minute to think how lucky you are.” She’d pointed at Claire and Murphy. “The three of you. Merry Christmas.”
And that had been that. Eileen had gotten the Caravan back, and the four Sullivans, rested from a night at Kerry and Bonnie’s, had nothing left to do save drive home.
Kerry and Mom had hugged good-bye for a long time, and they’d told each other they’d keep in touch; Kerry and Bonnie were going to come down for a visit soon. Murphy was cool with that idea: Bonnie’s cooking was killer, and Kerry had been a pretty chill sheriff about this whole mess.
As they’d driven away from Rockport, Murphy had done the best mental penance she could muster. She did think of how lucky she was to not be arrested and locked in a jail cell for Christmas. She was lucky, too, that Mark Enright hadn’t returned to Rockport for vengeance, and that he hadn’t been the one to find her dead asleep on the beach. As it turned out, there hadn’t been a real Mark Enright. Not a murdering, malevolent one, anyway. Mark had been her dad.
John Sullivan had been a name and a face in photographs that Murphy had no real-life memories of. He’d been a sadness on late nights when she got to thinking too hard, and he’d been an awkwardness when she’d explained to every stranger who’d asked that she didn’t have a dad, actually, that he’d died of cancer before she was born. John Sullivan had been a blank spot in Murphy’s world. Now, he was Mark Enright, and she knew more about Mark than she ever had about John. How weird.
Wasn’t everything weird now?
Like the fact that Mom saw Murphy.
Even in the driveway, hours away from the coast, Murphy could taste the sea salt on her lips and feel every grain of sand on her cheek, remembering her mother’s shakes and shouts. She saw with rainbow-bright vividness the relief that had filled Mom’s face when Murphy had opened her eyes.
Mom had said, “Hey, hey. You’re okay. Thank God you’re okay.”
She’d seen Murphy, and then she’d held her, carrying her up the bluff. And for the first time, Murphy hadn’t minded being treated like a kid.
Mom cut the engine of the Subaru. Eileen had parked behind her, and she and Claire were climbing out of the van. Murphy wondered how that trip had been. Clearly, her sisters hadn’t fought too hard, because they were both alive, no signs of claw marks. A lot had changed since that fight on the porch, when Claire had stormed away and both she and Eileen had shouted Murphy down.
Murphy, shut up.
Murph, for the love of God, not now.
She looked down, idly counting the knuckles of her right hand.
One, two, three—
“Murphy?”
Mom was out of the car, looking in from the driver’s side.
They hadn’t talked much on the drive down. Mom had played soft rock radio and Murphy had nodded off, head against the window. When they had spoken, Mom had asked about school, and Murphy had told her about drama club.
She hadn’t told Mom about Siegfried. It didn’t seem right yet. Still, it had been an okay talk. Weird, but okay.
“Murphy, is something wrong?” Sudden concern was stitched into Mom’s face.
How did Murphy answer that? How did she explain her greatest fear, when it was something other magicians worked years to achieve, on purpose: a disappearing act. How did she express that she was afraid if she walked into this house, everything would go back to normal, and everyone—Eileen and Claire and Mom—would lose their ability to see her?
How could you say a thing like that?
So Murphy said, “I’m sorry you missed your cruise.”
Mom was quiet. Then she got back in the car, shutting the door. Eileen and Claire were walking ahead, almost to the carport. Eileen peered toward the windshield with a confused expression, but a moment later Claire had opened the kitchen door, and the two of them disappeared into the house.
“I’m not sorry I missed it,” said Mom. “I’m sorry I agreed to go in the first place.”
“You work hard, though,” said Murphy, pressing her sneakers into the floorboard. “You were right: A sweepstakes is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. You deserved a break.”
“Maybe,” said Mom, “but not that way.”
At last Murphy felt she could say it.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think no one can see me. Does that make sense?”
Mom gripped the edge of the console, letting out a weird cough. “Oh, Murphy. That was my life as a kid. I