Wider than the Sky

by Katherine Rothschild

  I nodded. “Forty-two houses—”

  “—they all voted yes.”

  I tilted my head. “How did you know?”

  “Emma said you didn’t see any votes at city hall.” She held up her hands. “If there weren’t something to hide, why would they be hidden?”

  I shook my head. Hidden? Where could they be? “Let’s think about it in the morning.” I yawned, and she did, too.

  “Sabine?” Blythe tilted her head to my shoulder. “I think I want a home, too.”

  “Yeah. We’ll figure it out.” We could think about that in the morning, too. I offered my hand, and she clambered out of the armoire. I helped Blythe out of her cat costume and into her pajamas, then I tucked her into bed.

  I was in bed with my eyes closed, drifting off to sleep, when she spoke again.

  “When you disappeared, it felt like Dad. Like after he died.” Her eyes were gleaming again in the moonlight. “You’re not going to leave again, are you?”

  “No.” Emily’s words floated in. I rubbed my thumb over my lower lip. “One sister have I in this house. And you’re it. Forever.”

  26

  THIS IS MY LETTER TO FORGIVE

  Sun pushed beneath my eyelids, bringing back the night before. My heart seized up as I remembered how Kai had looked at me like I was a stranger, how he’d held Emma, and how he’d let me go. On my phone was a message from him, asking me if I was okay. I wasn’t. So I put the phone away without answering.

  Blythe was already up, muttering to herself as she organized the mess that was her desk. When she saw that I was awake, she paced, pressing her hands together. This was Blythe in planning mode. “If you’re right about the neighborhood vote, then we just need to prove it.” She spoke as if we’d been in the middle of a conversation. We probably had been—in her mind. “That alone would cancel the majority of the fines.”

  “What? How?” I rubbed sleep from my eyes.

  “Two reasons: Our fines are linked to the original permit denial. And if number six was zoned business, there would be no fines for the apartment, either.”

  “But what about the historic violations?”

  “I’m not sure, but I did look at the city’s handbook.” She rolled her eyes, and I remembered the hundreds of pages that Mrs. McMichaels had dropped off our first week in Thornewood. “The requirements are different and less strict. I think Charlie’s been counting on the next neighborhood vote going his way. But if we’re right, we won’t need another vote. We just need to find the original votes.” I blinked. She was way ahead of me, thinking-wise. Blythe paced the ten-step width of the room. “If we work under the premise that you didn’t miss anything at city hall, it stands to reason the evidence is elsewhere.”

  “The recycle bin?” I asked.

  “Emma said Mrs. McMichaels’s house is like Hoarders: Antiques Edition,” Blythe said. “I doubt she throws things away. And if we accept that as fact, then the documents must be somewhere in her house.”

  I gave her the side-eye. “It’s not like she’ll let us look through her underwear drawers.”

  “No.” She sighed and sat down on the bed beside me. “But there may be another way. We need to tell Charlie.”

  “Okay,” I said. But something tugged at me. Charlie. I pulled the letter out from under my pillow. “Before you talk to him, I think you should read this.”

  “Sabine.” She gave the letter the kind of look Mom gave seasonal plaid throws. “You have to give that back.”

  “I know.” I pushed it into her hand. “But please read it first.” She blinked, turning the letter back and forth. I was afraid that she would refuse and say it wasn’t our business. But she opened it. I watched her read, wondering if she would feel the way I had: that it was like being with him again. She covered her mouth, murmuring, “door slammer,” then her eyes turned down at the edges. She folded it, then handed the letter back. I placed it carefully into its envelope.

  I let her sit with it as she looked out the window, her eyes unfocused, filling with tears. I waited. Finally, she picked up my pillow and looked at me. “When Mom and Charlie told us,” she said, “it felt like one theory of our life. But now there’s proof.” I followed her eyes to the weeping willow outside and thought of the photograph of Dad. I’d seen the proof before she had, and it had wrecked me.

  “He’s still the dad we knew,” I said, but I wasn’t sure she was ready to hear it.

