The Sky Above Us

by Natalie Lund

  One of the divers is dragging something to the surface. There’s a collective sound from the beach—a cry? It looks like Nate, maybe? A small figure with long dark hair. They haul him onto the boat. Another diver appears, hauling another limp body, skinny and tall. Shane? The police are shooing everyone back, telling parents to take us home. When did all the adults arrive? I hear sobbing, wailing. Cass has sunk onto the sand, has disappeared inside the foil wrap like it’s her shell.

  “They’re just unconscious,” I say to no one. Janie has started vomiting; Cass is a turtle; hawk woman is busy with my parents; my mom sounds shrill. She keeps grabbing fistfuls of her dyed-blond hair and pulling on it. My dad is wearing his steel-toed boots. His face is stony, but his mustache twitches every few seconds like something is dragging at his lip. Israel is going to be in deep shit.

  “Don’t worry,” I call to everyone on the beach. “You know these boys. They’re just shitting us.”

  People look away, but I can tell that they want to look at me, that they’re fighting their eyeballs.

  The third diver appears, hauling a body that is blocky like Israel’s, like our father’s. The wet hair is black and wavy. The body’s clothing is drenched and only visible for a moment before it’s hidden by the boat, but I see a flash of green. Israel was wearing a green shirt last night. Still, my body—the right side, where we were pressed together in the womb—is silent. Only my eyes are telling me this is Israel. And eyes can’t be trusted. My twinsense is stronger. It’s under the skin. It’s like my body communicating with its own limbs. Israel is not— Israel cannot be—

  The police boat makes a sweeping arc and starts for the pier. A few dorsal fins appear then—one, two, three—along with the smooth curves of the dolphins’ spines. They’re racing the boat. They cut left, then right, as though they’ve made a plan, practiced a dance. One leaps out of the water. It glimmers gray with a purplish sheen like a soap bubble. The smallest dives under the boat and reappears on the other side. The third drops behind to ride the wake.

  I blink. And blink again.

  Israel started having a dream when we were little that he’d lived before, that he’d been a father who died in a car accident. My parents thought he was nuts because, even then, Israel was usually the rational one. Yet he believed that what he’d dreamed was real, that reincarnation was possible and that he’d been someone else in a past life.

  Those dolphins . . . They have to be them, right? Shane, the show-off. Nate, the small. And my Israel—steady, careful, an anchor.

  You fuckers. You fooled everybody—except me.

  TRANSCRIPT

  INTERVIEW WITH ISABELA CASTILLO

  Officer Reynold: I understand you’re all very upset, but we have to ask Isabela some questions.

  Luis Castillo: Now?

  Officer Reynold: I’m afraid so. When did you last see your brother?

  Isabela Castillo: At the party.

  Officer Reynold: Can you be more specific?

  Isabela Castillo: At the party on the beach.

  Officer Reynold: Mr. Castillo—

  Luis Castillo: Isabela, please. They’re trying to help.

  Isabela Castillo: I don’t know, okay? I fell asleep, but he was around before that.

  Luis Castillo: Shh, Bela.

  Officer Reynold: Around what time did you fall asleep?

  Isabela Castillo: I don’t know. Two-ish maybe.

  Officer Reynold: To your knowledge, had your brother and his friends been drinking?

  Isabela Castillo: Probably. We all were. Sorry, papá.

  Officer Reynold: Did your brother say anything that would lead you to believe he was going to take a plane?

  Isabela Castillo:

  Luis Castillo: Answer him, mija.

  Isabela Castillo: No.

  Officer Reynold: Was there anything strange about his behavior last night?

  Isabela Castillo: My brother was always acting strange.

  Officer Reynold: Was there something particularly strange about his behavior yesterday?

  Isabela Castillo: I guess he was acting weird yesterday morning. Like nice to me at first and then he got mean all of a sudden.

  Officer Reynold: What did he say?

  Isabela Castillo: He wanted me to leave him alone.

  Officer Reynold: Where did he go after you spoke?

