.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Her dad’s not dead. He’s in prison! She made it all up.”

  Jack stares at her a moment, then looks at me in confusion before wrapping an arm around his cousin. “Lucy?”

  “I . . .”

  “Your dad’s alive?”

  I take a shaky breath. I can’t lie to him anymore. To them. “Yes,” I say, defeated. “Yes, he’s alive. He’s in a prison in Wyoming.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. I can see the struggle he’s facing as he looks at me and then to Mira. “Why would you lie about something like that?”

  I stare at him, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know.”

  Mira looks so angry she’s shaking. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t . . . I can’t do this.”

  “Wait,” I say, as Jack starts to follow, but then he gives me a look and it feels like my whole world shatters.

  Disappointment.

  Regret.

  “Jack,” I say, taking a step toward him, but he keeps walking.

  He doesn’t look at me again, just takes Mira’s keys, puts her in the passenger side of her car, and climbs in the driver’s seat.

  The car starts.

  They drive away without looking back.

  I stare at the empty driveway for a long time before walking back inside.

  I ruined everything.

  Mom meets me in the entryway, concern etched on her face. “What was that all about?”

  We haven’t spoken, so it surprises me when she does.

  “Nothing,” I say, numb.

  Cold.

  On the verge of a breakdown.

  “Lucy,” she says, warmer this time. She reaches for my hand and I pull away.

  “I said nothing.” I walk upstairs and slam the door to my room.

  We both know it’s far from nothing.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Solitude, isolation, are painful things, and beyond human endurance.”

  —Jules Verne, The Mysterious Island

  I text Mira.

  Nothing.

  I call her.

  Nothing.

  I do the same to Jack.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Jack.

  My heart hurts.

  The way he looked at me? I’ll never forget that face. How I lost his trust in just one small moment. And what’s worse is that I had the chance to make this right. I had a lot of chances and I blew it. Those moments of weakness, when I didn’t want to tell him the truth because I was too afraid of what he would think of me . . .

  And now he probably thinks I’m the worst person in the world.

  I put my face in my hands. They’re probably talking about me now. How I’m a liar and manipulator or whatever horrible things they can think of.

  I shouldn’t have lied.

  I write out a long apology text to send them both, but I can’t bring myself to send it. Apologizing over text isn’t right. They deserve better than that.

  Mom knows something’s wrong. She asks, I don’t answer.

  It hasn’t been the same since I brought up Susan during our cliff jumping argument and I don’t know why.

  I need to fix things with her.

  I don’t know how.

  I don’t know how to do anything.

  I pick up Oakley’s wedding announcement. If only she were here. She’d know what to do. How to fix things. She’s always had a way with words, even when there’s nothing to say.

  Should I call her again?

  I don’t want to bother her with all of this. Not now. Not while she’s planning her wedding.

  Days pass.

  I see Jack and Mira at church on Sunday, but neither one talks to me. They don’t even look at me. They pretend I don’t exist. Jack catches my eye once, but his expression is sad. He looks away.

  I go home early. I can’t handle being invisible.

  No word from anyone. Mom’s not even really talking to me, even though that’s all my fault now. I turned her away this time.

  How do I fix this?

  I see Mira and Jack riding horses, since their field is so close, but other than that, it feels like they’ve just disappeared and forgotten me.

  I’m sure Summer is happy I’m not in the picture anymore. She can have Jack now.

  My heart aches.

  I shouldn’t have lied.

  Everyone always disappoints.

  But in this case, I’m the disappointment.

  I thought this summer would be amazing. Crossing things off my list, hanging out with new friends, feeling like I actually have something to get up for every day. And it’s been amazing.

  Until now.

  Why did I have to screw things up?

  I really felt like I belonged for a little while. I had friends. My mom and I had a good relationship. Our house was finally coming together, feeling like a real home.

  Instead, this has turned out to be a summer of lost things.

  A lost dad.

  A lost mom.

  Lost friends.

  I’ve even lost myself.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Angry people are not always wise.”

  —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  The doorbell rings a few days later. I hurry down the stairs, hoping, but not quite believing, it will be Jack. It’s too soon. I doubt he’ll be the one to come talk to me when I’m the one who lied a
nd I’m the one who needs to seek him out to apologize. Still, that little bit of hope lingers as I open the door. My mouth drops open at the sight of the girl standing on the other side.

