How the Light Gets In

by Katy Upperman

  It’s nearly dawn when I work up the courage to leave the parlor for my room. I steer clear of the bathroom and dive into the bed. Once I bury myself in soft cotton and down, I feel safer.

  I dream of a gloomy cemetery. Headstones, ashen and crumbling, staring straight ahead. The grass is soggy, the sky liquid mercury, tossing up thunder and rain. Lightning illuminates graves, trees, bouquets of faded flowers left by long-ago mourners.

  Laughter is so wrong in this place, but I hear it, cheerful and tinkling. I spin around to find the source of the sound, wet hair snaking across my face, and see my sister, wearing a yellow dress, walking among the headstones.

  I call out, but she must not hear me. My feet sink into the earth as I step closer. “Chloe!”

  She looks up, strawberry blond hair heavy and wet.

  Sheets of rain pelt my skin. “Chloe, come here!”

  For a moment, she stares.

  And then, she turns and runs.

  My heart splinters. My sister, my favorite person in the world, doesn’t want to see me?

  I follow, weaving through headstones, stepping around plaques set flush to the grass. She pulls to a stop at the edge of a grove of trees, her back heaving with the exertion of her dash. When she turns to face me, I see that her eyes, once blue like mine, have gone black. She clutches her chest, her mouth opening soundlessly.

  “Chloe!” I scream into the wind.

  I cover my face with my hands, raindrops mixing with tears.

  It’s a long time before I summon the nerve to look at her again. When I do, she’s gone.

  In her place stands a flower, face turned up, seeking sun.

  Its petals are as red as blood.

  5

  I sit up in bed, the platinum light of morning washing over me.

  It’s been months since I’ve dreamed of Chloe. Of cemeteries. Of death. I wrap my arms around my middle, pinching my eyes shut.

  When I open them a moment later, I find flowers on my nightstand. Red, centers of inky black. They’re not in a vase like the flowers on the desk. Instead, they’re tied with a long blade of grass, sitting near my phone. I pick them up and inhale the softest honey scent. They’re eerily beautiful—just like the flower from my dream.

  On some subconscious level, I must have noticed them before climbing into bed. I must have filed them away to conjure while I slept.

  The flowers urge me up. I conduct a distanced examination of the bathroom—serene, still—before tiptoeing over the threshold and taking history’s quickest shower. With the drapes in my room securely drawn, I dress for work, old cutoffs and a gray T-shirt. I consider a hoodie to cover my scar, but my aunt’s acquainted with it. There’s no point in suffering the humidity of this old house for vanity’s sake. I tie my hair into a messy knot and, grabbing the spray of flowers, I head for the kitchen.

  Lucy’s up, wearing baggy jeans and an electric-pink tank. She’s standing over a griddle, poking slices of French toast with a spatula. She’s brewed coffee, which smells amazing. I pour myself a mug.

  “You’re up early,” she says. “Sleep well?”

  “Sure,” I lie. I find a drinking glass in a cabinet near the sink and fill it with water, then submerge the flowers’ stems.

  “There’s something about the ocean air, you know?” She gestures toward the flowers with her spatula. “Those are pretty. You like poppies?”

  “I didn’t realize that’s what they are, but yeah. They’re nice.”

  “There’s a meadow out past the tree line where poppies bloom, hundreds of them at a time. You and I should hike out there one of these days.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  She goes back to the French toast, the bangle bracelets on her wrist clacking together as she works. I take a seat at the table, and after a few minutes of dense silence, Lucy slides breakfast in front of me. She plops down with a plate of her own and spears a bite. She holds it up in the air as if to exclaim, Cheers! “Fuel up,” she says. “We’ve got a lot of cleaning to do.”

  I eat, mainly to avoid conversation. The French toast is sweet, with hints of cinnamon and vanilla, and the maple syrup drizzled over the top is delicious.

  “How is it?” Lucy asks when my plate’s nearly empty.

  “Really good,” I admit.

  She flips her copper curls over her shoulder. “Your grandma taught me how to cook when I was about your age.”