  Isabela Castillo: To his room. I could hear his voice through the wall like he was talking to someone, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Officer Reynold: Anything else?

  Isabela Castillo: I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Is it okay with you that I didn’t know everything about my twin brother?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IZZY

  The afternoon of

  OUR HOUSE HAS become a cry fest. Our family from the mainland—two tías and tíos and several primos—all take turns holding me against their chests, combing my hair with their fingers, calling me Bela. Their doting makes my skin crawl.

  I suppose it’s unfair of me because even though he’s not gone gone, he’s not here. I can’t climb onto the roof and find him, a cigarette already lit. My eyes swim at that thought, but I swipe them on my sleeve before someone spots me and pulls me into another suffocating hug.

  Our next-door neighbors, the Centenos, have taken over the kitchen, accepting the plates of food that our visitors drop off, arranging serving spoons, and filling the coolers. Magdalena clicks her tongue at the sight of me and hands me a pumpkin empanada from Lulu’s panadería. She doesn’t realize I stopped eating sweets in middle school to lose what my mom calls lonjas—the extra flesh above the hips—but people don’t bring fresh salads to a— What is this even called? A grief gathering?

  Someone has removed last year’s school photo of Israel from the wall and set it on our dining table. There are already flowers surrounding him, grocery store carnations and potted lilies. He, of course, is staring from the frame with dark intensity. I’ve always been jealous of his eyes, sure that I could make it as an actress if we’d shared that trait. Instead I have our grandfather’s expressionless cow eyes. And we both inherited our mom’s round, flat face and wavy hair.

  I stare back at him because he should be the one being interrogated—not me, not our mom, and not our dad, who is with the police now.

  What did you do?

  How did you do it?

  Will I ever see you again?

  That last question gives me the spins like when I’m drunk and trying to fall asleep. He’s my twin. I have to see him again.

  Or—

  Or—

  I stagger to the bathroom, narrowly escaping a cousin who keeps saying qué lástima and calling it an unfortunate accident. I drop the barely nibbled empanada in the trash can, sit on the toilet seat cover, and pull out my phone. I zoom in on the map and trace the long flat side of our island—the beach where the plane went down. If I were going to disappear, I’d pick the side of the island that broke off from Texas. So many nooks and inlets, places for fish—or mammals—to hide.

  Dolphins migrate, right? I remember that from science class or Animal Planet. In a few days’ time, they might be swimming down the curve of Mexico before flicking up toward Cuba. And then down to Venezuela, where our parents were born. Who knows after that?

  I did not mention any of this to the police, of course. I didn’t need anyone saying: Poor girl. Lost her twin and her wits. I left out the part about what I overheard from the hallway outside my brother’s bedroom, too.

  I pull up Israel’s social media. It has turned into a tribute page, filled with post after post about how sad everyone is. What a #tragedy. It’s all garbage. I scroll past, looking for his posts before the accident. There’s a video of the boys at a soccer practice, a few selfies of Israel and
this sophomore he’s been flirting with, a story that hasn’t expired yet showing a game of flip cup Shane tagged him in during the party. I save what I can—just in case—but there’s nothing about where he was headed, what he was going to do. Israel always held his cards close to his chest.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  “Está ocupado.”

  “Bela?” It’s my mom. Her voice scratchy like she’s recovering from a cold.

  “¿Qué?”

  “Are you—” She doesn’t finish the question, but in the crack under the door, I can see her feet. She’s just standing there. There’s something about the twin dark shadows of her shoes that makes me dizzy again. The bathroom swings back and forth, swirls of floral wallpaper, mauve towels, rose-scented soaps—her feet a pendulum now.

  Are you— Are you— Are you, I repeat to myself. All right? Afraid? Sick? Still a twin? Brokenhearted? Just plain broken?

  Which words will make the bathroom stop swinging?

  Are you— Are you— Are you—

  I let out a sound that is part groan, part sob, and I guess it’s the right answer because her feet disappear and the room stops swaying.

  My phone is still in my hand, his face framed in overgrown curls, his eyes on me.

  Would you leave without telling me?

