by Celeste, B.
Underneath the Sycamore Tree
B Celeste
Contents
Dedication
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Where The Little Birds Go Sneak Peek
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Underneath the Sycamore Tree
Copyright © 2019 by B. Celeste
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist:
RBA Designs
Interior by:
Micalea Smeltzer
Published by:
B. Celeste
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author
Dedication
This book is for the chronically ill.
For the people who fight every single day for relief, belief, and a cure.
This book is to fear.
Fear that drives us to keep fighting whether we know the outcome or not.
This book is for anybody who feels they aren’t heard, seen, or believed. I hear you, see you, and believe you.
Oh, and to Aliana, who said she’ll stab anyone who tries claiming Kaiden.
Playlist
PLAYLIST
In My Blood – Shawn Mendes
Nobody’s Home – Avril Lavigne
You Are My Sunshine – Elizabeth Mitchell
i hate u, i love you – Gnash
Late Thoughts – Hanx
Team – Noah Cyrus & Max
How You Remind Me – Nickelback
Goodbyes – Post Malone ft. Young Thug
My Immortal – Evanescence
Soon You’ll Get Better – Taylor Swift
Prologue
Mama’s eyes are golden when she cries. Not like mine, which are a murky shade of dirty pool water—not fully green or brown, but a mixture of the two. Though when I was just shy of ten years old and saying goodbye to my sister, Mama told me that my glassy gaze was speckled with emeralds just like Daddy’s.
But Daddy wasn’t at Lo’s funeral. Not when the pastor spoke the eulogy to the half-empty church, or when the slow toll of cars paced the streets to the cemetery, or even when they lowered the kid-sized white coffin into the ground. Mama and I watched every step of the way. Her eyes trained on the half of her heart sinking into the dark soil, never to be seen again, while mine stared off into the distance waiting for Daddy’s familiar face to appear.
Looking back now, Lo had suspected the end of our parent’s marriage long before Daddy packed his things and left. She always knew it’d end that way.
I wondered what else she knew.
Mama wipes a stray tear from her eye, hoping I won’t notice how they glisten in the fluorescent lighting of the drab white room. I want to tell her I’m all right, that everything will be fine. But the weak attempts of comfort would roll off her tense shoulders in disbelief.
When Lo was diagnosed with lupus it was too late to save her. The disease had eaten away at every piece of her—body, skin, and organs. No matter how hard Mama tried controlling the disease, it couldn’t be fought.
Logan died in her sleep.
Everything was different now. Mama is cautious, always keeping a close eye on the things she blamed herself for missing in the past—the sunburns, constant napping, and aches. Despite Grandma telling her not to feel guilty over the unknown, Mama’s eyes dull into empty pits every time they swipe over a picture of Logan.
They do the same thing when she looks at me, because Logan Olivia Matterson was my twin. Every feature on our fair faces were identical, down to the button nose and full lips. We shared the same silver-blonde hair and green eyes that we got from Mama, although I always thought Lo’s were prettier.
Mama tries being strong for me, but I see her break apart a little more each day since that sunny August afternoon we laid Lo to rest. There were no clouds or gray skies to match the mood of the moment. No rain or thunder to match the hammering of our broken hearts. It was beautiful. Peaceful. Birds were quiet, the breeze was light, and the sun kissed our skin in comforting caresses. There’d been a bright rainbow in the distance, and I knew it was Lo’s last gift to me because it hadn’t rained in days.
Mama’s wavering composure next to me makes the too-clean room we sit in much smaller. She holds my hand, squeezing it as the doctor with salt and pepper hair explains the results from the labs they ran last week.
Counting the little brown freckles speckled across Mama’s hand, I take a deep breath.
The doctor’s words fade until silence greets the room. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Emery?” His voice is deep and a mixture of soft sympathy and firm curiosity, trying to pinpoint my level of recognition.
I just wish he’d call me Em. I prefer it over my full name, just like Logan liked Lo. But the doctor keeps calling me Emery and Mama Mrs. Matterson even though she changed her name after Daddy left. She’s Ms. Keller now.
Does the doctor see a scared little girl when he studies me? Or does he see what’s behind the mask I wear—the one I wear every day. The very mask I wear when I’m at home with Mama and Grandma wanting Mama to look at me without being sad. The one that covers my features as I take another frame of Logan from the mantle to ease Mama’s heartbreak a little more. All the pictures of Lo litter the room I once shared with my twin, stuffed away in my closet, hidden under my bed, covering the bookshelf, anywhere she won’t see them.