  “Really? Dad can barely fry an egg.”

  “He was out of the house by then, absorbing culture in Greece.”

  “I don’t get his obsession with that place.”

  Lucy sips her coffee. “It’s the thing he’s most passionate about. My thing used to be acting; now it’s this house. Yours is swimming.”

  I look down at my plate, swirling my fork through sticky amber syrup, thinking about the outdoor lap pool in Bell Cove. Last summer, Lucy tried to get Chloe and me to work out there instead of in the ocean, but Chloe wasn’t into it, and I never wanted to go without her.

  I shiver, cold out of nowhere. Quietly, I say, “I quit swimming.”

  Lucy doesn’t appear surprised, which means my dad told her. For a moment, I wonder if he mentioned my shitty grades and the weed, too, but for him, candor usually comes second to reputation. I doubt he wants my aunt to know how far I’ve actually fallen.

  She gazes at me over the rim of her coffee mug. Her eyes fall to my arm. My scar, pink and prominent against my pale skin. “How come?”

  “I’m not interested in it anymore. Not since…”

  “Since Chloe died?”

  I shake my head, my windpipe kinking like a hose. I don’t want to have a conversation about my sister. Not with Lucy. Not with anybody.

  She puts down her mug and tents her hands. “I know things at home have been intense, and I know I’ve been … away, but Chloe isn’t a taboo topic. I think it might be good for you to talk about her.”

  I stare at my lap, praying she’ll leave it alone.

  “Really,” she says, her voice dripping with sympathy. “I’m willing to listen.”

  She’s dangerously close to hurdling over the line that separates inquisitive from intrusive. The tiny part of my brain that’s still sensible knows her intentions are good, but the unreasonable part is screaming, Lucy doesn’t know you anymore!

  “You don’t get it,” I say.

  “I get more than you think. In a way, I’ve lost my husband.”

  Her comment triggers an explosion of anger, and I stand so abruptly, with such force, my chair topples backward, banging against the floor. “You and your husband got divorced—he’s alive and well. You left Seattle after Chloe’s funeral. You bailed on us. On me. So don’t pretend to understand what I’m going through now!”

  Lucy stares at me, openmouthed, a flush climbing her neck.

  I storm out of the kitchen before she can say another word.

  6

  I retreat to the porch, where the smell of cloyingly sweet French toast isn’t gag-inducing. There are white rocking chairs lined in a row, as if Stewart House is an antebellum plantation instead of a beach-town Victorian. I choose the farthest rocker from the door and fall into it, fuming.

  I wish I could talk to my sister about the last twenty-four hours: my strained ride with Dad, the changes inside Stewart House, my falling phone and the chilly drafts, Lucy’s wacky clothes and heedless insensitivity, and Daisy, who’s either hissing or purring. Chloe would ask for details about our aunt’s eccentricities and her cat’s mood swings, then giggle breathlessly and tease me about being scared last night. Remembering her laughter brings a torrent of emotion so powerful I have to pull my knees to my chest to contain it.

  Closing my eyes, I inhale ocean air, listening to the faint sound of waves crashing against the rocks below the cliff out back.

  I wonder how high we are.… fifty feet above the water? One hundred?

  The crunching of tires on the gravel drive disturbs my relative peace. I peer through my lashes as the a
pproaching vehicle comes into view, a cloud of dust trailing behind. It’s one of those old Jeeps, a Wagoneer, I think, boxy and covered in hideous wood panels. I remain motionless, watching from my secluded corner of the porch.

  The car comes to a screeching halt. A guy climbs out, wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt the same pale blue as the sky. He slams the car door and hustles toward the house with a bounce in his step. Sinking lower into my chair, I pray he doesn’t spot me; I lack the patience for a conversation with this apparently merry stranger.

  As he gets closer, I see that he’s younger than his car made me assume. A split second passes, during which I think, Holy hell, he’s adorable, before recognizing what a frivolous thought that is. I have no business entertaining even the most innocent of romantic inclinations when I can barely stand my own existence. Still, I can’t ignore his tall frame, his sun-bronzed skin, or his bleached hair, longish, in that shaggy, I-don’t-give-a-shit style few pull off.

