Summer's Edge, page 22
“I bring the gift of wine,” I say, filling everyone’s glasses.
But Chelsea comes out of the house with a six-pack of soda, which she conspicuously places at the center of the table. She pops one open without looking at me and doesn’t touch the wine even after Kennedy begs her to.
Mother always used to say Kennedy was a young soul. Born from the blue, no previous lives, everything so new. An excuse for ignorance, selfishness, the mercurial lack of focus that people mistake for passion.
What’s Chelsea’s excuse? She’s died over and over and never learned a thing.
Every time the same mistake—the cards never lie: She is the Queen of Cups. She loves a fool. She’s crossed by the Ten of Swords. And she falls from the tower.
But she is not the innocent girl my brother believed.
Why was she allowed to survive last year?
Why wasn’t she the sacrifice?
I don’t think it’s fair.
“So.” Kennedy saws at her flatbread with her fork and knife. The rest of us usually eat it with our hands, like a pizza, but Kennedy has her way. “What’s the after-dinner plan? Emily? You wanted to leave the candles up.”
I chew and swallow my food before speaking. It’s like rubber in my mouth. Fake. “I did. I do. But I can’t ask all of you to join me again. I don’t think Ryan will be able to communicate with everyone here.”
“Oh?” Chelsea says.
“Well, many people believe that even one nonbeliever in the room will break the connection,” I say.
No one looks at me.
“That’s okay. I know Chelsea’s the only one who thinks it’s possible. So I think the rest of you should go out on the lake tonight. Exactly like you did last year.”
Chase, Mila, and Kennedy all stop eating.
Chase speaks first. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“The boat isn’t even ready,” Kennedy says.
“I thought your dad was up last weekend.” I peer over her shoulder to the dock. The sailboat tilts back and forth in the blazing early-evening sun.
“He was, but…” She hedges. “It’s possible to sail the boat—I just haven’t in a long time.”
“You did last year,” I point out.
She makes a pained expression. “Please don’t make me.”
“What if that’s the only way to reach him? We have to recreate the conditions as perfectly as possible.” I’m making all of this up. I want to see them squirm. I want to burn it out of them like a bug under a magnifying glass. I’m going to telltale-heart the truth out of them.
“Fine.” Kennedy folds her napkin. “I can do it after we clear up. For whoever wants to go.”
“I don’t want to,” Chase says. “But if that’s what you need, Em.” He looks at me, pleading in his eyes.
No mercy.
“That’s what I need.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
I look at Mila, not expecting much.
“Me? God, no. I’m not stepping foot back on that thing. It’s cursed. You should have sunk it.”
“Maybe it’s not cursed. Maybe you’re cursed,” I say.
Mila flinches. “Fine. I’ll go, and nothing bad will happen.” She pauses. “You’ll feel better?”
“So much.” A light breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders, and I twirl it into a bun and wrap an elastic around it. The air is beginning to cool nicely. “So we’re agreed? Kennedy, Chase, and Mila out on the lake. Chelsea and I will make one last attempt to reach Ryan.”
There are a series of nods around the table, and we clean up without much conversation. Kennedy changes and goes down to the dock while Chase and Mila have another whispered fight in the guest room. I go from room to room, inspecting, feeling the air, picking up objects and putting them down, repositioning the candles. This time I light them all. It will take some time for them to burn all the way down, and everyone will be gone for a while. I do have to be careful, though. The place is so old and the wood so dry that if there was an accident, the house wouldn’t stand a chance for very long. Nearly everything in it is made of wood. There are old books everywhere, artwork on the walls, and my painting supplies, which are highly combustible. And if that weren’t enough, Mr. Hartford keeps extra cans of gasoline in the cellar for the boat. But I am careful. I set each candle firmly in place. And to keep them from blowing over, I close all of the windows tightly, fastening them with a wrench. They’re not opening anytime soon.
46
Chelsea and I sit facing each other in the attic. Everyone is gone and the house is empty. The cold from earlier has dissipated. Heat from the closed windows and doors has begun to accumulate in the house, and it’s concentrating itself in this room. Beads of sweat cover Chelsea’s face, and she pulls off her sweater and scratches the linen tank she’s wearing underneath.