  I have to find those dolphins—it’s my only chance at finding answers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JANIE

  The afternoon of

  NO ONE NOTICES me, sitting on the sandstone blocks at the base of the seawall, after the bodies have been pulled from the ocean, after the sand has been cleared of concerned parents and wailing teenagers. After the news helicopters have stopped hovering overhead. After the coast guard and police have begun to tackle the problem of the sunken body of the plane.

  No one thinks to call my dad, because he doesn’t attend PTA meetings or soccer games or tourism board elections. I lost my phone in the sand, but I doubt he’s texted to see where I am anyway. He’s on call this weekend, so his silence probably means there was a bone sticking out of someone’s skin that required emergency surgery. On scheduled surgery days, he’s usually out by two p.m., which gives him four hours of drinking in bars before he arrives home, asks me if I’ve done my homework, and drops onto the couch to watch TV. If I have a shift at the Adventure Pier theater, he’s beer-snoring by the time I get home.

  It’s responsible alcoholism, he says, because he drinks beer rather than liquor, which apparently keeps his hands steady. He started drinking when Mom left. After five years, he’s had to make accommodations to still get drunk, which means drinking more and eating less. I’m usually on my own to make a box of mac and cheese or eat the leftover theater popcorn that Neil, the manager, gives me in black plastic trash bags. For both Dad and me, these habits have resulted in tires settling around our midsections. It’s not tough to hide, though, in worn-soft T-shirts from Goodwill. It pays to be frugal in more ways than one.

  I leave the hatchback at the beach and search downtown for an ATM and Timmy, a homeless vet Izzy told me about, who loves making cash off teenagers who need alcohol. He stood on the seawall through two hurricanes, so he’s not afraid of anyone’s incensed parents.

  I withdraw money from my dad’s account—he’s got plenty and I’m saving what I make for college, my dream of writing workshops in redbrick buildings and crossing a campus in the snow. I like the idea of earning my own way there.

  My stomach is still queasy from last night. Cass and Izzy dried my pot supply at the party and I don’t know that I can stomach food without it.

  I ask Timmy to get whatever liquor is best for losing someone, and he emerges with a handle of vodka.

  “If it’s good enough for the Russians,” he says, and I wait, thinking he’ll complete the sentence, but he turns and walks away from me, stuffing the change in his pocket.

  Vodka in hand, I wander to the bayou, where a few fishermen are packing up for the day. Across the brackish water, my dad’s boat is docked at the marina. It was a gift for my mom that was supposed to help ease the move to the island. You got me a boat? A boat is supposed to make up for the job and home I left? I remember her shouting.

  I sink under a palm tree, prepared to sweat it all out: the alcohol, the memory of Nate, the ache I’ve carried with me since I moved in next door to him that summer before seventh grade. I take a swig of vodka, but the handle is too heavy and it plows into my lip. The vodka is cheap—Timmy wanted a bigger share of the change. It tastes like nail polish remover and burns the scabbed zit on my chin.

  At school, Nate was distant, as though we were acquaintances. That first day of seventh grade after I moved to the island, I thought I must have the wrong person—there was no way the neighbor kid who invited me to perch behind him on his bike was the same one who barely nodded a hello. But quickly, I learned that it was the nature of our relationship. At school, he was a star on the soccer field, surrounded by athletic boys who wore silken cloaks of assuredness, of dominance, who were uninterested in an awkward girl like me.

  But, after school, behind our houses’ doors, he was interested and open and kind. Every time I felt upset or hurt and wanted to say something about the two Nates, I got scared I’d lose him, the one person on the entire island who knew me before my mom left, who knew the truth and still liked me.

  So we never talked about it. Until last night, when I upset the perfect balance because I had the nerve to think that an invitation to a party meant I deserved more. Why did I have to open my mouth and allow those to be my last words to him?

  The sun is high now, but without my phone, I can’t tell the exact time. My clothes smell like campfire and seawater and sweat. The vodka raises my temperature and I feel trapped in my own body, nauseated. Bile pools in my throat. I scramble to the water, lean over, and vomit. But there’s nothing left. Just yellow, stinging acid. Small fish dart to the top and gobble it up.

