“Did you talk to Max?”
I exhale. “Not sure what I did.”
Umé squeezes my shoulder and slips into the bathroom.
I drop to my knees, grab Grace’s skinny wrists. “What happened, Gracie? Did you slip and fall into the water?”
Grace’s eyes glaze as she fixes on a framed black-and-white photo on a stand beside the bathroom door. A picture of Connor as a little boy, holding hands with his dad as they walk along a pebbled beach. Grace’s eyes well with tears. I wrap her in my arms, and she slaps my chest and pushes me away. I squeeze harder, but Grace squirms, wriggling to break free.
“Leave me alone, Aggi!”
“I can’t. I don’t want to.”
She grabs my forearms, digs her nails deep into the skin.
“Don’t tell them,” she whispers.
“What? Who?”
“Mom and Dad. Don’t tell them what happened tonight. I don’t want them to know.”
I nod, then shake my head.
“I mean it!” Now Grace rakes her nails across my wrists. “Promise you won’t say anything.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I promise. I won’t.”
Grace glares, refusing to blink, even as her eyes pool with tears that spill onto her cheeks and run down her chin.
It is in that moment, when Grace makes me swear on my life, that I’m unclear if my sister fell from the dock or jumped on purpose. In my heart, nothing about this night feels like an accident.
17
Max
WHEN I ASKED CONNOR FOR cocoa, I didn’t mean cognac. I meant a damn cup of hot chocolate. But thanks to the drink, my lungs are now two million degrees and I’m no longer worrying about my boot lost at sea.
Instead, I’m staring at the pool house, eager for Aggi to emerge in her bathing suit. She’s taking forever, and this girl I’ve known since elementary school, Rebecca, keeps inching next to me on the hot tub bench.
The door swings open, and Connor dives at Aggi. She picks his hand from her shoulder like a dirty napkin and says, “Thanks, but we need to go.”
As I stand to climb out of the hot tub, Rebecca drapes her arms over my back. Apparently, she drank the same hot chocolate I did. I tuck my head to the side, try to slip out of her arms, and shout, “Hey! Connor!” for no reason other than to get Aggi’s attention.
Aggi glances over as Rebecca jumps on my back and hooks me in a choke hold. My feet slip out from under me, and my shoulder slams against the hot tub bench.
Floating facedown is my only recourse. Aggi saw me. Probably heard me gag when Rebecca choked me. And now all I want to do is float into oblivion.
A hand grabs a clump of my hair and lifts my head above water. Henry’s eye level, standing outside the tub. “You okay, bud?”
My feet fall in front of me as Rebecca shouts my name from the other side of the water. “I’ll be right back, Max! Getting more hot chocolate!”
I nod, because that’s what I do. Show everyone I agree while disagreeing on the inside.
Aggi watches Rebecca climb from the hot tub, snatch a towel, and head for the kitchen. “Yeah. We’re definitely going.”
I fall backward into the hot tub, splashing everyone sitting along the edge in their street clothes. It doesn’t matter. If someone wants to kick my ass, let them. I’m exhausted inside and out. On my back, I stare at the black oily sky speckled with light until Henry’s hairy foot jabs me in the ribs.
“I have an idea.”
“Just let me drown,” I moan.
Henry laughs. “Not in this lifetime.”
18
Aggi
WHEN GRACE WAS FIVE YEARS old, Dad took us to see beavers building a dam on the east side of Plum Lake. We cut through a steep section of the woods so Grace could stand high above the trees and view the lake as the birds do. Grace was always complaining about being too short or too little and wanting to grow.
Dad had made the trek with each of his girls for years, and it had become a rite of passage. When our legs were long and strong enough to make the journey, we’d set out for the hour-long hike. Grace’s preschooler stumps zigzagged and wandered out of sight as she chased a squirrel into the brush, but Dad would stop and whistle, and Grace would rush over the pine straw, reaching for one of our hands.
Dad always announced our arrival with magical words. “Would you look at that?” or “See what they’ve done?”
