Drowning With Others

by Linda Keir

  Junior year was two lines alongside a black-and-white photo that must have been taken by one of Mom’s friends on the yearbook—Lacrustine—staff. It was at the peristyle, and they actually looked a lot more grown-up despite their school clothes. Although the reason they were at the peristyle was undoubtedly to sneak cigarettes.

  The whole school assumes we’re going to get married.

  I don’t know about that, but I can’t really imagine life without him . . .

  Senior year offered only a single line. Paired with photos of them in their caps and gowns for graduation, it offered a literal picture of excitement about the future, but Cassidy couldn’t help noticing that her mom revealed less and less with every passing year.

  I’m going to Smith, and Ian just got his acceptance letter to Amherst!!!!

  Even from the attic she heard them coming home: first Rusty barking, then slamming doors and Mom yelling at Whitney and Owen to carry in the rest of the groceries. Cassidy was opening boxes and thinking about how much her family’s attic resembled a stereotypical attic in a stereotypical movie: vast, with piles of boxes mingled with outgrown toys and antique furniture. Why didn’t her parents get rid of this stuff?

  Maybe—she shuddered—they were saving it all for her.

  There was a lot of stuff, but at least it was well organized: even the papers had been filed in storage boxes and labeled in Mom’s handwriting. And when Cassidy found two full boxes marked GLENLAKE: IAN and GLENLAKE: ANDI, she thought she’d hit pay dirt.

  She’d started with Dad’s just because it was on top, but so far hadn’t found much except report cards, yearbooks, multiple clippings from student newspapers where Dad had scored the game-winning point, and a stiff, neatly folded letterman jacket. She was just lifting the lid off a shoebox full of what Mrs. Demarest, the Glenlake librarian, would have called ephemera when she heard the twins thumping up the attic stairs.

  “What’s up, Cass?” said Whitney, Owen right behind her.

  “Nothing, Whit,” said Cassidy irritably. Mom was right: She didn’t like to be called that. But she hadn’t thought twice when Mr. Kelly had done it. From him it seemed . . . nice. Respectful, in a weird way. Like they were equals.

  “I hate it when you call me that,” her thirteen-year-old sister said, pouting.

  “Then remember this: It’s Cass-i-dy. Three syllables.”

  “All right, all right,” grumbled Whitney.

  “I’m going to shorten both names from the front,” said Owen brightly. “Dee and Nee.”

  They ignored him. That was really all you could do with a thirteen-year-old boy.

  “What are you doing with Mom and Dad’s old school stuff?” asked Whitney, all ready to pal up with her big sister.

  “Does this have anything to do with the mystery your class is investigating?” asked Owen, stepping on an ancient wooden skateboard and rattling across the floor.

  “Not directly. I’m just trying to get a better idea of what Glenlake was like back then,” Cassidy said over the racket. Not saying, I’m looking for evidence of our parents’ big breakup back when they were seventeen. It didn’t seem like something they needed to know.

  Whitney had made her way over and found the GLENLAKE: ANDI box. “Can I look in this one?”

  “Be my guest,” Cassidy told her, lifting a handful of photos, notes, and ticket stubs out of the shoebox as the petrified rubber band holding them together fell off in pieces.

  She flipped through the first few pictures and set them aside. What she really wanted was something more personal. She’d found a few letters and postcards written from Mom to Dad during summer vacation, spring break, and other separations. The letters were much juicier than the postcards, for obvious reasons. One included a soft-porn description about how Mom would feel when our bodies are again as one that made Cassidy shudder and stop reading.

  She preferred not to think about her parents having sex, thank you very much, and would definitely guide her siblings away from those. But wouldn’t any breakup have been reflected in writing? Maybe in Mom’s journal?

  Dad’s journal wasn’t in his box. And a quick search of Mom’s box alongside Whitney revealed hers wasn’t there, either. Not that Cassidy was sure she could bring herself to pick the locks, anyway.

  Cassidy’s own journal, after a few dutiful freshman attempts, was a wasteland of white space, as were the journals of most of her classmates: she planned to write her senior page much as she would write a college essay and wondered when Glenlake would finally get with the times and curate students’ Instagram posts.