I doubt the doctor sees that girl at all though. So, I lie and tell him I understand. He can interpret my bleak distance any way he wants. I just stare at Mama, watching a second tear slide down her flushed cheek at my reply.
It’ll be okay, Mama.
I don’t dare breathe the words.
Chapter One
There’s a dead clump of caramel hair resting in the palm of my porcelain hand. I run my chipped yellow nails over the once-silky strands and stare long and hard like I can somehow reattach them.
Two months ago, I tried dyeing it. The evidence of my failed attempt rests in my hand, a mixture of brown and blonde undertones. It was a summertime project that Mama told me not to bother with. She insisted my hair was too brittle.
Like always, Mama was right.
Like always, I was too stubborn to listen.
Not only did my tender scalp burn from the dye, but my hair fell out minutes after applying the color. It left my blonde strands in patches that Mama helped me rinse out.
Wrapping the evidence of my abnormality tight in my grasp, I stare at my reflection in the large mirror that hangs over the vanity. I see paleness. Baggy, glassy green-brown eyes. Narrowed cheekbones tinted pink but not from the expensive blush like Mama wore once upon time. Mine is from my body’s internal war on itself.
I’ve filled out since starting new medication last month. The doctor told me it should help regulate my system, so I stop losing weight. My cheekbones aren’t as prominent anymore, nowhere near as hollow and sickly. Instead of the three pills I was taking before leaving Bakersfield, I take nine. It’s worth it, I suppose, to not look so skeletal.
Usually I keep my head down while I go about my morning routine. It’s easier than seeing the way my collarbones stick out and hair thinly frames my face. I hate seeing my reflection because I don’t recognize the girl staring back.
Today I force myself to look. Dropping my fallen hair onto the granite countertop, I study what the mirror shows from the waist up. A sliver of my lean stomach peaks out from the blue tank top I sleep in. Travelling my gaze upward, I notice slim arms, narrow shoulders, all the way up to thin, chapped lips. Nothing about me is particularly beautiful, yet I still see Mama in my frailty.
For the longest time, she wouldn’t look at me for more than a few seconds. Her eyes would find mine as she told me good morning or wished me a good day at school, but then they would quickly go anywhere else. Grandma would pat my hand and tell me not to let it get to me. It wasn’t that easy though.
When Mama looked at me, she saw Logan and the possibility of another early funeral. I was always going to be a reminder that one of her daughters was dead, and for all she knew, I was mere steps behind.
So, I called Dad.
Grandma told me I didn’t have to move, but I knew it was for the best. I didn’t want to know that Mama’s eyes turned gold when she cried. They were always golden when I was around.
The mirror in front of me is bigger than the one in my old house. Unlike that old stained beige bathroom with chipped tiles, this one is light gray with hardwood floors and all new fixtures. Instead of a walk-in shower, I’ve got a large bathtub that could fit two sets of twins in it if necessary, and the amount of shelf space would have made Lo jealous.
A knock at my bedroom door pulls me away from my assessment. Brushing the loose hair into the white garbage can by the counter, I walk into the main room and hear Dad’s voice on the other side of the door.
“Are you up, Emery?” His voice is gravelly and hesitant, a tone he’s held since he helped unpack what little I brought with me from Mama’s house to this one across the state.
Truthfully, I’m not sure why either he or Mama agreed. I only ever heard from him on my birthday and Christmas and the conversation never lasted more than ten minutes if he could help it. He’s remarried with a gorgeous wife who’s the exact opposite of Mama in both looks and personality, and a stepson who’s broody and evasive no matter how hard I try getting to know him.
His life here was perfect.
Until me.
I open the door and give him a sleepy smile, which he returns easily. He tries to make me comfortable. His wife, Cam, has been nothing but sweet and her son Kaiden, despite his typical avoidance, could be worse. They’ve been welcoming since I arrived a month and a half ago, giving me anything I needed. A new doctor, a chance to decorate my room how I want, and space. Lots of space.
Dad works at a pharmaceutical company now. I don’t remember much of him from when I was little, just the suits he wore and the way he would give Mama a chaste kiss if we were around or a simple nod if he thought we weren’t looking. I never realized how unhappy they both looked then.
