by Amber Hart
If only they get away, it is worth it. I try to convey my love for my sister through the last look I give her. A sob shakes her shoulders.
“You’re done, Beau Cadwell.” Jorie mocks my weakness with words dipped in victory.
That’s when I see it—something weaving in and out of the trees. If I concentrate hard enough, I can keep my eyes open. Until I can’t. Until the blood loss weighs too heavily and my lids begin to close.
“Beau.”
I hear my name on Willow’s lips. I force my eyes to open long enough to see a thundering sea of officers and to hear their command to drop your weapon. I don’t have a weapon, but Jorie does, and she has no intention of letting it go. Another warning from the police. Jorie raises the knife above me, ready to bring it down on me once more, just moments before an explosion rips the air in two. It’s quick, much faster than Jorie. The blade pauses midair. The pop of a bullet rings in my ears.
And down, down, down Jorie falls.
Blood drips from her back, blossoming on the dirt. Her mouth opens in a grotesque silent scream. She wildly grabs at the dirt, only feet beside me.
But there’s nothing to save her.
Police officers close in from all sides. One relieves Charlotte of Willow’s weight and guides her to the base of a tree, directing her to sit while he temporarily bandages her head. Another frees Willow’s arms from the restraints and checks the bruises forming around her throat. Two officers move toward me, as well.
Jorie blinks one, two, three more times before her eyes stare, glazed and fixed, open wide, at nothing.
For a moment, I gaze at a dead murderer and fight the urge to vomit. I begin to shake.
“Stay with us,” an emergency worker says.
A storm of blackness eats more of my vision until all I see is a tiny light.
Then nothing at all.
41
Willow
I knock softly on Beau’s front door to see if he’s up for company. I’ve come every day for the last week—since he was released from the hospital—to check on him.
Charlotte answers. “He’s in his room.”
She opens the door farther for me. In the background, the television plays softly.
“Thanks.” I step inside.
Charlotte wears the look of a girl who isn’t quite as sure as she used to be. It’s in the worry creasing her forehead, the pinch of her brows. I wonder how she’s dealing with the loss of her grandpa and nearly losing Beau, too. My eyes go to the staples at her hairline, a wound put there by Jorie.
I flinch at the memory of her—the deceiving best friend I thought I knew.
“I just finished cooking,” Charlotte says. “Beau hasn’t had lunch yet.”
She walks to the kitchen, retrieves a bowl, and scoops something from a pot on the stove into it. She pushes it toward me. It looks like shrimp and mixed vegetables and smells like heaven.
“It’s pinakbet.” She sticks a fork in it. “One of his favorites. Why don’t you bring it to him?”
I’m tempted to take a bite myself, but I nod and carry it to his room.
Just as I’m about to knock on the door, Charlotte says, “I’ll save a bowl for you, too.”
It might be one of the nicest things she’s ever said to me.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Willow?” Beau’s voice comes from within the room.
I push the door open to find him pulling a shirt over his bandaged wound.
“I brought you food.”
Beau grins, forgets the bowl, and kisses me full on the lips.
“Hello to you, too,” I say through a smile.
“You brought me Filipino food?”
“Well, Charlotte made it,” I amend.
He takes a bite. Then another. His face relaxes. Transforms into something purely happy.
“God, I love her cooking. Just like my mom used to make.”
“Can I have a bite?” I ask.
He offers me a forkful. I know instantly that I’ve been missing out. Gran’s Southern cooking is good beyond measure, of course, but Beau’s family food is exciting where Gran’s food is comfort. I take a second bite, relishing the different textures and tastes. Shrimp paste. Seasoned vegetables.
“Why have I never tried this?” I ask around a mouthful.
“We should make a meal together,” Beau says. “I haven’t cooked with anyone but Charlotte since my mom passed.”
I realize that what he’s offering me is something special. I nod, accepting. I would love to know that side of Beau better.
“I came to check on you,” I say.
By the way he limps over to the side of his bed, it’s clear that he’s still in pain. I can’t see his stomach under the bandage and shirt he wears, but I know from what Charlotte has said that he’s on antibiotics to ward off infection and that his wound is still fresh.
“I’m fine.” He grimaces when taking a seat on the mattress.
“You know, you used to be such a good liar,” I tease.
He laughs. Pats the spot next to him.
“Okay, fine. Truth? It hurts like hell, and I don’t regret it for a second.”
He props a pillow against the headboard and leans into it. Then eats the rest of his food until there’s only a tiny bit of paste at the bottom.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, setting the bowl on the nightstand.
“It was this or spend my Sunday in the swamp drawing birds with my parents. Which, as it turns out, isn’t as boring as I had originally thought.”
I pause, knowing it can’t be easy for Beau to hear about family when he’s lost so much of his. I take his hand gently. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and grins wickedly. Though he looks every bit the boy my gran warned me about, I now know better. He has a softer side. He can be honest and sweet.
“Speaking of family. How are you doing?”
“Not great.” He doesn’t sugarcoat a thing. “Charlotte and I are taking Grandpa’s ashes into the swamp tomorrow. She’s not sure if I’m ready for a boat ride yet with my injury, but I’d like to see her keep me away.”
