“Big Poppa,” I said, stepping into the room, “I know this is difficult, but we have guests. I would really appreciate it if you could be a pleasant host.”
One corner of his mouth lifted as he took the Dartmouth mug. He knew the words weren’t mine. “Your mother’s coping, Vanessa. We all are.”
I didn’t say anything as I sat down next to him. Until now, the only thing my mother and I had in common was our adoration for Justine. I didn’t understand why Mom worked so much, or shopped so often, or tried so hard to impress strangers. I didn’t understand why of the hundred people downstairs, only a dozen or so would be able to tell Justine and me apart in the annual Sands family Christmas card. Most of what Mom did didn’t make sense to me. But Dad thought she was the sun and the moon and the stars all in one, and for that reason, I kept quiet.
“She’s beautiful,” Dad said after a few minutes.
I followed his gaze to the photo-covered bulletin board hanging over Justine’s desk and willed my eyes to water. Because there she was. White-water rafting in the Berkshires. Horseback riding on the Cape. Hanging out in the quad at Hawthorne Prep. Hiking Mount Washington in New Hampshire. And in my favorite picture, the one she’d had blown up to a 5×7 that was at the center of the collage, fishing in our old red rowboat on the lake in Maine—with me.
“I remember taking that,” Dad said. “I wondered what she’d said to make you giggle.”
He’d taken the picture from the dock behind the house when our backs were to the camera. Justine’s head was turned slightly toward me, and mine was tilted toward the sky. My shoulders were pulled up near my ears, a physical reflex that occurred whenever something made me laugh until tears cascaded down my cheeks.
I blinked. Nothing.
“I figured it was girl talk,” he continued. “Makeup. Boys. Top secret stuff I was better off not knowing.”
“Probably,” I said. “Considering her romantic revolving door, the girl talk about boys usually lasted a while.”
“I still don’t understand why she needed all that attention,” he said thoughtfully. “She was so bright, so beautiful and talented. But it was like she didn’t believe it unless a different boy was telling her every week.”
I didn’t say anything. Justine didn’t need the attention—she just got it.
We sipped our coffee in silence. After a moment, he released a long sigh. “I should go play host for a while,” he said, climbing to his feet. “You’ll be okay?”
I nodded. He rested one hand lightly on my head before leaving the room and closing the door.
I blinked and waited again. When the tears still didn’t come, I turned back to the center photo and thought about what Big Poppa had just said. It didn’t make sense. But then, nothing made much sense now.
The police claimed that it had been an accident, that Justine had simply jumped off the cliff at the wrong time. It was dark. The tides were high. Chief Green said the water was so deep and the currents so strong that Triton himself, the Greek god of the sea who could turn the waves up and down with one blow into his conch shell, wouldn’t have been able to hold his own. The medical examiner had agreed.
I didn’t.
Yes, Justine was a thrill seeker. And that night, she might’ve wanted to prove a point. But she was too smart to do something so careless.
As my eyes traveled across the bulletin board, I noticed dark thin lines between the photos. It looked as though someone had taken a Magic Marker to the bulletin board padding … except the line wasn’t drawn on the ivory satin that covered the rest of the board. The background behind the photos was white.
I stood up and went to the desk for a better look, and saw that the lines were actually words.
Name. E-mail. Phone Number. Caucasian. Parent 1 and Parent 2. Early Decision. Financial Aid. Campus. Degree. Secondary School. ACT. SAT. Extracurricular. Awards/Honors.
I was about to pull out the first purple pushpin when I felt uncomfortable. Guilty, even. Like I’d been snooping through Justine’s desk in search of her diary and was now going to read about secret kisses and private conversations she wanted to keep to herself.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, before pulling out the first pushpin.
Seconds later, the fifty or so versions of Justine’s smile were gone. I stepped back to take in the entire bulletin board.