  My cousin.

  Oakley.

  She looks beautiful. Her hair is longer, a bit lighter from being in the California sun, and her tanned skin is flawless. She looks the same, yet so, so different. She looks happy, which is the most important thing of all.

  “Lucy,” she says, wrapping me in a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “And you,” I say. “What are you doing here?” I try to fight the tears that burn my eyes as she hugs me tighter.

  “Just passing through,” she says as she pulls away, wiping at her own tears.

  The last time we saw each other was at Lucas’s funeral. Two years ago. She’d been distant then. Pale, quiet, and oh so very angry.

  “Just passing through? I doubt that,” I say, chuckling.

  “I just had a feeling you needed me.”

  I sniffled. “I do.”

  She smiles and gestures to someone behind her. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  A guy with light brown hair and brown eyes steps up the porch stairs. He’s in shorts and a button up shirt, with the few top buttons left undone. The metal or plastic of his prosthetic leg is black and he’s wearing tennis shoes on both feet. It’s amazing how far medical technology has come; he walks as though he was born with this leg.

  “You must be Carson,” I say, holding out a hand.

  He nods and takes it, giving it a good shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Lucy. Oakley’s been dying for me to meet you.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” I say, a blush creeping to my cheeks. Oakley wasn’t exaggerating when she said Carson was charming and handsome. His pictures don’t do him justice.

  I stop my staring and clear my throat. “Come in. Mom will be excited to see you.”

  I motion them inside and lead them toward the kitchen. The smell of fresh baked cookies permeates the house and my stomach growls.

  Mom is taking a pan out of the oven as we walk in, and when she sees Oakley, she just about drops it.

  Instead of freaking out about seeing her, though, she doesn’t look all that surprised. I look at Oakley as she gives Mom a conspicuous smile. I look back and forth between them. “You knew she was coming.”

  Mom shrugs and comes around the counter to give Oakley a hug.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Carson,” she says, shaking his hand.

  “You too, Ms. Nelson.”

  I stare at them. “How? Why? What?” I stammer.

  Everyone laughs at my confusion.

  “Why didn’t you tell me they were coming, Mom?”

  She just smiles. A real, genuine smile that I haven’t seen for a while, and Oakley answers instead. “We know how much you love surprises.”

  “Um . . . no.” I chuckle. “But I’m so glad you’re here.”

  After consuming a few plates of cookies, Carson stays in the kitchen to help Mom clean up, and I motion to Oakley to come outside with me.

  “Just a sec,” she says. “I need to grab something from my suitcase.” She runs up the stairs and I head out to the porch swing.

  A few minutes later, Oakley sits down next to me. She hands me a dark blue hoodie that says Huntington Beach on the front. “Thought you might like this,” she says. “It’s really soft. I have like five of them in different colors.”

  “Thank you! I love it.” I lay it across my lap, rubbing the soft material.

  Oakley hands me a sand dollar next. It’s beautiful, even with a few chips here and there. “I love these and thought you would, too.”

  “Thanks, Oakley.”

  I study the sand dollar. I don’t know what tiny creature lives in them, but they’re so beautiful and delicate. I’m afraid if I touch it too hard it will crumble to dust.

  Oakley produces something else and I stiffen. It’s a stack of letters. Addressed to me and unopened. Of course.

  “I found these in your room when I was putting my stuff up there earlier. They were just sitting on your desk, so I looked. I’m sorry.” She’s silent for a moment as I stare at them in her hands. She flips through them, then sets them on her lap. “Want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I say, folding my arms and turning away to stare into the trees. “Where’s Carson?”

  “Still helping your Mom. He likes to help. And meet new people.”

  “He’s perfect for you, Oakley.”

  She sighs. “We’re not talking about me right now.”

  “Oakley . . .”

  “What’s going on, Lucy? When I talked to your mom, she said you weren’t doing great.”

  I let out the breath I’m holding, still not looking at her, and laugh, though it’s not funny at all. “Well, first of all, my dad’s in prison. That’s what’s going on. Or haven’t you heard yet? The whole family knows. Everyone knows.”