This man doesn’t look like the one I remember. His dark brown hair is peppered with gray, especially around the ears, and his hairline is receding. The natural tan skin I’ve always been jealous of is slightly wrinkled, and his eyes have a dull to them that I don’t recall seeing in the past. Is that from age or circumstance?
“Cam has breakfast cooking.” He rubs his arm, covered by a navy blazer, and gives me a weary look. “If you aren’t up to going today…”
Today. The first day at a new school. It’s my junior year even though I should be a senior like Kaiden. After missing too many classes from hospital admissions, I was held back.
“I’ll be fine.” It’s a weak reassurance that neither of us truly believes. It isn’t a lie though. I won’t be walking into a shark cage bleeding, so there are worse things to experience.
His gaze lingers, his eyes a light shade of brown with the same specks of emerald Mama told me I have. I don’t see it when I look in the mirror though.
“Emery…”
I stand there, gripping the doorknob in my hand until my fingers hurt, waiting for him to say something.
He clears his throat. “Happy birthday.”
Today. My eighteenth birthday.
The way Dad looks at me is like he’s trying to see someone else. Maybe he wonders if Logan would have looked the same. It’s been nine years since she passed, ten since he left.
What does he remember of her?
Instead of asking, I swallow my inquiry and force a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.”
I told him I didn’t want a party or even a special dinner. When I was younger, he and Mama would ask what we wanted for our birthdays—the meal was always our choice. Lo would always ask to go out, while I always asked to stay in. The cake was the same. Red velvet with white buttercream frosting. Honestly, there was nothing I wanted from Dad now besides temporary shelter.
No homecooked meal.
No red velvet cake.
Part of me feels like wanting anything from Dad is somehow cheating on Mama. Like forgiving him means I don’t care that he left or hurt her or us. No matter what, he abandoned us when we needed him. When Lo needed him.
He tips his head, pauses, and then turns toward the downstairs. Kaiden’s room is down the hall from mine, but he doesn’t bother him. I wonder if he’s already up and ready, an early riser. Sometimes I’ll hear him leave his room late at night and watch him sneak out of the house.
I wonder where he goes. Or if Cam knows. Or if Dad does. It isn’t my place to ask, so I leave it be.
It takes me fifteen minutes to throw on a pair of blue jeans with one of the knees ripped out and an oversized black sweater that falls off my shoulder. Running a brush through my tangled hair and leaving it loose, I note that it’s finally passing my shoulders again. Mama would probably be happy to hear that, she always loved when Lo and I kept our hair long.
Slipping into a beige pair of Toms that have pineapples all over them, I grab my new black and white checkered backpack and head downstairs. Dad is finishing up his breakfast because he has to leave for work, but Cam and Kaiden are both still working on theirs.
Cam greets me with a gentle smile, Kaiden doesn’t look at me at all, and Dad gives me a head bob before getting up and rinsing his plate off in the large stainless steel sink.
Their house is huge—two stories, plus a fully-finished basement that’s mostly used for storage. The outside is painted white, the windowsills on the bottom floor all have flowerpots attached with pink and purple plants, and the backyard stretches far enough to have a fire pit, garden, and grill area.
It isn’t anything like the house I grew up in, especially inside. There’s so much space to walk around in without tripping over furniture or people. Everything smells floral and fresh, and the modern matching style through
out every room differs from the rustic thrift store finds that litters Mama’s house.
But I like Mama’s house more.
It may have been small, but it made things more intimate. We could joke about tripping over the coffee table, which all of us had at some point. There was a bright green coat rack by the door that stuck out like a sore thumb against the pale yellow wallpaper that had little white and yellow stripes decorating the bottom half, and an orange bowl that keys, receipts, and other odds and ends always found their way in.
Mama’s house is colorful, quaint.
Dad’s house is…normal.
I never understood normal.
I’m playing with the scrambled eggs and bacon on my plate when Dad kisses Cam goodbye and tells Kaiden and I to have a good first day of school. Since I’m without a car, Kaiden is supposed to drive us and show me where the office is since Dad couldn’t get time off to bring me to the school early and show me himself.
Cam tried getting Kaiden to take me last week to familiarize myself with the campus layout, but I didn’t want him to feel obligated, so I lied and told her it was fine. Truth is, my heart is pounding so hard in my chest from nerves that I worry I’ll die from a heart attack long before my disease does me in. If the room gets any quieter, they’d probably hear it drum an uneven tune.