There were bumper stickers. Seven of them, collected by Mom on her trips with Justine to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, Stanford, Cornell, and Dartmouth. They formed a wide collegiate circle around a spreadsheet and a printout of the common application.
The spreadsheet listed colleges and had three columns for corresponding deadlines, submission dates, and response dates. The deadline column was filled with numbers written in Mom’s neat handwriting; the others were empty. The application was blank except for Mom’s notes and response suggestions. My eyes quickly fixed on the center page: the personal essay. A green Post-it was attached to the top, on which Mom had suggested Justine write about the person she was and the person she wanted to become.
Justine’s response was brief.
I’m sorry, I don’t know.
But neither do you.
I stared at the words. It might’ve taken me longer than it should’ve to find them, but I knew instantly what they meant: Justine wouldn’t have gone to Dartmouth in the fall. She wouldn’t have gone to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, Stanford, or Cornell either. Because before you attended your future alma mater, you had to apply. And apparently Justine hadn’t applied anywhere.
Downstairs people were gathered to celebrate Justine’s life, to reflect on her lost potential and all the things she would never do, the places she would never go. I was right about one thing: not one of the unfamiliar guests pigging out on pastries had any idea who she really was. But I was alarmingly wrong about another.
Neither did I.
A door slammed down the hallway, jolting me back to the present. I took the essay off the board and the photo of Justine and me in the rowboat from the desk, rehung the other photos, and hurried across the room.
I was about to bolt into the hallway when my hands flew toward my face, covering my nose and mouth.
Salt water. I’d grown used to the smell while in the room, but it was stronger by the door—overpowering, like a tidal wave had already swallowed the rest of the house and waited outside Justine’s door for an invitation to come inside. It was so strong, I looked down to keep my head from spinning.
“Oh, no.” I lowered my hands from my face. “Oh, Justine …”
A crumpled beach towel was pushed up against the closet door. It was thick, and white … with a grinning cartoon lobster covered in bits of green and black seaweed.
Caleb’s beach towel—the one he’d wrapped Justine in before pulling her to him on top of the cliffs last week. It was here, dry and stiff with salt, in Boston.
I sank to my knees and picked up the towel. She’d been home. Sometime between storming out during dinner on the lake-house deck and late the following morning, when her body was found, Justine had returned to Boston.
It’s okay, I told myself, trying not to imagine the white terry cloth draped across Justine’s shoulders. Everything’s okay.
Except that it wasn’t. It was so far from it, I couldn’t even pretend that the beach towel was anything other than what it was: more evidence that, as well as I had thought I knew my sister, someone else had known her better. And that, for whatever reason, she’d wanted it that way.
CHAPTER 3
“ARE YOU INSANE?”
I lifted my duffel bag from the sidewalk and shoved it in the trunk of Dad’s Volvo. “Are you sure you’re not going to need it?” I asked, as though Mom hadn’t just called down from the front stoop where she stood, in bare feet and a cashmere robe, watching us disapprovingly.
“I mean, really,” she tried again. “Have you both lost your minds?”
Dad rested his bowl of Cheerios on the rusty roof of the car a
nd helped cram in my bag. “Haven’t needed it in months. I’ll be fine for another few weeks.”
“Few weeks?” Mom’s voice shot up an octave.
I placed my hands next to Dad’s on top of the trunk and pulled down. When the compartment clanged shut, I rounded the car and stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone,” I said. “It could be a few days, a week, or longer.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re going at all. After everything that’s happened—”
“You’re going back to work. Dad’s going to be writing. What would I do if I stayed?”
“See your friends,” Mom said. “Go to movies. Read and relax.”
“Read and relax?” I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Jacqueline,” Dad said gently, “Vanessa needs to do what she needs to do. I know it’s hard to let our little girl go, but she is seventeen.”
“She’s seventeen, but she’s a baby,” Mom declared, like she was pleased someone besides her had finally raised this very important point. “Vanessa, sweetie, you’ve never been anywhere by yourself. And the farthest you’ve driven is to the Framingham Mall.”