  His footsteps fall heavy on the porch planks. He raises a fist to the front door. There’s a pause, a moment of silence while I wait for his inevitable knock—which never comes. Instead, to my embarrassment, he turns and catches me staring from my remote rocking chair, as if I’m a stalker.

  His smile is like a sunburst.

  Heat floods my face.

  He strolls over, then folds himself into the chair next to mine. His eyes are sea-glass green, sparkling in the morning light. He extends his hand in my direction and says, “Tucker Morgan. Lucy hired me as her landscape specialist, known also by its less glamorous title: yard boy.”

  His palm floats in front of my face while he waits for me to take a turn introducing myself. I don’t, and I don’t shake his hand, either.

  He drops it to his lap.

  It’s not like I’m trying to be rude to this guy who seems generally affable, but I don’t want anything to do with him.

  “You’re not going to tell me your name?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Sure it does. If you’re gonna be hanging around this summer, we’ll probably see a lot of each other.”

  “What makes you think I’ll be hanging around?”

  He sizes me up, from the tips of my toes, higher, his eyes lingering a millisecond on my bare legs and the scooped neckline of my shirt. When he finds my scar, I wait for curiosity to seep into his expression. It doesn’t, and I feel naked, suddenly, like Tucker Morgan can see all of me, inside and out.

  “You look comfortable,” he says. “I bet you’ll be around awhile.”

  “Wrong. I’m visiting.”

  “Cool. You’ll love Bell Cove.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “City girl?” he guesses. When I don’t confirm or deny, he continues. “I’ve lived here my whole life, which gives me the authority to tell you: Bell Cove is the shit.”

  The blind conviction in his voice gives me pause, and for the space of a second, I wonder if Bell Cove might really be an okay spot to hang out for a couple of months. Then I remember my prying aunt and my frightful night and the feeling of displacement that won’t quit. I remember last summer, and the day my sister was found just down shore from Bell Cove.

  This town sucks.

  “Anyway,” Yard Boy says, “if you get bored while you’re visiting, you can, you know, tell me your name and then, if you want, maybe I can show you around town.”

  I’m preparing to shut him down—I don’t want to hang out with him, or any boy, maybe not ever—when Lucy barges through the door, big hair and bigger jewelry. “That’s a good idea!”

  I tense; she’s been eavesdropping. “It’s not necessary.”

  She makes her way down the porch and leans against the rail, across from where I sit. “Sure it is. You can’t sit around in the house all summer like a recluse, Callie.”

  “I can do whatever I want,” I snap. “I came here to help you, not to explore.” I look Tucker Morgan in the eye. “Not to make friends.”

  He’s not smiling anymore.

  “Oh, come on,” Lucy says, tapping her coral-painted toes against mine, like we’re best friends—or worse, sisters.

  “I said no, okay? Would you just let it go?” I pop out of my chair, blowing past her and her stupid landscape specialist, and head for the house.

  I slam the front door hard enough to rattle the stained glass in its frame.

  7

  I’ve had one boyfriend of significance, Isaac Park, who bulldozed into my world a month before the end of my sophomore year, when he and his parents moved into the home next door. The first time I saw him, he was sprawled in the grass out front, holding a beat-up clipboard, flipping through a stack of papers as a crew of movers traipsed between the huge truck parked at the curb and the house.

  I spent a minute in my Acura watching the boy, who watched the crew haul cardboard boxes, sleek furniture, and an assortment of expensive-looking mountain bikes. Chloe should’ve been in the passenger seat, but she’d persuaded me to let her run the five miles home from the pool after swim practice because she was hard-core that way. As I sat, I cataloged my observations into what would quickly become a thick mental file: The boy’s hair was dark, he was wearing gray chino shorts with a hoodie, and a pair of mirrored aviators hid his eyes.