  Owen, bored by the mementos, left to take the skateboard outside, where he would undoubtedly try to jump over a trash can. Whitney stayed with Cassidy, both of them delighted by report cards (aside from Dad having a bad patch in senior year, both of them had nearly straight As, so Cassidy could confirm that for Mr. Kelly), yearbook entries (they cackled over one where Mike wrote to Dad: Dude, I love you, but that doesn’t make me gay), and pictures revealing their hilarious mid-1990s taste in hair and clothes.

  “I guess their friends all looked like that, too,” said Whitney, marveling at their parents’ inexplicable popularity.

  Still, after twenty minutes, she lost interest. Cassidy had been at it for a lot longer than Whitney and was getting ready to give up herself.

  Then Whitney, rooting aimlessly, withdrew a metal bracelet that looked handmade. “This is actually kind of cool,” she said. “Do you think Mom would care if I wear it?”

  Cassidy shrugged and put the lid back on the box. “I can’t see why she would.”

  Usually, Grandma Biz and Grandpa Cope hosted everyone at their house, but after some not-so-subtle hints that decades of hosting had taken their toll, Mom had volunteered to take over and received Grandma’s relieved blessing.

  Not that Biz had been able to keep herself from acting as executive chef. She’d arrived before Cassidy even woke up, to “help,” but really to oversee the operation in her daughter-in-law’s kitchen. Dad and Grandpa had only two jobs, turkey and drinks, so they spent most of the day watching football.

  Simon, who insisted that he and Lorraine were to be known by their first names—no granny or gramps shit—arrived just after noon along with Lorraine, Aunt Savannah (who wasn’t all that much older than Cassidy), and Savannah’s boyfriend, Tyson. Aunt Sage had gotten married last year and was with her new husband’s family in Arizona. In typical Simon fashion, he announced that he was taking Lorraine, Savannah, and Tyson to the Bahamas and staying in St. Louis only overnight. Cassidy had always thought her SoCal aunts were airheads, but she couldn’t help liking Simon. He had a teasing familiarity that was a lot more fun than the cutting observations that passed for jokes among the Copelands.

  Even better, he brought presents. Cassidy didn’t think she was materialistic, but Simon’s gifts, extravagant and casually presented, were an irresistible reminder of his Hollywood lifestyle.

  When Rusty went nuts, signaling their arrival, the twins tore downstairs, yelling at Cassidy to hurry up.

  She closed her laptop, where she had just found a bibliography of Dallas Walker on the website of the Poetry Foundation. It was brief, just like his life span, and included a collection of short stories, his debut book of poems, and selected publications that included the New Yorker and Harper’s among a handful of magazines she hadn’t heard of.

  In the front hall, Rusty was squirming between legs and barking joyfully as everyone came to greet the family. Cassidy arrived just as Simon bear-hugged her slim Grandma Biz, who would really have preferred the kind of hug where both hands briefly touch the shoulders so a dry kiss could be brushed across the cheek.

  Seeing Cassidy, Simon beamed. “How’s Glenlake, kiddo?”

  “Great!” she told him, descending the stairs and accepting his crushing hug. He even smelled different, like warm weather and an expensive cologne that probably took Lorraine a whole afternoon to pick out.

  Never one to stand on ceremony
, Simon fished in his coat pocket and brought out a small wrapped gift.

  “For you! Open it!”

  She fumbled with the paper while everyone watched. Inside was a top-of-the-line Garmin running watch.

  “I know cross-country’s over for the year, but I presume you’ll be running in college,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she told him, pleased.

  “Drinks!” said Grandpa Cope, his favorite topic, and the whole troop moved farther into the house, Mom taking coats and bags and giving them to the twins, Dad and Simon doing an awkward side hug that Dad used to ward off Simon’s embrace.

  “What’s your pleasure?” asked Dad.

  “Vodka rocks with a splash of soda,” said Simon. Lorraine shot him a look over her shoulder just before she disappeared into the kitchen. “Actually, make that the other way round.”

