by Cecilia Lyra
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I bring my pinkie to my mouth and suck on it.
“You’re making a mistake, Julie. Staying there will only remind you of everything she took from you.” Her words sound like more than a warning—they sound like a curse.
“That’s enough, Sophie,” I say. “This. Isn’t. About. You.”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
I reach for the frame on top of the dresser, grazing the glass with my newly naked pinkie. The picture of Cassie and me was taken inside this very room, on my bed. Cassie is sitting cross-legged and I’m standing behind her, propped on my knees, both of us grinning widely. I remember Nana holding the camera, calling out “Say, summer,” before snapping the moment into eternity. We were so young. At the time, I thought we were so mature, so grown-up. We’ve never looked alike, but we’re identical in our glee. We were so close. So hopeful and happy.
That was before.
Seven
Cassie
Wednesday, June 27th
Julie is here.
She arrived about an hour ago, lugging Louis Vuitton suitcases—such a cliché—wearing a white, midi-length halter dress with a waist belt and strappy, wedge heels. I wish her presence didn’t unnerve me, but it does.
It doesn’t help that she’s treating me like some fragile doll. Frankly, it’s insulting.
Her mother called her as soon as she arrived—an image of Sophie flooded her phone’s screen—and Julie practically dove on top of it like a deranged gymnast. I nearly confronted her about it. I pictured looking her in the eye and saying, “Do you think I can’t handle seeing the woman who killed my own mother?” Losing a parent makes you tough. Not that she’d know—she still has a mother and a father. I have neither. But I didn’t say anything, not even when she came down from her room, humming in her stupid, carefree way.
“Can I…?” She’s in the kitchen, pointing to the selection of fruits I bought yesterday at the farmers’ market. Bananas, mangoes, pears. All of the berries.
“Help yourself.”
“I feel like I should pay you for half the groceries.”
“It’s fine.”
She doesn’t respond. Good. Her attempts at chitchat are both pointless and unnerving. Except the silence isn’t that peaceful, either. From my spot on the couch, I can hear the roar of the ocean, the gentle tick-tock of the antique wall clock, the faraway squawks of birds. Nana used to be able to tell birds by their song. All that’s missing is Nana whistling in the kitchen while she cooks. I knew that coming here wouldn’t be easy, but I underestimated how deeply I’d feel her absence. Missing a loved one in their home is a particularly torturous form of grief.
“Do we have to call the lawyer?” Julie asks. She is standing behind the granite island, holding a half-eaten apple in her hand.
I rub the back of my neck. “Why would we?”
“To, um, let him know we’re here?” She shuffles her feet. I wonder if she’s feeling uncomfortable inside her own house. This is, after all, our house now.
“We’re good,” I say. “The GPS is supposed to be working.”
“What GPS?”
“Check your email. Norman sent a waiver. It allows the firm to track our phones, so they know we’re here. All you need to do is download an app.” I don’t add that the email also includes a breakdown of our house rules. It’s straightforward stuff: we must stay here until July 28th. No sleeping elsewhere, not even for an evening. No overnight guests. No exceptions. Who knew Nana had a jailor’s soul?
“Oh.” Julie looks, for reasons that I can’t begin to comprehend, confused.
“It’s entirely up to you if you want to do it or not. They still reserve the right to come by unannounced to check on us.” Come to think of it, the firm will probably come by multiple times. Anything to rack up billable hours.
“I’m downloading it now.” She holds up her device.
I don’t bother replying.
“It’s a little weird, being here without her.” I watch as her eyes survey the room. “Everything reminds me of her—do you feel it, too?”
Of course I do. But I’m not about to agree. I’m here to secure my inheritance—not to connect with her. I love Nana, but she doesn’t get to play puppetmaster. Not again.
