Breathless

by Jennifer Niven

  I write more. Pause. Reread it. And then I delete it. Up on the wall Danny grins back at me, and in spite of my broken heart and the lump that now lives in my throat, I feel bad for complaining about anything. I say, “I’m sorry you drowned. I’m so sorry you died so young.”

  * * *

  —

  The refrigerator and cabinets are stocked with juice and milk and cereal and fruit, and every other food we could possibly want, courtesy of Addy. The clock above the stove says it’s 6:34. I grab a pear and walk around that lofty, open room, looking at every photograph, every souvenir. Addy is everywhere, and as nice as it is to see a familiar face, it’s clear that we are in someone else’s home, someone else’s life.

  My mom appears, Dandelion in her arms. “It seems nice.”

  “It does.”

  “There are a lot of boys running around.”

  I ignore this because the only boy I’m interested in is back in Ohio.

  I say, “So the Blackwoods are family and we’re like the poor, down-on-our-luck relations?”

  “Something like that. Your great-grandmother Eva was Sam Jr.’s oldest child, Claudine’s big sister. Eva was already off at boarding school when Claudine was born. After their mother died, she never lived on the island again….” She rattles off names and dates.

  Even though I want to know more, I’m not about to let on. I interrupt her. “I’ll just take your word for it.”

  It turns out that Samuel Blackwood Sr., my great-something-grandfather, was a famous railroad tycoon. One of the railroad tycoons. As in American royalty, which feels like one more secret I never knew.

  “So basically all those years I was babysitting and working at the bookstore and Dad was buying all his shirts on eBay and you were driving your ten-year-old Volkswagen, we could have been living the high life?”

  “The Blackwood fortune disappeared years ago.”

  Too bad, I think. I could use that money right now to get myself home, or, even better, to New York or Los Angeles, somewhere I can start over, where there aren’t people I love who will keep letting me down.

  “Did you let Dad know we got here?” Not that he cares.

  “I did.”

  “Was he like, ‘Oh, thank God. I’m so glad you all are far, far away’?”

  “No, Claude. He misses you.”

  I stare at the floor.

  She says, “I was thinking we could explore a little. Maybe go to the inn for dinner.”

  “I don’t care. Whatever.” I wonder what my dad is doing back home, if he’s lying around eating thumbprint cookies or running miles and miles. If he’s making an elaborate meal for himself and Bradbury, or maybe wishing he hadn’t sent us away.

  Mom sets Dandelion down, and he slinks off, running here and there and all around, sniffing everything, ducking under chairs and tables.

  “Addy once told me, ‘Don’t lose today.’ As in don’t hide behind yesterday or hold back from tomorrow. We’re going to make this an adventure, Claude. If any two people can, it’s us.”

  And then she hugs me and I breathe her in, my mom who smells like roses—only she doesn’t smell like roses anymore, she smells like honeysuckle, and for a second my world tilts. It was my dad who gave her the rose perfume every Christmas, and from now on she will smell like honeysuckle instead.

  Even though I don’t want to, I say, “Fine. Let’s go explore.”

  And when she pulls away, she gives me a smile that says, I know this is hard for you, and I appreciate your meeting me halfway, or at least partway. My smile in return says, I’m trying, and as usual we’re talking without words, a conversation my dad has never been able to join in.

  * * *

  —

  The live oaks on the left side of the path and the live oaks on the right side of the path reach for each other, limbs entwining overhead, creating a tunnel. The path rises and we follow, climbing over a row of dunes, long grass toothpicking out of them like feathers. After this is a meadow, and then dunes again. The sand is as thick and deep as a plush carpet. It suction-cups to my feet, which sink with each step so that it’s like walking through mud. And then, suddenly, the sky opens up.

  Even behind my sunglasses, I’m blinded by white and blue. The white is the beach, stretching as far as the eye can see. The blue is the water, lapping against the sand. Mom grabs my arm for balance, pulling off one shoe and then the other. She gathers her hair, blowing wild in the wind, and ties it back into a messy knot. She is beautiful—as bright and vivid as a field of daisies—but she doesn’t know it. This is because all her life, everyone has been telling her how smart she is, but the first time someone other than my dad told her she was pretty, she was, like, thirty.

  I say, “You look beautiful.” It’s now my job to say these things, and to buy her honeysuckle perfume. And in that moment I want to tell her I’ve decided not to go to Columbia, that instead I’m going to stay with her forever so I can make sure no one ever hurts her again.

  She throws an arm around me and stares out at the sea. “Your dad once told me I was the second-prettiest girl in the room, and I was so flattered because I knew he was being honest. But now I’m thinking that was a really shit thing to say.”

  She looks at me. I look at her. And maybe it’s the fact that we’re finally here, in this place I’ve been dreading, and it doesn’t look like a prison at all, or maybe it’s the fact that we are two emotionally shattered people in desperate need of sleep, but we sit right down on the sand and start to laugh. It’s a laugh I need, and I hold on to it longer than I would normally because it feels so good. As it dies away, we both make this winding-down noise, like a sigh, at the exact same moment, and that gets us started again.