I hurried up the steps, stopping on the one below hers. “I’ll be back soon. Promise.”
As she grabbed me in a tight hug, I felt guilty. And nervous. And sad and scared and confused. Part of me was even tempted to run back in the house, jump in bed, and sleep until enough time had passed that I could let it go. Maybe I could even pretend that this was just another nightmare I feared every time I turned off the lights.
“The fluids are good,” Dad said before I could change my mind. “Wipers are on the right of the steering wheel; headlights are on the left. She’s old, but she’ll get you where you need to go.”
“You rock, Big Poppa.” I jogged down the steps and got in the car.
“Back atcha, kiddo.” He closed the door after me and peered through the open window. “One more thing. Like any geezer in good health, she gets tired—especially on hills. If she starts to give, ease up on the gas. If you try to gun it, she’ll probably roll backward.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
I watched Dad turn to Mom, who now stood next to him. He put one arm around her waist and kissed the tip of her nose.
“You have your cell phone?” she asked. “And directions?”
I lifted my phone and a stack of Google Map printouts from the passenger seat. “I also have a full tank of gas, and your Visa, Mobil, and Triple A cards. And the key to the house, and instructions for turning on the water and electricity.”
“Please call when you get there,” Mom said as I started the car. “And maybe along the way, when you get tired, or if there’s nothing on the radio, or—”
“I’ll call before I get there, and when I get there.”
Mom opened her mouth to make more requests, but then closed and covered it with one hand.
Her points about my not being anywhere by myself and never driving farther than twenty miles from home made me nervous, too. I didn’t know how it’d feel to drive on I-95 without Mom, Dad, and Justine. Or to pass the sailboat-shaped WELCOME TO WINTER HARBOR sign at the entrance to town, or EDDIE’S ICE CREAM right after that—and not stop for rocky-road waffle cones. Or to drive up to the lake house, all locked and boarded up after our sudden departure only days before.
As I put the Volvo in drive and slowly pulled away from my parents, depriving them of the second of their two daughters in less than two weeks, there was only one thing I did know. And that was that if ever there was a time to grow a thick skin, this was it.
Six hours and four phone calls home later, I sat in the Volvo, staring at the lake house.
By this time each summer, the house was filled with life and noise. Now, it looked strangely abandoned. The front door was closed, as were the windows, their curtains pulled and shades drawn. The ceramic planters lining the front steps that should’ve held Mom’s geraniums were filled with weeds. Dad’s favorite flag, the one with the pair of loons that marked the official arrival of summer, sat on a shelf somewhere in the garage.
Still, despite the sad exterior, I could see her. Throwing open the car door and running down the front path. Dashing from one end of the porch to the other, peeking in windows. And, this last time, pausing at one end of the porch and leaning over the railing toward the Carmichaels’ house. Her purple sundress had danced around her ankles in the breeze, and her long, dark hair had fallen over one shoulder and to the side of her face, blocking out the smile I knew was there.
I’d glanced next door then to see if Caleb was outside, waiting for her. I didn’t see him but knew he was. He’d probably crouched behind a bush—out of sight, per Justine’s wishes—for hours, just waiting for a glimpse of her. I’d thought that that must be a very nice feeling, to know so certainly that someone waited for you.
It was one I could’ve used right then.
I glanced in the rearview mirror when a burst of light flashed behind me. Seeing nothing but our duck-shaped mailbox and a bunch of trees, I turned in my seat to look through the back window.
Silly Nessa. Imagining things before the sun’s even set?
I turned back at the sound of Justine’s voice darting through my head.
“Time to find Caleb,” I said loudly, opening the door.
