Something buzzes around my head and near my ear. With one hand, I swat at the mosquito even though I can’t see it. Buzz buzz buzz. I smack at the air with both hands and then I sit up, shaking my hair—damp from all that Georgia heat—in case it’s decided to nest there. The buzzing continues and, poof, Jeremiah is gone.
I slump back against the headboard. You win, mosquito. Have at it. I hope I die of malaria here in this Georgia wilderness. It will serve my parents right. Jeremiah Crew will come to my funeral, and my ghostly vessel will stand beside him as he cries over my casket or urn, whichever. He will be forever haunted by me and the thought of what might have been.
* * *
—
It’s raining by the time I emerge from my room. My mom is in the kitchen, rinsing dishes and stacking them in the wooden rack on the counter. She’s dressed in jeans and a bright summer blouse, hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Morning,” I say, reaching for the coffee.
“Afternoon.” She brushes a loose strand off her face and nods at the window seat, where there is a large brown box. “From your father.”
He’s no longer Dad. He’s your father.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
In the distance, lightning flashes. I count—one, two, three, four—and there comes the thunder. I lean against the counter, eating cereal, staring at the box as if it’s a bomb set to explode. Mom is talking, but I’m not hearing her because all I’m thinking about is that box. She says something about the museum and dinner, and then she is collecting her bag and an umbrella and heading out the door.
I’m still leaning against the counter when she comes right back in.
“Is this yours?”
“What?”
She stands in the doorway, staring down at something. I walk over to her and follow her gaze to the tube of cortisone cream and can of Off! that sit there. There’s a note taped to the bug spray: For Her Ladyship. It’s worse if you scratch them.
I say, “Actually, I think that is mine.”
I glance past her, but there’s no sign of him anywhere.
She looks down at the note and then up at me, unable to hide her smile. “Do you want to tell me who it’s from?”
“Not really.” I give her a smile of my own and go back into the kitchen, where I make a show of pouring myself more cereal. In a moment she calls out a goodbye, and the door clicks behind her.
I wait three minutes before picking up the cortisone cream and bug spray and bringing them into the house. I examine the familiar-looking note, which was clearly torn from a certain notepad. I flip the paper over and there is my phone number, exactly as I wrote it. And below it: Phones don’t work here. If I want to find you, I’ll find you.
* * *
—
My dad has sent me Edna, my favorite childhood doll, a journal of song lyrics that Saz and I wrote over the years, my vintage Nancy Drew books, and a clay cat I made when I was in fourth grade. All of it wrapped in Avengers birthday paper. And the following message:
Dear Clew,
Just a few things you left behind that I thought you might be missing. I hope you’re having fun on the island and that it’s not too bloody hot. Bradbury and I are plugging along here. It’s a busy time at the college, but we’re looking forward to seeing you in August when you’re home. We miss you.
Love,
Dad
I flip through the journal, stack the books in a neat pile, set the clay cat on top. I pick up Edna and study her face—the whiskers that were meant to be stitches, which I drew on her cheeks after I got stitches of my own following an accident on the school playground; the bald spot where I cut her hair; the eye shadow I gave her with purple permanent marker.
“Why are you here?” I say to her. “Why did he send me these things when I’m going back home in a few weeks?” Unless you’re not going home, a voice whispers deep inside of me. Unless he never wants you to come home again.
I leave everything on the window seat. Edna lies on her back, one foot propped against the wall. Dandelion hops up beside her and starts bathing what’s left of her