  “You talk to Charlie,” she said, and curled up in my bed. “You owe him an apology anyhow. I can’t look at him for a little while.”

  I knew the feeling. I patted her shoulder and slipped out of bed, leaving it to her. “Try not to break a window, okay?” I left her there, burrowing, and got dressed.

  I swung through the kitchen and grabbed a Pop-Tart before heading up to the garage apartment, the letter heavy in my pocket. When I got there, wiping crumbs from my face, I knocked, but no one answered.

  I glanced in the big windows of the former four-car garage, wondering what was in there. Storage? It could practically be a second apartment. But no Charlie.

  I turned to the garden and saw that the old, dead ivy and blackberry brambles had been cleared from the brick retaining walls. Now, the three wide, flat terraces of the yard were visible: the willow tree and its surrounding field, the would-be rose garden, and the crumbling pond. So much potential. I heard the skitter of gravel and called out for Charlie.

  “Sabine?” Charlie came from the upper garden wearing one of my dad’s old MIT T-shirts and a pair of ripped shorts. I’d always seen him perfectly put together. Like this, he looked a little bit more human.

  “Bet you thought I’d be packing,” he said, his mouth set in a thin line. “But I’m not giving up. I’m gardening. Helps me relax.”

  I touched the letter in my pocket. “Gardening?” He gestured for me to follow. Around the corner, he was working on three newly constructed raised beds, half-planted with sage and thyme and marjoram and basil.

  “I know Maryann didn’t want anything done with the garden, but I decided to let out some aggression on a few two-by-fours.” He glanced at the window I’d broken, whole again now. “Safer than using glass.”

  “Oh,” I said, guilt nibbling at my stomach. “Sorry about the window. I can pay for it. Eventually.” Charlie picked up a trowel and a small plastic bin of lemon thyme.

  “It’s okay, Sabine.” He stopped what he was doing and looked at me for a long moment. “Believe me, I know it’s a lot to handle.” He went back to digging. “How can I help you today?”

  “Well . . .” I wondered how much to tell him. “I talked to Mr. Cade last night. He’s my French teacher. And what he said made me think we should double-check the neighborhood votes. So, during trick-or-treating time, I talked to forty-two of forty-five houses.”

  He patted the thyme down. “And?”

  “They all voted yes.”

  “Interesting. I hadn’t considered a miscount.” He picked up his spade and scooped another hole then squeezed a basil plant into the fresh soil. The smell of it was soothingly familiar.

  “I don’t know that it was a miscount,” I said. “Mr. Cade was supposed to collect the votes, but Mrs. McMichaels did instead. And he said they should be at city hall. But they’re not.”

  He paused and eyed me for a moment, like he was wondering how I’d been snooping around city hall. But he didn’t ask about it. Instead, he pressed his lips together and sprinkled soil around the bases of his newly planted herbs. He took up the next bin before he met my eyes. “So, no votes. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “If you mean that Mrs. McMichaels lied about the vote, yeah,” I said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “That woman and her denied stamp.” Charlie shook his head. “Probably sleeps with it.”

  I laughed. “And in
her hat.”

  “Stranger things, Sabine,” he said with a little smile. “I’m trained to believe people are innocent until proven guilty. But . . .” He set his jaw. “Tomorrow I’ll go to city hall. I’ll talk to the mayor. Let me handle this from here. All right?”

  I didn’t trust him or my mom to fix anything. How could the mayor help? Did he know where Mrs. McMichaels kept her secret vote stash? Not likely. But I nodded, my mind turning to the real reason I was here. “There’s something else.” I fished the rumpled, tearstained letter out of my dress pocket. “This is yours.” He brushed his hands free of dirt and reached for the letter. I held on a second too long.

  “I’d lecture you about property rights, but it’s a little early in the morning,” he said.

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” I smiled.

  “Your father’s daughter.” He squinted as the morning sun leveled with his eyes. I couldn’t tell if I was imagining it, or if he looked nervous. “How many have you read?”