My eyes go to the band around her wrist that she never takes off, the worn hospital bracelet. “Why are you still wearing that?”
“As a reminder,” she says.
“Of what?”
“Of what happens when you’re not careful.” She plays with it, slides it up and down her forearm.
“What weren’t you careful about?”
She smiles with her mouth only. “Words. Friends. Trust.”
“You mean the note.” I rest my chin on my knees. Let her say it.
“It wasn’t a suicide note.”
“You wrote that you weren’t sure how you could live with yourselves anymore. Those were your exact words.”
“It’s a phrase,” she whispers.
I believe her. It was never a suicide note. It was an admission of guilt. That’s why I turned it in when I found it in Chase’s jacket pocket. I don’t know how no one else saw it that way. But people believe what they want to believe. See what they want to see.
“I guess the ‘live anymore’ part made people worried, you know?” I paint my concern. Thick, with deep lines of chiaroscuro. I want her to keep talking.
“But who?” She takes me in. My colors and strokes. My effort.
“Guidance, obviously. Your parents.”
“No.” Her expression tightens. “Which one of you passed that note to the school? It was a betrayal.”
It’s almost too much to handle. The idea that of all things, this was the betrayal. “Chelsea, none of us would have betrayed your confidence. It probably fell out of one of our pockets.”
“It wasn’t an accident.” Her voice is sharp and severe. “One of you didn’t trust me. They made me leave school, Emily. They told me I was suicidal, and when I told them it was a mistake, they didn’t believe me. They made me see a therapist, and when I told him it was a mistake, he didn’t believe me either. They locked me in a hospital for two weeks, forced chemicals into my body without my consent, and every hour of every day was filled with questions that weren’t really questions because no one ever believed a word I said.”
“Questions about what?”
She stops abruptly and stares at me. We both know about what. Come on, Chelsea. Now or never. Why couldn’t you live with yourselves?
But her face goes blank, then smooth. “It was a nightmare. I was the only one who knew the truth, and they didn’t believe me. They looked right through me like I wasn’t there. Like a criminal. And they started taking things. School, and then home, and then my clothes and phone and privacy.” She’s shaking, and for a second I forget what Chelsea did and I start to feel horrible. “It was a mistake.” Her voice is flat, hollow. “That’s the truth.”
I stare at her, breathless. “Whoever turned you in probably knows that. She wanted to make sure you were okay.” Keep talking, Chelsea. Don’t stop now.
Her shoulders drop. “She. Kennedy did it?”
“I have no idea. But I did wonder. What was the mistake? Why did you write the note? If everyone is so convinced Ryan ran away.” I pause. “Dove into the water, faked his own death. If he’s really okay, why would it be hard to live with yourselves?”
She picks up a candle and lets a drop of wax fall onto her shoe, then presses her fingertip into it. “I don’t know. I guess part of me feels responsible.”
“How?”
She raises her eyes. “You don’t remember last year?”
I nod. “Sure. Chase and Ryan were at each other’s throats. So?”
“It was more than that. Things were falling apart. You were fighting with Kennedy, too. Mila was… there. Ryan said he wanted to be with me, and I told him it couldn’t happen.”
“So? Why would that drive him to fake his own death? That’s ridiculously extreme.”
Chelsea drips a drop of wax straight onto her hand, and I cringe. “Maybe he didn’t fake it.”
My heart begins to pound. “Why do you say that?”
“Forget it.” Her voice goes quiet, distant.
“Chelsea.” I inch closer to her, my hands shaking a little from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “You’ve been lying to me for a year. Everyone has been lying to me for a year. Your note wasn’t the mistake and you know it. You wrote that note about a mistake. That’s why you still wear the bracelet. That’s why you can’t sleep. No one is supposed to carry this kind of secret. It’s poisoning you, Chelsea.”
She drips more wax onto her hand and then seems to suddenly realize what she’s doing and cries out and drops the candle, the flame flickering out as it hits the floor. I pick it up quickly and relight it with another. She peels the wax off her skin. “I need to run this under cold water,” she says.