I love his determination to honor his grandpa’s last wishes. There’s something beautiful about his grandpa staying in the place he never meant to leave.
“Do you want company?” I ask.
He shifts closer to me, a rustle of sheets and bedding.
“I think it’s something Charlotte and I need to do alone, if you don’t mind.”
It seems only right that they take him to his final resting place.
“I completely understand. I’ll come check on you later tomorrow if you want. I can bring a movie. Text me if you want company. If you need time, I’ll understand that, too.”
He kisses me again. “Have I ever told you that you’re perfect?”
“With your riddles, a person might not know if you mean it or not.”
He laughs loudly. Then winces and gingerly touches his stomach.
“So, what movie do you want me to bring tomorrow?” I ask.
“Maybe I don’t want a movie. Maybe I want you to bring only yourself. Your company is enough.”
I bite back a smile.
“Or I could make food for the two of us,” I offer.
“Or you could kiss me and never stop.”
His words are playful, but his eyes drop to my lips.
“I could bring Gran’s famous sweet tea.”
“Well, I can’t say no to that,” he replies. “Matter of fact, you should get a glass now. Or maybe I can come by with you? Do you ever think your gran will invite me inside?”
This time, it’s my turn to laugh loudly. “Let’s not get crazy now.”
Beau looks as though he honestly believes in the possibility.
“One day, mark my words, I’ll walk in that house of my own free will and your gran will welcome me.”
“You seem mighty sure of yourself.”
He dips his forehead to mine. Speaks so close that our lips nearly
touch.
“I’m not going anywhere, Willow. Eventually your gran will see that I mean what I say, and she’ll have no choice but to accept that I’m planning to stay. I’ll keep coming around until she gives in.”
I’m glad he’s changed his mind about keeping his distance.
“That might be never,” I warn. “She’s pretty strong-willed, you know.”
He grins. “I like a good challenge.”
42
Beau
The boat glides through a mess of tangled marsh grass, floating atop a swamp as clear as watered-down tea. The smell of algae and vegetation fills the air, heavier than normal thanks to last night’s rain. Charlotte rows gently, taking her time. I am in no rush to leave the final pieces of my grandpa behind.
Charlotte stares into the trees, eyeing a nest of blue jays. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looked close to crying, but it’s hard to tell based on how many times she blinks.
I push just a little farther, to an opening where the sun breaks through and shines abundantly, bleaching the sky. It’s the perfect spot, fish swimming below, a gator warming itself on the bank, and the two of us in the middle of it all.
We couldn’t have asked for better weather, as much as I hate what the day means for Charlotte and me. I stop rowing, letting the gentle current take us the rest of the way.
“It’s what he wanted,” I say to my sister, breaking the silence that has stretched since we left.
“Doesn’t make it any easier,” she replies.
“Never said it did.” I take the wooden urn decorated with simple swirls carved into it out from under the seat. I hold it for a moment, needing these last few seconds with Grandpa before he’s free to swim with the gators forever.
“We should say something about him.” Charlotte eyes the urn.
She clears her throat, stretches out her hand, and waits for the ashes. I’m surprised by her display, but I don’t hesitate to hand them over.
“Grandpa.” She traces the swirls with shaky fingers. “I love that you took us in when Dad and Mom passed. You gave me a great life. I owe you everything. You made the most delicious mac ’n’ cheese.”
She pauses, swipes under her eyes, and continues.
“You were crazy in the best way. Remember the time when we were little and you convinced us that Bigfoot was real? We looked for his footprints everywhere.”
She laughs. It sounds to me the way dark chocolate tastes: bittersweet.
“You always won when we played cards. I’ll never look at another crossword puzzle the same way again. Who’s going to read the paper on Sundays now? I don’t know my life without you in it. But I guess…maybe you don’t have to be gone completely?”
A tear falls. It’s the first time I’ve seen Charlotte cry in years. I have the urge to reach out to her, but I sense that she’s not done with her respects.
“I loved cooking breakfast for you. I’ll miss that.” She sniffles. “But I’ll miss you even more. I’m sorry you had to go. But I’m so thankful you’ll still, in a way, stay. I promise to look for you in everything here. The trees. The creatures. The swamp water itself.”
She pours ashes into her hand and lets loose a sob.
“Bye for now, Grandpa.”
She gives the urn to me—half of the ashes left—and opens her hand. His remains catch a ride on the wind and then sink into the water. I pour the remaining bit into my hand, thinking it feels a lot like the dirt we used to bring into the house on our clothes as kids. Grandpa would sweep it up, grumbling about messes while smiling all the same.
“Grandpa,” I say. “I hate that you’re leaving us, but before you go, you should know a few things. For instance, I left the whiskey cap open last night, just so I could wake up and smell it first thing. I could almost pretend you were still there, drinking at an ungodly hour, as you sometimes did. And I ate the plate of breakfast food Charlotte made for you, because it only seemed right.”
Grandpa will somehow always be in the things I do, in the person I am.