  I kept my eyes on the herbs. “How did you know I took them?”

  “I saw you.” He fingered the letter before putting it in a pocket. “How much did you read, Sabine?”

  I forced my eyes to his. “Just a few. It seemed like work stuff. I guess I was dumb to think that.”

  “You understand why I had to take the letters back.” He wiped his fingers on a tea towel he had over one shoulder, like he was cooking, not gardening. “But I know we should have told you. You all have been more understanding of this . . . situation . . . than Mick thought you’d be.”

  I swallowed hearing my dad’s name. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Charlie nodded. “He was very worried. In the South, there’s no name for a man with a fluid sexual identity, let alone polyamory. Gay marriage wasn’t legal back then, and where we were from, it was dangerous to even talk about enjoying the company of both men and women. I’m not sure he knew how to explain his choices. Maybe because some of those choices led to him contracting HIV.”

  “So, you didn’t give him . . . I mean . . .” I was really regretting coming up here.

  “I’m negative, Sabine. If that’s what you’re asking. He made some regrettable choices before we met, which led to contraction of the disease. It was when he was discovering who he wanted and needed to be for a fulfilling—”

  “Maybe I don’t need to know everything,” I said, pushing away the thought of my dad as a lothario.

  “All right.” For a moment, Charlie looked very dad-aged. He picked up another plastic bin. French lavender. “I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for not telling you his story himself.” He brushed off his hands and took a step toward me. “It would be better in his voice. Would you like to read more of your dad’s letters? He mentioned you a great deal, Sabine. The poetry you read together, how you used to quiz him on botanical plant names, even your fashion commentary. A Vivienne Westwood fan, am I right?”

  Memories zinged to the surface of my mind. “Sure. But McQueen could do no wrong.” I could hear my dad asking me to give him “the fashion faux pas and yes pas” of Milan or Paris. And, even though my heart hurt, I smiled.

  “Maybe we can talk fashion sometime,” he said. I looked away, out across the yard. Charlie took a step closer to me. “You know what Mick liked best about this house?”

  “The garden,” I said. Charlie nodded. I knew my dad. Not everything, but the important things. My hope bird dug into my chest with sharp, pointed claws.

  “He had dreams of maple trees and wide patios and raised vegetable beds.” Charlie set his gardening gloves aside. “And I wanted that for him. I wanted it for all of us. I know I may not get it now, but I still want it. Your dad’s not here to want things for you, Sabine, but I am.”

  He’d made these raised beds for my dad. He’d made them so we could remember who my dad had been—not just to him, but to all of us. And even though he could have left and started a life of his own, he’d stayed here, to help realize the dreams my dad had and could never fulfill. “Call me Bean,” I said.

  Then I couldn’t stop myself. I launched into his arms.

  He caught me, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and patting my head with the other. “There, now. Don’t I know it.” His voice cracked. “It’s going to be all right.”

  I was crying, really crying. But I didn’t care. I might not have my dad anymore, but I had Charlie. And having him was like having a piece of my dad—only a piece of my dad I never knew.

  When I stepped back, wiping my eyes, he smiled, his blue eyes shining. I could see what my dad saw in him—when he smiled, he sparkled. Maybe I had to accept that people were infinitely imperfect. I sure was.

  I needed a chance to get to know Charlie, and the dad I wished I’d truly known. Just a chance.

  But the only way I could have that chance was if we kept the house. And to do that . . . I needed to find the votes. And the only person who might be able to help me do that was Emma. Emma, who had let me wear her handmade designs on my soda-sticky self. Emma, who loved fashion as much as I did. Emma, whose would-be boyfriend I had tried to steal, and who now hated me. I didn’t know how I was going to get her help.

  But I knew I had to try.

  27

  A FACE DEVOID OF LIFE

  Just after five, Blythe and I walked up to the McMichaels mansion. It was a tall yellow Victorian with white trim surrounded by neatly clipped boxwood hedges. An old-fashioned streetlamp cast a yellow glow on a plaque proclaiming it the second-oldest house in the fine city of thornewood. Another sign said: no solicitors.