A memory floats up. Me at the age of nine, on the day Gramps died. The day I found out about Julie. My mom walked into my room and told me to pack a bag—we were heading to Montauk. Her announcement didn’t make sense—it was April, and it wasn’t a holiday or anything—but Nana’s house was my happy place, so I wasn’t about to complain. It wasn’t until I saw my father sitting by the kitchen table with his face buried in his hands, the Boston Globe and a cup of coffee untouched in front of him, that I realized that something was really wrong. I remember thinking, My parents are finally getting a divorce. I felt scared—but mostly I felt relieved.
But then my father pulled me into a hug and began to cry. He told me Gramps was dead—a heart attack—and that we had to go over to be with Nana and help her with the arrangements. I agreed, even though I had no idea what that meant.
On the way over, my mom asked me if I wanted a tissue. “It’s OK to cry, darling,” she had said, from the passenger’s seat. To an untrained ear, her voice would have sounded merely concerned, but there was a slight slur to her words. I could tell. I was trained.
By the time we arrived in Montauk, I was exhausted. I also hadn’t shed a single tear. I knew that I should be crying. My mom kept saying it was OK to cry, which obviously meant that it was strange that I wasn’t. I had just lost my only grandfather (my mom’s parents died when she was just a teenager). But I felt nothing. Not grief or sadness, or anything else for that matter. I was numb.
But when I walked inside the house and saw Nana, I crumpled. She was trying to be brave—I could tell. She was sitting in Gramps’ leather armchair: straight back, stiff mouth, sunken cheeks. Sebastian was curled up in her lap, purring softly, while Nana rested a hand on his soft, tiger-striped fur. Gone were her bright, cheerful outfits—she was wearing a formal and unflattering black dress and a string of pearls. And her eyes—the green eyes that were mine as well—were pained, broken. Nana had never looked young to me, but that was the first day I thought of her as old.
When she saw my father, she shuffled over to him and buried her head in his chest. They cried together for the longest time. I could make out some of the things she was saying, but not all of it.
“It was so sudden, Stephan. It could happen to any of us,” was what stuck with me.
Looking back, I wonder if I picked up on something else in Nana’s eyes. It would explain why that memory is seared into my brain, why the grief only hit me when I arrived at the Montauk house and saw her, and not before. Memory is a tricky thing. We all edit our past, knowingly or not. We add and remove details. We fill in gaps. It isn’t dishonest— it’s survival. We need to believe that there is a point to our suffering, that life isn’t just chaos and randomness. I like to think that I saw a steely determination in Nana’s eyes, an unshakable resolve to finally tell me the truth.
Because that’s what she did.
Two days later, after the wake and the funeral, Nana pulled me into her room to tell me a secret. “You have a sister,” she said. She was holding a mug of tea, untouched.
I was nine years old, almost ten. A child. Children aren’t supposed to be cynical. But I was. I had to be.
“You’re confused, Nana,” I said, shaking my head.
The words were familiar to me: you’re confused. They were the words I used on my mom after she drank too much and stopped making sense. Sleep it off, I’d instruct her. When that didn’t work, when she was too worked up or paranoid, I gave her what she wanted: my presence. I’d pretend to listen to her rants while reciting a song in my head. Theme songs were the easiest. Their repetitiveness was simple, catchy. I loved my mom very much. I worried about her every day of my life. But I also resent
ed how much she needed me, resented her frailty.
“I’m not confused, my dear.” Nana’s tone was firm, sober. She didn’t sound like a muddled, grieving widow. “Though I appreciate your concern.”
“Is…is my mom pregnant?” A horrifying thought.
“No. She’s your sister on your father’s side. She’s your age. Her name is Julie,” Nana pronounced the name with a soft j—the first time I’d ever heard it like that. “It’s like Julie in English, but with a French accent. Her mother is French.”
“I have a half-sister…?” I thought of Nicole and Claire, the twins in my class who had an older half-brother named Derek. All I knew about Derek was that he went to a different school because his mom lived on the other side of town.
“A sister, full stop,” Nana said. “It doesn’t matter that you don’t share a mother. There will be no halves in this family. Not anymore. Not on my watch.”
