Wednesday morning, July 20, two weeks after Heath Moore’s cousin dragged me home, attempt number 1,024 to reach Abby, fifth ring . . .
Sixth ring . . .
Voice mail.
“Hey, this is Abby. If you’re getting this message, it probably means I’m screening your calls. . . .”
I thumb out of the call just as my sister practically kicks in the door, still dressed in her scrubs, hair swept back into a ponytail and eyes raccooned with tiredness.
She fists the door closed. “Fucking thing’s swollen,” she says, which is my-sister-speak for Hi! How are you! Nice to see you! But she comes and thumps down next to me on the couch, kicking up her feet on the coffee table, nudging aside Mom’s laptop. A school brochure slithers to the carpet, wedged with Post-it notes. Ever since I got home, Mom’s been writing away to every single alternative high school program on the East Coast. Not even an addict, she just kept saying when I told her, shaking her head, as if she almost wished I was. Really, Brynn. Well, I guess it’s about time you finish up school, then.
Erin fishes a Coke from her bag, pops open the tab, and takes a long swig.
“How was work?” I ask. She’s been working doubles all summer, sometimes as many as forty-eight hours on shift, and then two days off when she crawls into bed.
“Same as usual. Lots of old people.” Erin always talks this way, like she doesn’t give a shit, but I know that’s a lie. She’s busted ass to get through medical school, taken out tens of thousands of dollars in loans, and she still takes money out of her paycheck to buy gifts for her favorite patients. “Saw your friend Mia again,” she says through another slurp of soda.
“She’s not my friend,” I say quickly, and I’m surprised that it hurts. Stupid. We spend four days playing Scooby-Doo and now I feel lonely because the game’s over.
I’ve spoken to Mia only once since Moore brought me home. Went up to town for coffee and I ran into her at Toast. She was dressed like she always dresses, in neat little shorts that looked like they’d been pressed and her hair in a bun and a polo shirt, but she looked more relaxed somehow—less like she was moving with a yardstick up her you-know-what. She told me she was spending more time at her dad’s while her mom got help from counselors at North Presbyterian Hospital, where my sister is doing her residency. Apparently a whole team of people are treating her house for black mold spores and other nasty shit her father was afraid would ruin her lungs.
“Have you spoken to Owen?” I asked her, and her face got closed again and she shook her head. And then, because I couldn’t help it, I asked, “How’s Abby?”
Mia made a face. “Hanging out with Wade a lot. Can you believe it?”
“Star Wars fandom,” I said. “What can you do?” That made her laugh, but it was a forced laugh, like wincing.
I never thought there’d be a day when I’d actually miss Wade. Half the time I text Wade now, he’s with Abby. I nearly spilled everything to Mia then, standing in front of Toast with my iced coffee sweating through my fingers—about Abby, and how mean I was. How stupid I was. How I actually kinda like her.
How over and over I’ve replayed the kiss in my head.
But then a woman walked by, tugging her child across the street and shooting us a dirty look, like we were contagious, and I remembered who we were, that it didn’t matter, that the only thing that bonds us now is Summer’s ghost. And Mia’s dad pulled up in his sparkly Land Rover and tooted the horn, and she lifted a hand and was gone.
I check my phone out of habit, thinking maybe, by some miracle, I’ll find a missed call from Abby. In the past two weeks I’ve tried locking my phone in a drawer for hours, shoving my mom’s ancient TV, as big as a mini-fridge, in front of it to keep me from checking. I’ve thought about driving to her house. I even wrote her a letter—an actual letter, on paper—before tearing it into pieces and flushing it down the toilet.
“You know, I’ve been talking with Mom about moving.” Erin says this like she says everything else, like the words just rolled out of her mouth without her paying attention. I stare at her.
“Out of Twin Lakes?” I say.
“We’re thinking Middlebury.” She shrugs. “I could help Mom out with the moving costs. We’re looking to get her a car, too, so she’d be able to commute to work. Things might be better . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but I know what she’s about to say: Things might be better for you.
All I’ve ever wanted was to get out of Twin Lakes. But now the idea makes me feel like someone’s placed my insides on blend. “When?” I ask, and she shrugs again.
“Soon as we figure out your school,” she says. “Soon as we figure out the money stuff.” She reaches over and musses my hair, like I’m still a kid. “You could start over, Brynn. We could all start over.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
Her smiles are always so quick they look like they’re being chased away. She yawns big, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m going to bed.” She stands up, handing me her Coke. “Want the rest of this?”
“Sure,” I say, and take it, even though it’s warm. A second later and I’m alone, listening to the chugging of the window AC, the sun through the windows still making my neck sweat.
We could all start over.
A nice idea. Except that it’s never that easy. Is it?
I remember how Summer looked the day we found those sad little crows, one of them still struggling in the snow, its feathers stiff and clotted with blood. It’s Lovelorn, she said. It doesn’t want to let us go.
And how we found her that day in the woods, holding on to that poor cat . . . the way she turned to us as if she hardly recognized us.
Here’s the problem with starting over: Summer won’t let us. She doesn’t want to let us go, either.