Dad scooped Grace up in his basket arms and motioned for Kate and me to take the lead. We stood side by side, mouths gaping, as we stared at the forty-foot dam emerging from the water’s edge. The dam changed shape every time we visited the beavers, and Dad enjoyed spewing fun facts about an animal most of the lake people loathed.
Kate and I were about as excited to see a big pile of sticks as Grace was. We were there for the beavers. But if we were patient, the reward was worth the wait.
As we climbed up the footpath that led to the trail, we heard the splash.
“There he is!” Dad shouted, grabbing Grace by the armpits and plopping her over his head and onto his shoulders.
“Where, Daddy?”
“Where, Dad?”
“Where?”
Our eyes darted around the dam until Dad whispered, “There.”
A slap of water rustled the grass near the edge of the lake, and we watched as swirling lines of water led us to a brownish-red doglike animal.
“He’s still working,” Dad whispered. “Means he hasn’t found his mate yet.”
“Mate?” Grace asked. “What’s that?”
“A friend.” Dad smiled and winked at Kate. “Like Aggi and Max or Kate and Cal.”
Kate scoffed. “Uh . . . yeah . . . something like that.”
We watched as the beaver gnawed bark from a fallen tree, scooped up straw and moss with his nose, and dumped it onto his back for transport.
Grace was mesmerized. The beavers made more of an impact on her than they ever had on Kate and me.
“How do you know it’s a boy, Daddy?” she asked as Kate and I snickered.
Dad was patient, though, and answered every question Grace threw at him.
“Well, the boy beavers usually build the houses.”
Kate groaned and Dad smiled.
“Sorry, Kate. Beavers adhere to sexist gender roles.”
“When will he get a girlfriend?” Grace asked.
“Or boyfriend,” Kate snapped.
“Well, I don’t know,” Dad said. “Maybe when he finishes the dam.”
The beaver dived into the water, and Grace grew impatient.
“Where’d he go, Daddy? I don’t see him.”
Dad shuffled along the slope as Grace bounced on his shoulders, and he moved closer to the water’s edge.
“Stay behind me, girls. We don’t want to scare him away.”
“Or get attacked by a beaver,” Kate said, and Grace gasped.
“Yeah, his teeth are seriously long and sharp,” I said, and Dad shushed me.
“Let’s not scare your sister, girls.”
“I don’t see him, Daddy.”
“Keep looking. Beavers can hold their breath underwater for fifteen minutes, maybe longer, before coming up for air.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “That’s a long time, right, Daddy?”
“It sure is.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Gracie?”
“I’m going to be a beaver when I grow up.”
19
Aggi
GRACE INSISTS WE DROP HER off at Dr. Nelson’s, and on the way to the house makes me swear again I won’t tell Mom and Dad what happened at the dock tonight. We lock pinkies and swear to the beaver gods—Grace’s words.
When we arrive at Dr. Nelson’s, she shoves pineapple upside-down cake at us, which we devour and chase with milk.
“This is the best damn pineapple upside-down cake I’ve ever eaten,” Umé says, sucking her fingertips.
“It’s the cherries,” Dr. Nelson says. “Nobody uses the
cheap maraschino cherries anymore. All this fear over red dye—”
“Red Number Four,” Grace says flatly, her saucer lined with the cherries she picked from her cake.
“I ate maraschino cherries when I was a kid. Drank the syrup straight from the jar. And look at me.” Dr. Nelson pats her stomach. “Healthy as a bloody horse.”
“Dr. Nelson?” Grace says. “The average life span of a horse is thirty years.”
Dr. Nelson and Grace lock eyes. Dr. Nelson has been a stand-in mother to Grace since Kate’s death. They have a mutual respect, and when they stare at each other, one could get lost in the perplexity of love they share. The hard lines in Dr. Nelson’s face soften, and her tightly drawn lips drop into a curve. “You’re right, Gracie. Those cherries are probably bad for us.”
I ask Dr. Nelson if I can borrow her hair dryer, and she nods without question.
“Second drawer to the right of the sink!” she shouts as I’m halfway to the bathroom.
“You’re the best, Dr. N!”