A sister.
I couldn’t make sense of what Nana was saying.
“Your Gramps died before he had a chance to meet her,” Nana continued. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “But I’m not going to let that happen to me. Or to you, if you decide you want to meet her.”
“I have a sister.” Not a question this time. My tone was now trusting, believing. A chip in my cynic’s armor.
A secret sister. It felt dramatic, impossible—the sort of thing that happened to other people. I was Cassie Meyers: plain, ordinary. The only thing that was different about me, the thing that set me apart from the other kids in my school, was that my parents didn’t love each other. I was sure of that even back then. They hid it from the world, in the same way that my father hid his temper and my mother hid her drinking, but I was never spared. I knew—and I was expected to keep their secrets. To maintain the blissful suburban façade they so masterfully cultivated. On our street, we were the respectable Meyers: banker dad, stay-at-home mom, studious daughter. We mowed our lawn. We greeted our neighbors by name. We went to church on Sundays. People had no idea what went on in my house.
“You do,” Nana said. “Your parents think you’re too young to understand. I don’t agree.”
I’ve told this story to a handful of people in my life. Their reactions are divided into two camps. Some expect me to have felt blessed, thrilled. Others assume I felt jealous and threatened. They’re both wrong. Once the shock wore out, I felt sorry for Julie. I didn’t know her, but I knew this: we had the same father. And that meant she went through the same things I did. I knew what he did to my mom was wrong, even back then, before I had the language to describe my father’s actions. Gaslighting. Threats. Abuse. There was another girl in the world who felt just as terrified and powerless as I did.
Nana’s revelation hurt my mom—she felt humiliated, exposed by her mother-in-law. Julie had been kept a secret from me at her insistence. Once we were back in Boston, her drinking worsened. I began noticing empty bottles of Old Forrester and Jack Daniel’s on the carpeted floor next to her bed. She started taking pills, too—tiny tablets that turned her into a shadow, a ghost.
I decided I didn’t want to have anything to do with Julie. I was curious, of course. Not just about Julie, but about her mother, too. Who was this mysterious French woman who had been involved with my father, who had birthed his child? How did she react to my father’s outbursts? Did she fight back? Did she offer Julie protection? Did she drink a lot, too? I wanted answers, I did. But I feared what it would do to my mom. If I’m being honest, I feared what it would do to me, too. What if I liked Julie? She would be one more person to worry about, one more person I’d feel obligated to protect. Which is why I declined Nana’s invitation to meet her. I said no to my grandmother, probably for the first time in my life.
Except Nana did get what she wanted.
Twenty-two summers ago, less than three months after Gramps died, I did meet Julie. I grew to love her. We became close, inseparable. We became what Nana wanted us to be: sisters.
But that was then, and this is now.
I glance at Julie still standing in the kitchen, still holding the half-eaten apple, still waiting for me to reply. Her expression is eager, expectant. Not unlike the first summer we spent here. But this time I’m not giving in.
Of course everything here reminds me of Nana. But admitting as much is pointless. As is Nana’s attempt at manipulation. I know my grandmother. It’s possible—likely, even—that she meant well by bringing us here. But her plan is misguided, unrealistic.
It’s been too long, too much has happened.
Julie and I are entirely different people. With entirely different lives.
And no one, not even Nana, could expect me to forget why that is.
Eight
Julie
Wednesday, June 27th
This isn’t what I expected. Not that I know what I expected, not really.
The Sky Princess is prepared for battle. To thwart the Fire Princess’s venomous tongue, she has brought with her a toad that can swallow insults and spit out flowers. To combat deathly stares, she has an army of honeybees capable of turning evil eyes into candied treats. But none of her weapons can fight off indifference.
It stings, Cassie’s indifference. It reminds me of Patrick’s warning: Why would you want to share a house with someone who’s just going to ignore you?
I take out Nana’s bamboo cutting board—third drawer to my right—and begin slicing a banana. Once I’m done with that, I peel a mango. Nana used to love fruit salads.