  My fingers trace the letters on my hoodie. I want to get up and go inside. I hate talking about this. Hate thinking about it. But it’s Oakley. She’s been through hard things, too. So I sit. And fidget. And trace. And try not to cry or run away.

  “Lucy, of course I’ve heard. But that’s not what’s really bothering you.” She pauses and I hear her move the letters around again. “What are all these? I don’t mean to snoop, but why are they all unopened? Is there a reason?”

  “They’re nothing.” I don’t even look at them.

  “Believe me. They’re not nothing.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  She stiffened. “Try me.”

  “I can’t read them, okay?”

  I don’t mean to snap at her, it just happens.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t, okay? It’s too soon. I’m not ready to read what he has to say to me.” I put my face in my hands. “I’ll never be ready.”

  She’s silent for a moment, though I can hear her flipping through the letters. “Can I tell you something?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve my dad, then sure.”

  She’s quiet for a long time. Then, just when I feel like apologizing for being so snippy, she takes a shaky breath and starts talking. “When Lucas died, I thought my life was over. I gave up. I hated everyone and everything and was angry and bitter. Nothing would ever make me happy again. I shut everyone out. Everyone. Including you, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. No one knew what to do for you. I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine.” She waves me away. “I was just so . . . angry. Angry Lucas got cancer again. Angry he stopped treatments. Angry he died and left me alone.” She wipes a little tear away. “A little while after he died, my mom gave me a notebook full of letters. They were all written to me and from Lucas. I’ve never told anyone but Carson and my mom about them, but I thought you’d like to know. What he had to say, even in his darkest days, was just what I needed to hear. Those letters changed me. I’m a better person because of them, and all that anger melted away. Then I met Carson. He changed me, as well.”

  I sigh. “It’s not the same.”

  She lets out a breath and twists her engagement ring around her finger. “I know it isn’t. No one ever has the same problems or the same feelings. No one knows what’s going on in anyone else’s head. Or life, even. We all grieve differently and process things in different ways. But I just wanted you to know what helped me. I gave those letters a chance. I could have thrown the notebook away, hating him for dying and leaving me alone. But I took a chance and read them.” Her voice cracks, and I reach out and take her hand. “I was so tired of being angry. And seeing you now, knowing what you’re going through, I know you are, too.”

  A tear slips down my cheek now and I leave it. I feel so . . . alone. Even though I’m really not.

  “I’m not angry,” I whisper, gathering my thoughts. “I’m . . . furious. He ruined our liv
es. He broke our hearts. Especially my mom’s. He . . .” It takes a moment to say the words, but they eventually come out. “Killed two people. And they’ll never have a chance to grow old together. Have a life. It would be easier if he would have died in that accident, too. Knowing he’s alive and sitting in prison is so much worse.”

  “Is it?” she asks, so quiet I barely hear her.

  I throw up my hands in frustration. “Yes! He wants things to be normal again. That’s why he wrote those. Things will never be normal again. Nothing about my life is normal. I’m not even going to see him for years! How can he change things if I can’t even see him? How can he make up for killing someone? Does he even feel bad about it? Is there any remorse?”

  She ignores my outburst and shoves a letter in front of my face. “Have you even read one of them to see what he has to say?”

  I turn away. “No.”

  She nods, then stands and sets the stack on of letters on my lap. She doesn’t look angry. Doesn’t even look hurt. She just looks at me like she feels sorry for me. Which makes me even madder.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t know how to deal. Obviously.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry.”

  “I still am. You’re trying to help me and I’m sorry.”

  “Take some time to think,” she says.

  “I’ve already thought about it. I’m not reading them.”

  She sighs. Then reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. She gestures toward the letters as she lets go. “Words are remarkable things. They can shatter you into a million pieces, or have the power to put your broken pieces back in place and make you feel whole again.” She pauses. “Being broken is the worst feeling in the world. Let me know when you’re ready to take a chance, to put your pieces back together. I’ll be here.”

  She squeezes my shoulder and walks inside, leaving me alone with fresh tears.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Till this moment I never knew myself.”

  —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  I’m in my bedroom later when I hear a knock at the door. “Lucy?” Oakley’s voice is quiet. I wonder if she thinks I’m mad at her.

  I’m not.

  “Come in,” I say, so quiet I’m not sure if she’s heard me until she opens the door.