  Add to the list of Thornewood favorites: signage.

  We stepped into the courtyard. It was thick with the smell of last season’s roses and perfectly kept. But as we approached the front door, the rose smell was replaced by a dank basement smell, like overcooked beets. Blythe hesitated before knocking. Emma answered the door wearing Kai’s soccer sweatshirt and a bored expression. The sight of the sweatshirt pushed a knife in my stomach. It had taken less than forty-eight hours for Emma to go further with his sweatshirt than I ever had. That sweatshirt had only touched my knees. Then I internally bled out as Kai himself emerged.

  “I was just leaving.” He slid into his Nikes in the shadows behind Emma. He glanced at me, then at Blythe. Blythe blinked, looking from Kai to me, then Kai to Emma, then Emma to me. She sighed audibly and pushed past us into the dark foyer. She peered around, already searching for evidence.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Kai glanced at Emma, and I wished I’d answered his message—at least I could have told him that I was sorry I’d left, even if now it seemed like I’d been right to leave them alone together.

  “No, go.” She squeezed his bicep. “You’ve been playing like crap. Get some rest.” It wasn’t until Kai slipped past me that I realized he must not be planning to quit soccer after all. I was watching him ignore me when Emma spoke. “Kai! Your sweatshirt!” He stopped and turned around. She took it off, revealing a very ladylike blouse. She was about to run to him when she saw Blythe making a nuisance of herself with the entryway mail. She handed me the sweatshirt. “Give this to him.” His sweatshirt was still warm. It didn’t smell like him anymore, but like Emma: gardenia perfume. Still, I held it close as I walked out to the sidewalk, where he was waiting, flipping a skateboard back and forth between his feet.

  I’d never seen him with a skateboard, not that it was surprising. It just made him seem like more of a stranger, with his gardenia-scented sweatshirt and his Element board.

  “Probably can’t live without it.” I said, and handed it to him. He took it from me and swept it over his head. Then he made a face, as if he thought the perfume was a bit much, too. I was fully expecting him to kick off and take to the street, weaving his way back home, but he didn’t. He kept flipping his board. The noise was incredibly loud. Flip. Clunk. Flip, flip. Clunk.

  “I�
��m not a bird, you know,” he said. I stared at him for a long time before realizing what he meant. The poem: if I can stop one heart from breaking. It was about saving a robin by putting it back in its nest. It didn’t mean a literal robin, and I didn’t think he thought it did. But the fact that he’d gone home, looked up the poem, and thought about how it wasn’t about a robin made me feel impaled. At the dance, he’d been holding Emma. It felt like he’d chosen her, like he would always choose her, like she’d always be there, between us. But he’d gone home and looked up the poem.

  I didn’t know how to say the things I was thinking. “It’s not about a bird.” Flip. Clunk. Flip, clunk.

  “I thought it was deep. The poetry?” He looked up from his skateboard, eyebrows knitted. “I thought it was awesome. But maybe it is crazy. I mean, do you want to be like her and hide in your house? And just write poetry? And never love anyone?”

  “What?” I tried to ignore the crazy part. “Dickinson did more than just write poetry.”

  “She was a shut-in.” He put his foot on the board to stop it.

  “She had her reasons,” I said, thinking of her loving someone who couldn’t love her back. The crushing pain of wanting, of loving, gripped my heart. He crossed his arms over his chest, and my traitorous mind thought about what it was like to place my head there. For one second. One and a half.

  “Why did you leave, Sabine?” He tipped his board again, and I found myself missing the Hacky. Flip. Clunk. “Why didn’t you answer my message? You owe me an explanation.”

  I swallowed over the tightness in my throat. I wanted so badly to go to him as if nothing had happened with Emma. As if he hadn’t kept her secret, even as I stood by wondering what was going on, as if he hadn’t comforted her at the dance instead of following me. But if I went to him and apologized, and told him how much I regretted leaving the dance, he might choose her again. “Would it have mattered?”