“I loved how we’d collapse on the couch most nights. We’d start out watching television but somehow end up in a conversation about anything and everything. Your voice is the one I hear in my head when I make decisions. You raised me with a strong spirit.”
It takes a few breaths before I can continue past the grief that weighs me down.
“I hope you know how much you meant, and still mean to me. I wish we had time for one more boat ride, another laugh, a seat by the fire in winter, our noses in steaming mugs of tea. But mostly I’ll miss your presence. It’s like Charlotte said, though. You’re still close.”
He’ll always be there in the choices I make. Only this time, I’ll be better than I was before. I’ll be considerate of others and fight the fear of opening myself up. His death—and the girls passing, too— is a new life for me.
I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. “You made me promise. So here it goes.”
I hesitate, but only the slightest bit.
“You’re free.”
I don’t open my hand. Instead, I stick it underwater and let the current drag every last ash particle from my skin until there are no more and Grandpa is the swamp.
“And by the way,” I say. “I’ll be telling Old Lady Bell what you asked me to, one way or another. Can’t guarantee she’ll be okay with me crossing the line, but I’ll do it. For you.”
I pull my hand from the water and swallow the emotion that clogs my throat.
“I’ll miss you.”
It’s the last thing I say to Grandpa, but it feels right. This. Him. The swamp.
He’s gone. And yet, he’s home.
43
Willow
The sun rises, splashing the sky with pinks and yellows and dusky grays. Charlotte hums a tune next to me, her stare fixed on the swamp. The property dividing line zigzags drunkenly to the left of us, the cabin on our other side.
“Beau will be out in a minute,” she says. “He’s showering.”
I imagine bathing is especially hard to do with a wound that’s still healing. At least his stitches have finally been removed.
“I want to say thank you before he comes out,” Charlotte says.
“For what?” I ask. “You’re the one who tried to save me.”
It’s been two days since they spread their grandpa’s ashes. Jorie is gone, too. The scar from Charlotte’s staples lingers. This perfectly beautiful girl now has a mark, and she doesn’t seem to give one damn about it. She’s alive. That’s what matters.
“Yes. But Willow, you’re the one who actually did save Beau. You taught him that it’s okay to believe in another person. I guess I’m saying that I’m glad he didn’t listen to me.”
I watch Charlotte’s face, but it’s impassive, as though she’s talking about the damn blue sky.
“And what about you?” I ask. “Are you better for it?”
“I don’t know about that. But what I do know is that my brother is happy, and that makes me think it might, just might be worth it to believe in people again.”
Slowly and steadily she’s making a change. Though I see the wall erected around her, it’s becoming more transparent. Her talking openly and honestly with me here and now is proof.
“You gave Beau a reason again,” she says.
“A reason for what?”
She smiles, and this time it’s not cunning or wicked or harsh. It’s open and beautiful and real.
“Everything.”
She stands and begins walking back to the house. No explanation. No goodbye.
I want her to say more. I want her to open up. I wish she’d look at me again the way she just did. I wish she knew that she doesn’t have to be alone in this world.
“I keep picturing Jorie’s wild hair!” I blurt.
Charlotte pauses, back still to me, but I know she’s listening.
“I’ve been thinking of her laugh, her companionship. It’s not so much her I miss, though there is a l
ittle of that, but more the idea of friendship. She was rotten, that one, but that doesn’t mean all friends are.”
Charlotte still doesn’t move.
“Know what, though?” I say. “Your hair is wild, too, and so is your grin. Maybe all this time I was looking for a best friend in the wrong place.”
This time Charlotte does turn around. She has an open look, as though someone has scraped away years and layers and buckets full of masked expressions.
She says only one word, but its meaning is worth a million sentences.
“Maybe.”
She walks away, through the cabin door. I wonder if she knows that she’ll end up coming out the other side and into my life.
The door doesn’t even have time to close before Beau emerges. His feet carry him straight to me, though admittedly quite slowly, cautious of his healing stomach.
I weave around fallen pinecones and discarded swaths of moss to meet him halfway.
He says hello by kissing me and kissing me until I can hardly breathe, and I think I like this type of silence more than words.
“Come with me,” he says against my lips.
We take a pebbled dirt path, not too far, until it meets the forest. The trees above us sway melodically. Acorns tap, tap, tap on the ground as they fall. Wings flutter and soar. And all the while, the swamp babbles as though telling us a story or welcoming us home.
We settle into a good spot.
“Will you stay here now?” I ask.
It’s a question that’s been bothering me. Technically he and Charlotte still have ten days until their eighteenth birthdays. Could they possibly be put in foster homes? I wonder if Georgia law would allow an almost-eighteen-year-old to be considered a legal adult.
“Yes. No one is interested in messing with us. With Jorie gone, we’re cleared of any wrongdoing, and the swamp is safe. We’ll turn eighteen and then nineteen and forty and sixty and no matter what age, I’ll never want to leave,” Beau says, leaning into me and smelling deliciously like soap and marsh.
I never want him to leave, either.
“How about this,” I say “we’ll both stay here as long as possible.”
Beau laughs. “I might be able to agree to that.”