  “Coming right up,” Dad told him, heading into the den, where a wet bar took up one corner of the room.

  Cassidy spotted her opportunity.

  She hurried into the study just as Dad was screwing the cap back on the soda bottle. Football players grappled and collided on the TV in the corner.

  “I put the vodka in last and hardly stirred, so he’ll think it’s a stiff drink,” he told her with a smile. “I think we have to work with Lorraine on this one.”

  Simon’s drink fizzed on the small bar, a perfect curlicue of lemon peel floating dead center.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Cassidy?” he asked, reaching for another cocktail glass.

  “Why haven’t you and Mom ever said anything about breaking up in high school?”

  He froze, just for a moment, before plucking the glass off the shelf and turning around. His expression seemed guarded.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Georgina told someone in my class,” she said, not wanting to reveal that she’d mentioned anything to Mom and wondering if she’d get a different answer. “They were asking about Dallas, and I guess she mentioned that it was something that happened that year. It sounded like a big deal, because you and Mom were like the couple or something.”

  He worked on the drink, obviously thinking about what to say, but before he could answer, Simon came into the room, propelled by a cheerful Grandpa Cope.

  “We’ve paid our respects to the kitchen, and now it’s time for the traditional rites of masculinity,” said Grandpa. Addressing Ian at the bar, he added, “I recommend making your mother’s a double. It might make things easier for your wife.”

  Cassidy hoped for a look from Dad, something that told her We’ll talk later. But instead he nodded at Cope, said, “I’m on it,” and busied himself with the drinks.

  At dinner, the bowls and platters were starting to go around the table, everyone passing to the left as directed by Grandma Biz, when Mom saw Whitney’s wrist trembling slightly under the weight of the mashed potatoes. Or, more precisely, she saw what was on her wrist. Only Cassidy seemed to notice her sharp intake of breath.

  “Where did you get that?” Mom demanded.

  “It was in an old box in the attic,” said Whitney with a guilty look.

  “What were you doing, digging around up there?”

  “We were helping Cassidy—she was looking for something,” said the little rat.

  The bowls and platters continued to go around, and serving spoons clinked quietly on rims as everyone else listened curiously. Cassidy tried to think objectively, the way Mr. Kelly had taught them to, wondering how this reaction squared with her mom’s usual lack of concern for her personal property. She didn’t particularly mind sharing shoes and lipstick, for example—sometimes she even encouraged it.

  “I was just looking at your old Glenlake stuff,” Cassidy defended herself. “I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was just curious about what it was like for you back then.”

  “It was harder, wasn’t it?” kidded Grandpa Cope, chuckling. “The teachers were twice as mean, and the walk to class was uphill both ways.”

  “You should have asked first, Cassidy,” Mom said.

  Cassidy looked around the table for help, but her father was frowning at his plate, and the other adults seemed oblivious to her mother’s suddenly dark mood. “God, Mom, it’s all just lying around up there. It’s not like I broke into some family vault.”

  “The Great Copeland Caper,” chimed in Simon. “Speaking of mysteries, what’s going on at that criminally expensive school of yours—you know, with the laddie in the lake?”

  Cassidy’s ears perked up. In trying to change the subject, he’d inadvertently made a crucial connection. Maybe that bracelet had been a gift to her mother from another boy. Maybe he was the real reason her parents had split up.

  “Hardly talk for the dinner table,” said Mom, practically gritting her teeth.

  “It made the Associated Press,” continued Simon as things threatened to spiral out of control, “but was a notable omission from that monthly newsletter they keep sending, still hoping for more donations.”

  “I hope you’re still giving,” cracked Cope.

  “If they can’t keep their faculty alive, I don’t know if I should,” answered Simon.

  “That’s enough, everybody,” said her dad with an intensity that thankfully shut everyone up for a hot minute. He nudged her mom to take the cranberries he’d been holding aloft. She accepted the bowl and spooned a tiny amount onto her plate.

  “Is there something about that bracelet in particular?” asked Cassidy. Digging.

