vast, a watercolor against the blue, blue sky. Most of the roof is gone, and the remaining walls follow a jagged line. Except for one intact section of the second story, there is grass instead of floors. Instead of a ceiling, there is sky. Vines twine in and out of doorways and windows, which are like eye sockets, blank and staring. A sign warns AREA CLOSED, NO TRESPASSING. I walk past this, up the steps, and onto the grass.
I climb in and out of windows and doors, trying to imagine what each room was used for. Here is the kitchen. Here is the library. Here is the nursery. Here we laughed. Here we fought. Here we loved and dreamed. Here is where the fire started. Here is where the first brick fell. Here is where we died.
I wander to the back of the mansion and stand on what must have been the veranda. Directly in front of me, several yards away, a fountain sits silent and empty.
I drop onto the top of the steps that lead down and away from the house and dig through my bag for my notebook and pen. The sun burns my arms and shoulders. I pull out the cigarettes, light one up, and inhale. This is my very first cigarette, and it feels momentous. The taste immediately makes me want to hurl, and I cough for a full five minutes. I finally wind to a stop, eyes tearing, and turn to a blank page.
Dear Saz.
I stare at these two words. There is so much to say to her, but how do I say it?
It’s probably time I told you why this letter is coming from the coast of Georgia, not Atlanta, and why I won’t be home this summer.
She is going to be surprised and probably angry that I didn’t tell her. But I have to tell her.
I write six pages, front and back, and then I sit there a while longer, smoking the cigarette down to a nub. I light up another one, and another, inhaling them all, until I see some of the guests I recognize from the inn, walking sticks, cameras, heading for the ruins. I take one last drag and then throw up in the bushes and head for the beach.
* * *
—
The sky is electric from the sun, and I’ve forgotten my sunglasses, so I’m holding my hand over my eyes and squinting. I take off my hat and I feel naked without my hair, like I might burn up and melt away. I slip off my shoes and the sand is soft and cooler than I expected. I see a truck way, way down the beach, which is strange because I thought this island was no cars allowed. But right here there is no one. It’s just me and this ocean, stretching for miles.
I pull off my clothes, stripping down to my bikini, the black one I bought with Saz back in April, when we were making plans for our last epic summer before college. I leave the clothes on the sand in a crumpled, wilted heap beside the shoes and the fisherman’s cap, as if this beach is my bedroom floor. I wade in, and the water is warm. I pause when it reaches my shins.
My earliest memory is of my parents and me standing on a beach, feet in the water, holding hands. I remember the waves rushing in, rushing out, and the way the sand clung to my ankles as the ocean tried to drag it away. I remember my mom laughing and shouting “Don’t let it take you!” to the sand or maybe to Dad and me. I remember breaking free and grabbing at the sand, trying to help it stay.
I wade deeper.
To my knees.
To my thighs.
To my hips.
I catch my breath. My heart is going thrum thrum thrum.
To my waist.
To my chest.
I wait for the drop-off, but the thing about the drop-off is that it happens all of a sudden, without warning. I think, Not this time. And I go under. My decision. This is the drop-off because I say it is. I close my eyes and swim into the ocean. In Rhode Island, we lived on the Atlantic. I know the danger of currents and swells and whirlpools. I know how to swim in calm water and wild water and what to do if I start to panic. I’ve been swimming as long as I’ve been walking, first in the ocean