“Tell me something I’m unaware of.”
After tossing my clothes into the dryer and sipping two cups of hot tea with honey, I’m ready to continue the night with Umé.
Back in the kitchen, Grace holds a pinky in the air, and I assure her the secret is safe. It’s not like what happened this afternoon would change Mom and Dad into concerned parents who listen to their kids and hug them in times of crisis. That’s who they were before the crash. BC.
Bereavement-support pamphlets the hospital offered us said there was no perfect order to the grieving process. We might experience anger, guilt, sadness, and shock. We could have crying spells (we did), headaches (yes), and trouble sleeping (still do). During the first few weeks after Kate died, any reaction was possible and normal. Dad’s growing anger and Mom’s distancing from Grace were normal reactions to the pain we all felt. Length of time, however, was subjective. One pamphlet said in six weeks we might start to feel better in some small way, while another pamphlet said there was no definitive timeline. I clung to those six weeks, though. Crossed days off a calendar in my room, and the closer we got to the six-week mark, the smaller the lump in my throat became. But nothing changed except that Dad got louder and Mom more withdrawn.
If I mentioned to my parents what happened with Grace tonight, fingers would be pointed. So my lips are sealed.
Grace nods, and I attempt to hold her gaze, but she turns her head and races down the hall squealing, “Dr. Nelson! Do you know what time it is?”
Dr. Nelson’s voice booms, and I jump as she shouts, “It’s Yahtzee time!”
Glimpses of baby Grace splash before me, and they all involve Max and our life on the lake.
Grace, no more than two years old, tumbling in the tall grass as she chased Max’s new puppy, Pawtrick Swayze. A birthday present for Max. Kate and Cal were sitting on the porch together. Cal, strumming his guitar, hitting and sometimes not hitting notes while Kate sang along. I wove around the yard as Grace chased me, laughing, tipping over, and as soon as she saw Max’s new dog, she squealed and charged after it. “Puh-py. Puh-py.”
My mother scooped Grace up in her arms, perched her on her hip, as Max’s mom and dad joined mine in a quiet huddle that soon turned to laughter before splitting apart. My mom and Max’s mom zipped up the front steps and disappeared into the house. My dad and Max’s dad wandered off to the barn for a beer. Max’s dad patted my dad’s shoulder, their guts busting from belly-filled laughs. Me, Max, and Grace spent the day playing with the new puppy. It was one of the best days I can remember.
“I’m going to give the dog a tribute name,” Max said.
“A tribute to what?” I asked.
Max’s eyes lit up; his dimples popped. “Like a tribute band. But to you, Aggi. You and your favorite movie.”
“Oh no! Please don’t name him Baby.”
Max burst out laughing and Cal jogged up behind us, swinging an arm around his brother’s back. “What are you going to name him, Maxwell?”
“Aggi loves Dirty Dancing. It’s her favorite movie of all time. Right, Ag?”
Cal tilted his head. “Of all time?”
I shrugged. I did really love that movie. Even as a young girl, and I still do.
“So I’m going to give my dog a tribute name. One Aggi will love.”
Kate joined us, bending down and tickling the dog’s belly as he plopped over onto his chubby side. We were standing in a circle with the dog in the middle.
“Well—?” Cal asked. “Don’t leave us hanging. What are you going to call him?”
Max inhaled all dramatic-like and said, “Introducing my new basset hound, Pawtrick Swayze!”
“Pawtrick Swayze?” Cal and Kate laughed.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Cal raised his eyebrows while Kate belly-laughed.
“Aggi?” Max asked. “You get it, right? The actor you like in that movie. Patrick Swayze.”
I bent down on my knees, and Max’s puppy climbed up my thighs and leaped at my face, his oversized tongue and ears flopping. “I love Pawtrick Swayze!”
Dr. Nelson shoves a plastic container of pineapple upside-down cake at Umé before we leave. She asks me three times to take some home for me and my family, but I refuse, insisting I’ll stop by tomorrow if there are any leftovers.
“Did something happen at home?” Dr. Nelson whispers to me at the door. “Grace didn’t want to stay at home tonight?”