  “Well, it’s my property, for one,” her mom said, her voice catching. “And I made it in a metalworking class, so it’s special to me. I really don’t want it broken.”

  There went her theory about it being a gift.

  “I’ll be careful,” said Whitney, dropping both hands into her lap, obviously wishing she’d never worn the thing in the first place.

  Wanting to avoid hours of car time with Mom, Cassidy spent Saturday afternoon texting friends, and by Sunday morning had arranged a ride to school with Jane Berg from Spanish class, lying to Mom that another cross-country teammate was going, too.

  “That’s fine,” said Mom distractedly. “I’m looking for that bracelet Whitney was wearing, and it’s not in her room. Do you know where it is?”

  She did. Whitney had given it to her, tears of embarrassment in her eyes, right after Thanksgiving dinner. Cassidy had tucked it in her own suitcase without quite being sure why.

  “She gave it to me. Mom, you embarrassed the shit out of her.”

  “Language, Cassidy.”

  Cassidy rolled her eyes, knowing it would wind her up even more.

  “Your sister needs to learn not to make assumptions about other people’s property.”

  “Now you sound like Grandma Biz,” said Cassidy.

  “I do not!”

  She did. And she’d had a stick up her butt ever since she came into Mr. Kelly’s classroom last week at Glenlake. How could her mom ever possibly think she’d be a geezer squeezer?

  “Go get it. I want it.”

  Pissed, Cassidy stomped upstairs to her room. After digging the bracelet out of a side pocket in her suitcase, she held it in the palm of her hand for a moment, then set it down on the bedspread, angled the lamp for better light, and took two pictures of it with her phone before she gave it back.

  Just in case it was a clue to why her parents had broken up.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ANDI BLOOM’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL

  Saturday, December 21, 1996

  Dallas kissed me on the snowy front porch, forgetting even to look to see if anyone was watching. Seeing as everyone was still at the Winter Formal, there wasn’t much reason for concern.

  “I have a gift for you,” I said, handing him the box.

  “I have something special for you, but it’s not going to be ready until after break.” He kissed me. “But I promise it will be worth the wait.”

  I watched while he tore off the paper and opened the box.
Inside was a copper bracelet I’d made in metalworking class.

  The bracelets are a total thing on campus. Some people in the class are practically mass-producing simple hammered versions and selling them to underclassmen. I had used the whole semester to make two extremely detailed matching braided bracelets.

  “You made this,” he said.

  “I did,” I said, showing him the other one, which was more delicate but otherwise identical. I’d just slipped it on for the first time.

  “I love it,” he said, smiling as he put the bracelet on his right wrist. “I’ll never take it off.”

  “You promise?”

  “Only if you promise to slip out of that slinky silver dress. I’ve been dying to get you out of it all night.”

  Wayne Kelly may have considered Cassidy a crack sleuth and the go-to investigator in his class, but she was still very much a teenager, a fact evidenced by the way she’d left for school with her bedroom in total disarray.

  The irrational part of Andi wished she could rub Kelly’s nose in the incontrovertible evidence of her daughter’s not yet fully developed frontal lobe—the dirty clothes on the floor, the unmade bed—before giving him a furious earful for encouraging Cassidy’s investigative audacity. She couldn’t believe her daughter hadn’t even thought to ask before digging through her things and then giving one of her most prized keepsakes—that bracelet—to Whitney.

  After her outburst, she had done her best to keep cool while waiting patiently for Cassidy to return to Glenlake. As soon as she was safely out the door, Andi made a beeline for the bedroom “to pick up after her”—that, and jiggle the mouse on her desktop computer. As she expected, it had been abandoned in sleep mode, not powered off like it was supposed to be.

  Unlike the guilt she’d felt snooping on Cassidy’s text messages—and paid for all weekend long with her daughter’s icy demeanor—Andi felt well within her rights as she located and opened the Google Drive folder labeled Dallas Walker Investigation. After all, she and Ian paid the bills that allowed their daughter to own the computer, attend Glenlake, and take an investigative journalism class in the first place. More importantly, she had to find out what the class already knew.