“Would you like some?” I hold up identical mason jars filled with bright cubes of fruit. I’ve made two, my gesture says. One for you, one for me.
“No, thank you,” Cassie says, and my heart deflates. But I tell myself to look on the bright side: at least she answered this time. Semi-politely, too.
I sit at the dining table. My usual spot: facing the stairs. Nana, Cassie, and I must’ve shared dozens of meals here. Possibly hundreds. Maybe I should make one of our favorites for dinner. Shrimp gumbo. Seared tuna and corn on the cob. Watermelon and cod tacos. Maybe even the sun-dried pasta that Nana prepared for my very first meal here. I could buy beer—Patrick isn’t here to protest. I could even drink it straight from the bottle. I’ll have to take a cab to the grocery store; Cassie isn’t likely to drive me. But it’s not like I have anything else to do. And I do enjoy cooking.
To pass the time, I reach for my phone to scroll through social media. I catch a glimpse of my left hand. I’ve now managed to peel off the polish from all five fingers. If Patrick and I have a video call, I’ll have to make sure to hide my hands. Speaking of Patrick: he hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. It’s odd. Usually, when I’m out with friends (the plural form is wishful thinking: it’s just Janette), he texts at least half a dozen times. I sigh, thinking that he’s probably punishing me with silence.
I come across an Instagram post from Sophie: an artsy, black-and-white picture of the Boston skyline. Sophie posts the most random things on her feed.
I take a peek at Cassie through the corner of my eye. She’s on the couch, her laptop propped on the armrest. She doesn’t look like someone who’s dating a married man. Which is a silly thought, I know. What would that look like after all?
Instinctively, I run my unkempt hand through the seashell necklace hanging from my neck. Earlier today, I found it in the nightstand drawer, along with a pair of socks and a Rubik’s Cube. I don’t know where the sock and the cube came from, but the necklace used to be mine. Still is mine, I guess. Nana and I made it together on my first summer here. I’m not sure why I put it on—it looks a little ridiculous with my Reiss dress—but I like how it feels, hanging close to my heart.
My phone buzzes. A text from Janette.
It’s official! I’m coming to see you on Sat!
My thumbs quickly text a reply.
YAY! I CAN’T WAIT!
Another ping.
OMG, is she that bad?
It feels disloyal to say yes, so instead I reply:
&
nbsp; I’m just happy you’re coming. I miss you.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Cassie says. “I know we’re not allowed to have people sleep over—”
I slam my phone face down on the table. An unthinking, instinctive move. A stupid one, too. It would be impossible for Cassie to read my messages all the way from the couch.
“Sorry,” I blurt out. I don’t know why I’m apologizing.
Cassie arches her left eyebrow, flicking her eyes towards my phone. She looks annoyed. “A friend of mine is coming for the weekend and I was wondering if you’d mind—on Saturday—”
“My friend is coming on Saturday, too.” It’s official. I’ve lost control over the words that come out of my mouth.
“That’s nice.” Her tone is impatient. “Would you mind if I used the house for dinner on Saturday? I’d like to talk to him, and it would be best if we were alone.”
My ears prick up: a Saturday-night dinner with a friend—a male friend. And they need to be alone. Could it be the married man? I picture Cassie and a tall, dark stranger meeting in a corner table in a dimly lit restaurant for a secret rendezvous. They’d never find a secluded spot in Montauk, not in the summer.
Cassie clears her throat. “Julie?”
“Sorry, I was…daydreaming.” I smile. “Yes. That’s fine. I’ll make myself scarce.”
This is progress, I decide. We’re not bonding, but we are making arrangements. Peacefully, like roommates. Roommates often become friends.
I bring a forkful of salad—a grape and a slice of banana—to my mouth, chewing happily.
“Is he your boyfriend?” I bring my hand to my mouth, feeling my cheeks redden. I wasn’t supposed to ask that out loud.