I had one sneaker in the dirt when my eyes landed on the folded newspaper lying in the driveway. It was the Winter Harbor Herald, a free weekly that mainly served as a guide of restaurants and shops for tourists. The Herald tended to break one major news story every summer, when the cover article wasn’t about the most romantic sunset spots or the best places to get a true Winter Harbor meal—usually something about underage drinkers or lobster-cage robbers. Those stories generally came toward the end of the summer, when everyone had already eaten and shopped and could apparently handle a taste of Winter Harbor’s underbelly.
This summer, the bad news couldn’t wait.
Winter Harbor Tragedy: Girl, 18, Falls to Death at Start of Peak Season.
I stared at the headline, its seriousness emphasized by the large, black font. Directly underneath was Justine’s senior portrait. Despite the reason for her picture being on the front page, I was still struck by her beauty. Her dark hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, her eyes were bright, and her smile was warm and friendly.
I thought of my own senior portrait, which I was supposed to have taken at the end of the summer. It would never be as striking as Justine’s, since everything about my appearance fell somewhere in the middle: my long hair wasn’t quite blonde or brown; my eyes weren’t quite blue or green; my skin could look creamy or pasty, depending on the light. The only thing that didn’t was my smile, which, though it occurred only rarely, always brightened the rest of my face … but with my main source of happiness gone, I might as well pose for the picture with my back to the camera.
I picked up the newspaper as I got out of the car. I didn’t want to read about Justine, but I also couldn’t leave her in the driveway. I folded the paper and slid it in the back pocket of my jeans.
I walked the short distance to the Carmichaels’, jogged up the porch steps, and rang the doorbell. As the low notes sounded inside the house, I stepped back and waited.
Caleb didn’t answer. Neither did Mrs. Carmichael, who usually flung open the door with a smile and arms outstretched. There wasn’t even the sound of footsteps moving through the house and toward the door.
I waited a minute and rang again.
Nothing.
Holding one hand to the glass, I peered through a window into the living room. Then I crossed the porch and tried the kitchen window. The counters were clear, the table wasn’t littered with comic books and copies of Scientific American, and the sink was free of dirty dishes.
The inside of the Carmichaels’ house suggested the same thing the outside of ours did: abandonment.
They’ll be ba
ck, I told myself as I headed down the porch steps. They’re just at work. Or running errands. They’ll return by dinner, at the latest.
If that was true, I had about five hours to kill. All alone.
I wasn’t about to sit in our house by myself for that long, so I took my time going back. I wandered across the Carmichaels’ backyard, which had become as familiar as our own over the years. After thousands of games of hide-and-seek, I knew the lawn’s every dip and rise, and the best trees to duck behind when you didn’t want to be seen. In fact, when I was growing up, hide-and-seek was the only game at which I was ever better than Justine. Mostly because I preferred not to be found, while Justine lived to be seen.
I wandered to the water’s edge and onto the dock. When I reached the end, I looked across the lake, then toward our dock a few yards away. My chest ached at the absence of water bottles, sunscreen, and open books, all requirements of a lazy summer afternoon. The thick ropes that usually held our red rowboat in place were still wound around their posts.
Turning away, I slid off my sneakers and socks, rolled up my jeans, and sat down. It was warm in the sun; I was tempted to dangle my legs into the cool water but kept them pulled to my chest. For two years, whenever Justine promised that the small fish in Lake Kantaka were more scared of me than I should be of them, I told her the fish didn’t bother me. And what did bother me I kept to myself.
“Vanessa?”
He looks different this year, doesn’t he?
I looked up. Simon sat in his rowboat a few feet away, holding the oars still as he drifted toward me. I smiled, simultaneously surprised and relieved to see him. He looked surprised, too, but didn’t return my smile. After a few seconds, he lifted the oars and started rowing again.
I wanted to say hello, to ask how he was. And if I couldn’t manage that, I wanted to say something that would break the ice, maybe ask about the notebooks, petri dishes, and plastic vials scattered across the bottom of the boat. Justine’s and my rowboat was usually cluttered with Tupperware containers of watermelon and Us Weekly and People magazines; Simon’s looked like a floating lab.
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