  Finally, she wipes her eyes and says to me, “Promise you’ll let me know what you need this summer. I’m still your mom, and I want to be here for you.”

  “I promise.” But even as I say it, the laughter is already fading and I can feel myself closing up. We’re here together, but there is still the sense of separation, of every woman for herself.

  DAY 1

  (STILL)

  By the time we get to the inn, the sky is turning a soft pinkish gold. In spite of its grandness, the inn also feels welcoming, maybe because this was once a family home, and I wish we were staying here instead of at Addy’s, which feels too personal. Here, at least, I might trick myself into believing we’re just on vacation. We join the other guests, who are gathered on the wide front porch, drinks in hand, for cocktail hour. They smile. I smile.

  “I’m Lauren Llewelyn and this is my daughter, Claudine.”

  “Claudine,” someone says.

  “Claude,” I say.

  “Claude.”

  They introduce themselves, and I will never remember their names, but I smile and chat and laugh politely, wearing my green sundress, the one with the ballerina skirt, because at the inn you dress for dinner. We walk past the rocking chairs and porch swings and go inside, which is cool and dark and from a different era.

  By now most of the guests have moved down the hall to the living room, which looks more like a rambling old library. There are two portraits on opposite walls, one of an African American woman in a white dress, around forty years old, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on some faraway object, the other of a white woman in red, about the same age, with a sleek blond bob, pistol at her waist. She stares out of the frame as if she’s daring you to cross her.

  Mom says, “That’s Claudine.” We stand in front of her and she half smiles, half glares down from the frame as if she’s making up her mind about us. This is not the Claudine I imagined. All this time, I’d been picturing someone frail and hollow-eyed, worn down by tragedy, but this woman sits ramrod straight, as if her spine is made of steel.

  I can’t help myself. “Why did her mother kill herself?” I ask without looking away
from her, because for some reason I can’t look away from her. I don’t want to.

  “I don’t think anyone knows the real story. She didn’t leave a note, and there was speculation that she was depressed. I’m hoping my work here will help me find out.”

  In spite of her mother’s suicide and the fact that she never left this island for long, even after she was grown, Claudine looks fierce and fearless—as if she could take on the world—and I want to be her.

  Mom says, “Claudine was not only the grandmother I wish I’d had, but the woman who turned this estate into an inn. Before that it was a kind of guesthouse, meant to go to my grandmother after she married, but of course she didn’t want it, so it became a home away from home for family and friends, a place for everyone to gather. Claudine saw its potential. She was a woman outside her time. And that”—she nods at the woman in white—“is Clovis Samms. She built the island’s first hotel, up at the north end, and was the first and only female root doctor here, some said the best in all the South. She used herbs, roots, and ointments to heal people. Also a woman outside her time. I don’t know enough about her, but I want to learn more.”

  She puts her arm around my shoulders, and we tilt our heads, letting them touch. Then we separate and, carrying our drinks, mingle with the guests. I imagine myself through their eyes. Lanky. Freckled. My mom’s younger twin.

  Maybe that’s why. Because we’re too much alike. He feels outnumbered.

  After a few minutes, I tell my mom I need the bathroom and wander down the hall to the bar, which is empty. I give it a minute, and when no one comes in, I slip behind the bar itself, double-check that the coast is clear, and grab a beer from the fridge. I twist it open and take a drink.

  “I’d say you’re about five years too early for that.”

  The boy who carried our luggage moseys over to me, takes the bottle out of my hand, and empties it into the sink. He’s wearing the same shorts and black shirt from earlier, his feet still bare. He looks totally out of place here in this genteel old inn with everyone else dressed in their finest.

  “Actually, now that I look at you, maybe six years too early.”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  He studies me for a second. “Huh.” Then he picks up a pen and flips open the notepad that sits on the corner of the bar. “Drinks work on the honor system, Lady Blackwood, so you’ll want to write down everything you take, which I’m guessing is going to be a lot. I’ll let this one slide.” He walks around to the fridge, where I’m still standing, for some reason, and reaches past me, so close I can smell him—like fresh sheets and the great outdoors. He hands me a soda. “Go ahead, you try.” He nods at the pad of paper. Gives me an encouraging smile.

  I set the soda down unopened.

  I say, “My mom is waiting for me.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.”

  I reach past him this time, grab two minibar-size Absoluts, and drop them into my pocket.

  I say, “You can write them on my tab.” And walk out. A second later, I come back in. He’s watching the door like he’s expecting me. “By the way? I’m older than my years. And if there’s really ‘everything to do here,’ why don’t you show me?” I cross back to the bar, pick up the pen, and write my phone number on the notepad.

  Heart thumping, I walk out again and into the first room I come to, which is a cozier version of the living room. It is floor-to-ceiling books and smells like leather. I meant to find the living room instead, but the boy is still out there, so I pretend this is where I want to be. I choose a book at random—The Secret Garden—and take a seat on the couch. I fish the vodka bottles out of my pocket, swallow the contents of both, and place the empties side by side on the end table.