  One of the movers emerged from the back of the truck, calling out a number. Dutifully, if not apathetically, the boy drew a finger along the paperwork, then made a mark.

  He was cute.

  I got out of my car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary, ensuring he heard, guaranteeing he noticed.

  He lifted his hand in a wave that tried and failed to be blasé. Even from behind those sunglasses, I felt his gaze track me as I moved down the driveway, along the sidewalk, and up the lawn toward where he sat.

  “Neighbor?” he said.

  “Neighbor,” I confirmed.

  “Isaac Park, formerly of San Diego.”

  “Callie Ryan. Lived here forever.”

  He appraised me without the pretense of discretion. “Getting home from school?”

  “Swim practice. School let out a couple of hours ago. I go to North Seattle Prep.”

  “High school?”

  I nodded. “Couple more years. You?”

  “Just graduated.”

  “Lucky. We’ve still got weeks to go.”

  “Yeah, kinda nice to get a jump on summer. I’m starting at UCSD in the fall.”

  Back to San Diego—to attend a university. Two years isn’t much of an age gap, but the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, a college guy …

  His appeal skyrocketed.

  “I’ve heard that’s a good school,” I said, “though my dad’s a professor at UW, so…”

  “Go Huskies,” Isaac said wryly, circling his pen through the air like a little streamer. I laughed, and he grinned, revealing a dimple that put all other dimples to shame. He pulled his sunglasses away, allowing me the full scope of his face, all tawny skin and honed angles. His eyes were deeply brown and slightly hooded, his brows thick and black as his hair. He said, “I like your smile, Callie Ryan.”

  He gestured to the patch of grass beside him.

  I sat.

  He told me about his dad, who’s half Korean, half Irish, the biggest Padres fan on the West Coast; his PR firm had recently transferred him to Seattle. And then he told me about his mom, who’d been a New York City socialite until she left the East Coast for Southern California and, more recently, the Pacific Northwest. He marked numbers on the inventory as the crew marched up and down the driveway with his family’s treasures. I listened, mesmerized, as he told me that he liked to read about famous athletes and that he couldn’t wait to go mountain biking in the Cascades. He was an only child and glad about it, he said, and his parents were way cooler than any middle-aged duo had a right to be.

  “Dad’s at the office, and Mom’s inside, directing traffic. Next time, I’ll introduce you.”

  I smiled. There’d
be a next time.

  * * *

  It’s Tucker Morgan, not Lucy, who finds me in the kitchen ten minutes after my outburst. He joins me at the table, a safe two chairs away from where I sit, chipping Black Currant polish from my nails. He’s plugged buds into his ears, a thin white cord trailing down, disappearing into the pocket of his shorts. Faintly, I hear the strains of “Better Man,” an oldie that’s easily recognizable because Pearl Jam is a Seattle institution; my parents used to listen to them, before, while working on dinner in the kitchen, or pulling weeds in the yard.

  Such a good song.

  As soon as the thought materializes in my head, Tucker pulls out his phone and turns off the music, tucking his earbuds into his pocket.

  “So,” he says. “You okay?”

  I don’t look at him, just continue chipping.

  “No, I guess?”

  In my periphery, I watch him glance around the kitchen, eyeing the poppies that remain in the center of the table, then the fruit bowl. He starts to reach for a peach before thinking better of it. “This is a nice house,” he comments, his tenor like a curl of smoke in the sunlit kitchen.

  God, his voice, I think, and then, What is wrong with me?

  “I’ve never been inside,” he tells me, like I care. A wayward flake of Black Currant lands on the table in front of him. Unfazed, he brushes it away. “Today’s my first day of work. I’m not dreading it, to tell you the truth. Changing something neglected into something people will look at and appreciate … I mean, is there a better job?”

  I want to tell him that, yeah, I can think of about a million, but I don’t, lest he conclude that I, too, am a project in need of improvement. I’m starting to wonder how long he’s going to keep up this one-sided conversation when he says, “So if Lucy can be trusted, your name’s Callie?”