“Tell me what happened.” I block the door.
She looks exhausted. “It was a mistake. Okay? I wasn’t there, Em. I wasn’t on the boat. They all went out together like tonight. I saw him go into the water. It didn’t look like he jumped in. It looked like he fell. Or maybe…”
“What?” I can barely breathe. In my ears, there is a pounding beat, a warning. A terrible warning.
“Maybe he was pushed.” She covers her mouth with her unburned hand. The words are electric. They stop my heart. A beat. Restart.
“Who?” My voice is scratchy and dry. Heat damaged.
Panic flares like a wildfire in her eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I probably imagined it. I don’t believe it.” She takes a step forward, but I grab her wrists and force her to stay, to face me, to face the truth.
“Then why are you telling me?”
“In case it’s true!” She tries to push past me, but I shove her backward. No backing out. Not now.
“I need to know the rest. All of it.” My head is throbbing. My heart is pounding, offbeat, arrhythmic. Stop. A beat. Restart. But faster. And faster. He’s dead. They lied. They killed him and lied.
Tears glisten in Chelsea’s eyes. “I swear, that’s all I know. I was on the dock. I jumped in and swam after him. But I didn’t make it. I panicked and couldn’t breathe, and Kennedy had to come for me.”
I try to make sense of it. He’s dead. “Who came for Ryan?”
“Chase tried. Kennedy tried. I tried. No one could find him.”
“So you pushed him in, and then had second thoughts.” My brain is pulsing in my skull. They lied.
“No. No. I didn’t push him. I wasn’t even on the boat.” She grabs my hand. “Emily, I’m probably being paranoid. Chase swears he’s getting emails from Ryan.”
Lightning flashes. I don’t know whether it’s through the sky or in my brain. I don’t care. They killed him and lied. “When? Why didn’t he—anyone—tell me?”
“He said Ry didn’t want it getting back to your parents. He doesn’t want to be tracked down. Chase only told me after the note incident because he was worried.” Her voice falters. She’s lying. Or Chase was lying and she knows it. I can’t trust anyone anymore. He’s dead and they lied; they killed him and lied.
My mind is too busy. I have no time for arguing. Chelsea is not my friend. I look her up and down, too overwhelmed by all of this information to think clearly, then shove her hard, run down the ladder, and lock her in the attic. Attics are places for secrets. Attics are places to hide. Attics are places to set traps.
For creatures that creep inside.
I walk downstairs in a fog and pace back and forth in the kitchen, waiting for the others to return.
I can hear Chelsea in the attic, stomping around and shouting. That’s going to be an obvious problem. I’ll never hear the other sides of the story if they immediately come in and find that I’ve locked Chelsea in the attic like Mrs. Rochester. Shit. What did I do? I think back to last year. Sangria. I slice the fruit with shaky fingers, use the second bottle of chianti, try to remember the way Kennedy does it. Brandy. Ryan was drinking brandy too. I pour myself a glass and begin to feel warm and steady.
My eyes fall on the glass decanter, and Chelsea’s words swirl around my head. Someone pushed him. I pour half of the sangria into the decanter and mix up a little more, so I have a full pitcher and a full decanter. Then I dump half of the bottle of Chelsea’s pills into the decanter and begin stirring before I can change my mind. They dissolve slowly, turning from pill to powder to nothing. It’s impossible to tell the difference by looking at the two pitchers. I take a sip. You almost can’t taste it, but there is a tiny sweetness to it, like saccharin. I dump in a little more brandy and taste it again. Perfect. I carry the pitcher and the decanter outside and set them on the stone table along with four glasses. Then I go inside, down to the cellar, and turn off the power in the attic. That way there will be much less of a chance that anyone will glance up and see Chelsea in the window. The candles will give off some light, but the light in the rest of the rooms will draw the eye downward. No one will even glance up at the attic, and the single tiny window doesn’t open. But as a final touch, I scroll through my playlists, and choose Ryan’s favorite album, Kid A. All of that banging and stomping fades into the sounds of the forest out here, anyway. But under the sound of warm synth bleeding out of the speakers, it’s no more discernable than someone else’s heartbeat.