  My head buzzes a little and my blood feels warm. I flip through the book for a minute and then lay it down and scroll through my phone, rereading the text chain from Wyatt. I pull up the shirtless picture and stare at it, imagining lying beside him, on top of him, underneath him, just so many naked limbs intertwined.

  The universe is clearly playing a funny, funny joke on me. Because now he asks. Now.

  I write: I’d love to hang out. In Georgia right now with my mom but will be home soon. But there’s nowhere for it to go, so it sits there, unsent.

  I sink back, disappearing into the couch, and chew on my finger, thinking of ways to get to him. I could catch the ferry tomorrow and go to the mainland and ask Saz to pick me up. I could call my mom’s sister, Katie-May, who lives in Savannah. Or hack into my dad’s Uber account and order myself a car to take me to Ohio.

  At some point, I hear the ringing of a bell. The rise and fall of voices. The creaking and clacking of footsteps on stairs. My mom appears in the doorway. “That’s dinner.” She’s expecting movement—close book, stand up, walk out of room. Her eyes go to the Absolut bottles, then back to me.

  “Claude.”

  “Mom.”

  She frowns at the bottles, so I pick them up, place the book back on the shelf, and brush past her. I return the bottles to the bar, which is now empty. I don’t look to see if the boy took my number. I just walk right out and keep going, Mom on my heels, down the stairs to the dining room.

  * * *

  —

  We sit at a large table with three sisters, a photographer from Nashville, and a family of four. Jared from the dock, with the glasses and friendly face, is one of the servers. He waves at me from across the room. I wave back.

  And then I look around at each person and think, How many floors have you pulled out from under people? This photographer, this mother of two, these sisters—somewhere in this world there is probably someone who’s missing a floor right now thanks to them.

  The conversations are the same: What brought you to the island? Where are you from? What do you do back in the real world? How long are you here?

  I tell them: “We’re in hiding.”

  “Witness protection.”

  “We witnessed a murder.”

  “My father was a serial killer.”

  “We’re here indefinitely.”

  “Probably for the rest of my life.”

  With every comment, Mom comes along behind me, cleaning up my mess, assuring everyone that I’m a writer, too imaginative for my own good. She gives me a look and I ignore it.

  After dessert we all begin to trickle out, and as I walk past Jared, he says, “There’s a group of us that works here. If you get bored, come to the kitchen. You can find us there till around midnight, sometimes later.”

  “Is this your summer job?”

  “I’m year-round. Most of us are.”

  “How old are you, anyway?” I’m not sure what makes me ask this, maybe because he looks too young to be here full time.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “You look sixteen.”

  “I know.” He laughs like, Oh well, like this is something he’s used to hearing. “People usually don’t take me seriously till they get to know me. I’m everyone’s little brother. How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You look sixteen too.”

  “I know. It’s annoying.”

  “Yeah.” And I think maybe, just maybe—if I were planning to get to know anyone here, which I’m not—we could be friends. I glance over at my mom, standing by the stairs, talking to the photographer and the sisters. I say, “So where’s the kitchen?”

  “This way.” I follow him into this little room with baseball caps and photos and books for sale, and beyond it is the kitchen, which is enormous and homey, and bustling with cooks and staffers my age or a little older, laughing and talking and joking around as they work. I want to be a part of it—of them—and suddenly I feel left out of everything everywhere. I picture Saz and Wyatt back in Ohio at some huge, raging party.

  “There’s really no phone service here?”
r />   “Only for inn guests and emergencies.”

  “And no Wi-Fi?”

  “Just at the general store, but the hours are weird. The good thing is, you get used to it after a while, being offline. It helps you be here, as in here”—he waves his hands at the room—“and not out there.” He waves them broader, as if encompassing the whole world. “You’ll see. Time moves a little differently. People move differently. Here you can just be, well, you. It’s one reason we stay. Or if we do leave, we end up coming back.”

  “Is there a map of the island?”

  He hands me a map from one of the gift-shop shelves and says, “You can have it.”

  “Thanks. Jared, right?”

  He grins. “Yeah. Claude?”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  —

  Outside, the hot, heavy air is humming—Mom says the sound is cicadas, but they’re ten times louder than any cicadas I’ve heard before, a rattling, pulsating sound you feel in your skin and your bones. As we walk through the dark to our house, she doesn’t mention the vodka, but she does tell me to curb the witness-protection, serial-killer talk.

  “Just making conversation.” And the meanest part of me, the part that is furious and hurt and wants her to make things right with my dad so we can go home, the part that thinks maybe some of this is her fault as well as his, likes the feeling of pushing her away.

  * * *

  —

  It’s after eleven when I crawl into bed. Dandelion curls up next to me and starts to purr, and I stretch out on this new mattress and these new sheets. I’ve pulled the curtains and left a light on in the kitchen and also in the bathroom so that I don’t get lost if I get up in the night.

  I lie there staring up at the photo of Danny, frozen in time with a sprinkling of freckles and a sunburned nose. For the rest of my life, he will always look like this. I wonder if he’s a ghost. They say that can happen with a violent death—imprints and energies left behind.