  I rest against the tree, allow my head to loll to the side. The day I moved into our blue bungalow perched on stilts like a squat flamingo, Nate was riding his bike in loops, pretending not to notice me while I pretended not to notice him. Maybe we would have gone on like that if I hadn’t sneezed, a huge achoo right as he swung by. He almost fell off his bike.

  “Who are you?” he asked, skidding to a stop. His hair was short back then but gelled into a neat ridge at the top of his head.

  “Janie.”

  “Nate,” he said. “I live there.” He pointed at the canary-yellow house next door. “Want to go to the beach?”

  I nodded, enthusiastic to see this beach my father had bragged about while my mom seethed with anger.

  “Hop on,” he said.

  I stepped onto the pegs and put my hands on Nate’s shoulders. I could feel the dense knots of his muscles through the fabric of his shirt. He took me on a tour, pedaling past the factory where they made saltwater taffy to supply gift shops; the Rusty Kettle Diner, where they made the best cheese grits; Lulu’s, where you could get chocolate-filled churros; and the haunted McAllister mansion.

  When we reached the seawall, he dropped his bike onto its handlebars and climbed up. He offered me his hand.

  “You ever been to the Florida side of the Gulf?” he asked as he pulled me up.

  “Once, with my mom’s family,” I said.

  “The beach and water are prettier there, but do you know what we have that they don’t?”

  “What?”

  “Magic.” He gestured at the beach as though unveiling a great trick.

  The water was a mossy emerald with swirls of brick red and smelled like all those tiny sea deaths—fish and clams and crabs. The beach was stamped with bright towels and puffy, sunburnt Texans. Was he joking?

  “Do you see it?” he asked, and there was something about his voice, eager, yearning, that made me say yes.

 
; I’m not sure how much time has passed when I wake to a man shaking my shoulder. “Hey. Hey, girl, you okay?” I open my eyes, which I have no memory of closing. My cheek is pressed against the bark of the palm. I have to squint because everything is bright, glinting and hot. My face and throat burn.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Strange place to sleep,” the man says. He’s so close to my face, I can smell his breath, spearmint barely masking the scent of chewing tobacco. His eyes sweep my body, and I sit up abruptly, knocking my forehead into his. I gather the handle of vodka, dragging it like a resistant pet.

  A few feet away I trip onto my knees, the handle clunking the pavement beside me. I can’t make sense of any of this. The stinging. The trickle of blood. The small rock buried in my knee. This—the way things end and people leave.

  My mom left that same summer we moved to the island. Back in Maryland, she’d been a nurse at a women’s clinic that performed abortions as one of its many services and had to wear a bulletproof vest to and from work. Once, a protestor had thrown a chunk of concrete at her while she walked to her car with a security officer. Once, she had to change her cell phone number because a person had programmed a system to call her every ten minutes and play a recording of babies’ wails. Once, someone followed her home, someone who came back and left bloody pig intestines on our doormat. That’s when my dad started looking for other jobs and found one at a small-time hospital on this dinky island. He convinced her to move by saying it was for my safety.

  The night before she left, my parents had been up late arguing, my mom about how she’d already had to give up medical school when I was born and now she’d given up a job and home she loved, my dad about how she didn’t have her priorities straight. It was nothing new, so I slept with headphones, dozing until the heat from the summer sun forced me out of bed. I was planning to eat breakfast and ride to the ocean with Nate, but there was a letter on the kitchen counter with my name scribbled on it. I don’t remember the exact words—I only read it once before running it through my dad’s shredder—but I do know it said she was sorry and she loved me. She promised to call, to arrange for me to visit as soon as it was feasible. And she did call every week after that; I’d hear my father whisper-shouting at her in the bathroom. When it was my turn to talk to her, he’d emerge—his cheeks red and shiny, his eyes wet—and I’d refuse to take the phone. I was afraid to hear her voice, afraid that it would reopen the wound, that the bleeding would never stop.