I slowly nod and lock eyes with Dr. Nelson.
“Thought so,” she says. “Well, come back if you need to. Don’t care how late it is.”
Dr. Nelson keeps a watchful eye on us as we climb inside the car. As we pull out of the driveway, Umé asks if we’re going back to Connor’s.
I remember how good Max looked walking along the trail from Connor’s house to the lake, bopping the tops of the torches. How he leaned against a pine tree’s stump, leg bent, foot flat against the bark. The breeze blew, shifting a blanket of glow from the fire pit to light up Max’s body as he shifted his feet and went from shadow to spotlight. Thank you, fire.
Max dove into the water without hesitation. He acted on instinct. Grace was family. She was his sister, too. He even sacrificed a boot to save her tonight. I feel terrible about his boot.
I should have thanked Max before leaving Connor’s house. There was a moment on the dock when I thought Max was hesitating, waiting for me to say something, like what he did meant so much to me. It was the first time we’d been alone since before Cal’s funeral. Now I regret not saying more.
It was obvious Max wasn’t with Rebecca in the hot tub. He wasn’t flaunting a new relationship in my face. That’s not the Max I knew before the accident. The one I caught a glimpse of tonight on the dock. Even if he is dating someone new, what business is it of mine? A goddamn year has passed, and Max still watches out for me, for Grace, but he sends mixed messages, too. At the lake, he looked right at me when he told Umé he wasn’t seeing anyone, yet those girls at his house . . .
“We’d better not go back to Connor’s.” Though I feel pulled in opposite directions, returning to the lake party is a terrible idea. No matter how badly I want to see Max, I can’t risk what might happen if I do. “I’d rather show you something amazing instead.”
Umé and I hardly speak as we drive from Dr. Nelson’s house into the center of the small college town. The side of the highway is snow-packed, but bare pavement shortens our drive to under twenty minutes.
When we arrive on campus, Umé protests with a series of “hell no”s.
“I hate college,” she says. “The thought of four more years after four years of high school makes we want to barf. Besides, we’re from the lake. And townies don’t mesh well with lake kids.”
I disagree with Umé. Kate would have fit in just fine at college. It was her plan. She loved books and adored learning. Piano was her passion, though, which is why she and Cal got along so well. They were both musicians. Kate learned to play the
piano from an actual instructor, though, and Cal taught himself the guitar, but they connected, especially during the holidays when Mom made Kate play horrible Christmas tunes. Cal would jazz up the music with his guitar and deep, throaty voice. Kate would roll her fingers up and down the scale. They harmonized.
I wonder if Kate and Cal would still have written songs together after she went away to school.
THE HARMONY OF US
Lyrics by Kate Frank and Cal Granger
Surround us
When you’re around us
We don’t fight it
We willingly ignite it
And now we write songs and think about it
How does our story unfold?
The words you’ll hear told
Will they grapple with your soul?
Take me
Take all
Turn me inside out and make me whole
Let my heart change the beat
Your words breathe
Consume me
You surround me as I’m around you
Is it time to move the clock?
Will you want what I want?
Surround me as I’m around you
This is the harmony of us
This is the harmony of us
20
Aggi
“SO WHY THE SCIENCE BUILDING when we could be in a hot tub full of half-naked people acquiring flesh-eating bacteria or something worse?”
I fumble with my ID card and swipe it twice until the door beeps and unlocks. “Don’t make me answer that question.” Though I don’t have an answer for Umé. Going to the rooftop was a spontaneous decision. The last time I was up there, the best and worst happened to me.
Umé and I climb the stairwell until we reach the top floor. Umé claims she’s out of breath as she lingers on the stairs, staring at her phone screen.
“Who are you texting?” I call from the landing.
She ignores my question and quickly slides the phone into her pocket.
“Hold on!” she calls, stomping up the stairs. “My lungs.”
I’m feeling the impact of my time in the lake. The plunge did damage to my insides that could take days to repair. I wonder if Max’s lungs are burning from the cold, too.
Since We Last Spoke Page 9