I wait at the table as the boat returns just at sundown and watch as Kennedy, Chase, and Mila step off Summer’s Edge one by one. There is a glass set out for each of us, the pitcher and decanter at the center of the table. Every place setting is identical. Everyone will start out with a glass from the pitcher. The decanter is reserved for the person who pushed Ryan. Four glasses, four settings.
Chelsea likes to think she has a place among them, that she could get away with being the odd one and somehow not be the odd one out. That I was always the extra chair at the table.
A twin is never the extra chair.
Now there’s only room for one of us. Mila has taken Chelsea’s place, and I drink for Ryan and for me.
Let the game begin.
Kennedy begins to walk past me toward the house, but I whistle and wave her over. She looks less than enthused, shoulders sagging and hair tangled in knots, but she slides into the seat next to me and reaches for the decanter. I study her, copper hair gleaming in the dying light, the lake almost the color of blood behind her, and last year comes rushing back to me, the moment the mirror smashed against her skull and all of those beautiful silvery fragments glittered around her like a crown. If this were an ordinary night, I would add those finishing touches to my tarot card. But I can’t. Another day. I place my hand on top of hers to stop her from drinking the decanter wine—that wine is reserved—and pour her a glass from the pitcher instead.
“I thought it would be nice to have sunset cocktails,” I say.
“We missed it by a few minutes.” She takes a sip. “Mmm. Did you use tomato juice or something?”
“Does it taste like tomato juice?”
She takes another sip. “It’s fabulous.”
Chase downs one glass immediately. “Definitely needed that.”
I eye the pitcher. I hope he doesn’t drain it too quickly. I pour him half of a second glass, and make Mila’s three-quarters full. “So how was the sail?”
“Fine,” Kennedy says flatly. “Good wind.”
“How was your séance?” Mila asks. She plays with a cigarette.
“I thought you were quitting?” Chase asks her.
“It’s a nervous habit.” Mila taps it against the table. “Everyone has one. Don’t judge me. Sitting is the new smoking. We’re all doing it right now.” She sighs. “My cousin got out of prison, and my mother forced me to hang out with her. She doesn’t do anything but smoke, play Scrabble, and tell prison stories. That place scares the shit out of me.”
“Sorry I asked.” Chase takes another long sip.
“Did the sail bring back any memories?” I ask.
Kennedy’s eyes go to me briefly. “Of?”
“Last year. Ryan.”
“No one wants to remember that.” Mila stands. “You keep obsessing. It’s not healthy.” But Mila was the one who wanted to go out on the boat in the first place. If it hadn’t been for Mila, Ryan would still be here. My last glimpses of my brother are like a slideshow, snapshots from the attic window. Mila on the boardwalk, running out to the boat. Turning back toward the house, beckoning. To follow her, into the darkness, the uncertain depths of the lake at night. Ryan sprinting after, a little while later. He never turned to look back. I saw him run, a swift pale figure darting down the boardwalk, from the safety of the lake house to Summer’s Edge, and then he was gone. I’ll add a final touch, an inscription, a warning, to Mila’s card too. To all of the crucial moments. The puzzle pieces.
“He’s my brother.”
“That doesn’t make it healthy.”
“Says the chain-smoker.” I grab the cigarette out of her hand and throw it on the ground. Kennedy covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t you laugh about it. I want answers.”
Kennedy puts a hand on my arm, and I try not to visibly cringe. “Emily. Did you really think we were going to get on the boat and go out there and suddenly have some kind of epiphany about what happened to Ryan? It’s not logical.” I can’t stand the look of pity. It makes me want to scream. “It’s out of our control.”
“What about last summer? When you pushed Ryan into the water and watched him drown, and then lied about it for an entire year. Was all of that out of your control, too?” The album ends, and I was right. You can’t hear Chelsea at all out here. Time slows down. A chill descends. The last of the sunlight is drowned in the dark, the sun sinking into the lake with a swift and silent sense of finality. The windows of the house glow with the light of the dozens of candles. I place the last unlit one at the center of the table and light it, and each of us becomes a flickering glow in the dark.
