fault as well as his, likes the feeling of pushing her away.
* * *
—
It’s after eleven when I crawl into bed. Dandelion curls up next to me and starts to purr, and I stretch out on this new mattress and these new sheets. I’ve pulled the curtains and left a light on in the kitchen and also in the bathroom so that I don’t get lost if I get up in the night.
I lie there staring up at the photo of Danny, frozen in time with a sprinkling of freckles and a sunburned nose. For the rest of my life, he will always look like this. I wonder if he’s a ghost. They say that can happen with a violent death—imprints and energies left behind.
I don’t bother reading. Instead I write Saz the world’s longest text. I want to know why she didn’t tell me about Yvonne. I want to know her reasons for keeping this secret from me. Did someone order her not to say a word? Did Yvonne say, You can’t tell anyone, not even Claude, because Mary Grove is too small a town and we don’t want this getting out?
I write until my eyes grow heavy, and then I delete the text and turn out the light and lie there in the dark, sinking into the bed under the weight of my chest, no longer hollowed out but filled with—something. A feeling of homesickness. Of not being wanted. Of being all alone in the world. On earth. In the universe. And everyone has someone, but I am just me. And at night they all go inside and lock the doors and turn on the lights and pull the curtains, but I can still see the light shining out of the windows. And I am outside, in the dark, alone.
I have lived through this day. This first day. Only thirty-four more of them to come.
DAY 2
The next morning, I feel it before I open my eyes: I am somewhere else. The air is not Ohio air, but Georgia air, warm and sultry. There is something old and seductive about it. And the summer has a sound here—the constant hum of cicadas.
There is more to it than geography, though. I am somewhere else in other ways. And this, I know, is part of growing up. The part they don’t tell you. That you can find yourself suddenly in another room, one that looks nothing like the one you’re used to, and there’s no getting back—no matter how much you want to—because from now on there is only here, and the only thing to do is settle in and try to make sense of it and tell yourself that this is your life now. This is what it looks like. And you’re going to be okay. You can do this. Because you don’t have a choice.
* * *
—
I eat breakfast in the reading nook while my mom gets ready to go to the island museum, where some of Aunt Claudine’s papers are apparently stored. She was up early for a run on the beach, and this is another thing that is different. My dad is the runner, not my mom. For years he’s tried to get her to go running with him, but she would never do it.
She says now, “Why don’t you come with me to the museum? I’m not exactly sure what I’m walking into, research-wise, and I’d be shocked if anything’s been documented or cataloged. I could use your help.”
“Thanks, I’m good.” I’m not budging from my window seat. I am going to sit here reading until August.
“Humor me. If you don’t feel like helping me with work, at least pretend you’re going to explore. Bicycles are on the back porch.”
“Okay.” She is distracted this morning. She knows that I never learned to ride a bike.
“There’s plenty of lunch stuff in the fridge, but we can meet for dinner at the inn, although we should really be using some of this food Addy left for us. I’ve told her I’m paying her back—for all of this.”
“If anyone should be paying her, it’s Dad.”
“Well.”
And she goes quiet as she gathers her things and opens the door.
Mom, I want to say, I hope the museum is everything you want it to be. I hope you find a story there or something to lose yourself in so you won’t be sad or lonely. Because our exile here isn’t just about me. But for some reason I don’t say