by R. S. Lively
"Are you actually angry?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you angry that she got hurt or are you worried about her – and don't want to be, so you decided to be frustrated and angry instead?"
"Have you been withholding that you are a contractor by day and a radio psychiatrist at night?" she asks dryly.
"It's just something to think about," I say.
Fiona sighs.
"Of course, I'm worried about her. She's not a spring chicken, you know." Her face scrunches up slightly. "What does that mean?" she asks. "Spring chicken? Is there a summer chicken? Fall chicken? Winter chicken? Anyway. It doesn't matter. She's old. We don't want to think or talk about it, but the woman is old, Cade. Maybe she really shouldn't be on her own anymore."
I think about Grammie winning the limbo on her senior cruise, and the mysterious "Arthur" I’ve been hearing about.
"She might have lived a good chunk of years, Fiona, but I wouldn't call her old. This is the first time anything has happened like this, and it could happen to anyone. Seriously, anyone. I don't think you need to worry about her as much as you are."
"She got taken by an ambulance to a rehab center," she says.
I give a half-shrug.
"I still don't think you need to worry about her so much. Trust me, she's going to be just fine whenever she comes back home."
Fiona eyes me for a few seconds, and I wonder if I've said too much. I don't want to break my promise to Grammie, but I also don't want Fiona to become more stressed or anxious about the situation. She falls silent again, and from the way she's staring into the fire, I know something is still on her mind. Finally, she glances at me, then back into the flames.
"Do you really think she still sees my father when she looks at me?" she asks.
Fiona's voice is soft and quiet like she's unsure if she should even ask the question. She's leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs, and her hands clasped tightly together. I know it makes her feel uneasy to talk about her parents. It's something she's only done a few times in all the years we've known each other.
"Of course, she does," I say. "I don't think it's possible for her not to. He was her son, her only child. How could she not think about him when she looks at his only child?"
She nods slightly.
"It feels really strange that she thinks about him when she looks at me. It makes me feel like I’ve invaded her memories."
"Why would you say that?"
"Because I don't know him," she says. "It hurts to say that, but it's true. I don't know either one of them. It's not like she kept them from me, but I don’t really know much about them. When I think about Grammie seeing my father when she looks at me, it makes me feel really out of place. Then, at the same time, even trying to develop a sense of connection with the idea of them makes me feel guilty."
"Why would that make you feel guilty? Those are your parents. Even if they’re gone now, it makes sense you'd feel a connection to them."
"I know,” she groans, "but I also feel like thinking about them too much, or wondering what it would have been like if they hadn't died, or wishing I knew more about them makes it seem like I don't appreciate Gramps and Grammie, or that I wish things had been different."
"Well, don't you?"
Fiona looks at me like my words have stung her.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Don't you wish things were different? Don't you wish your parents hadn't died, and that you knew them, and were able to be raised by them? It makes sense to want to know more your parents, especially when what you have heard is nothing but amazing."
"One time, Grammie told me the one thing she ever really regretted in her life was that she wasn't able to have a daughter. After she had my father, the doctor told her it wasn’t a good idea for her to have any more children, so she completely focused on him. He was her whole life, and what she says was her greatest accomplishment. I know she didn't mean anything by that, but when she said it, it made me feel like when she looks at me, she feels like she had to give up the son she loved so much, to have the daughter she never had."
"You know she doesn't think that way," I say. "I'm sure she misses your father every single day, but never for a second would she wish she didn't have you. You are not the reason your parents died, Fi. You did nothing. You can't be blamed. It was an accident you had absolutely nothing to do with."
"If I hadn't been born early –" she starts.
I reach out and rest my hand on her thigh to quiet her.
"Stop," I say. "Don't do this to yourself. Being born early is something that happened, but you can't blame on yourself for that. You don't know where they would have been at that moment, even if your mother was still pregnant with you. It's entirely possible they would have been in the same place at the same time, and you would have been killed, too. Grammie didn’t give up her son because of you. She was able to keep a part of her son alive."
Fiona looks up at me, her eyes swirling with emotion. Her lips part slightly, and I see her draw in a deep breath, her chest expanding out as she inhales the cool evening air.
Fiona
My body trembles slightly as Cade moves toward me on the log. Soon his knee touches mine, but our eyes remain locked. The sun has finally set, and the light from the campfire surrounds us, isolating us from the rest of the world. His fingers come to the side of my face, and the calloused tips trace down my cheek, and then along the curve of my jaw. He lifts his hand, and runs his fingers back through my hair, then along my collarbone. The touch is gentle, but there is a sense of control behind it that keeps me completely still.
As Cade leans closer to me, I know I should move, but I can't. His mouth brushes against mine. We pause at the edge of a kiss, somewhere between hesitating with uncertainty and savoring the heat building between us. Finally, he dips his head to complete the connection. I feel myself melt into him, savoring the feeling of kissing Cade for the first time in ten years.
The kiss ends, and my hesitation returns alongside the abrupt rush of cool air that caresses my face. I suddenly remember why I didn't want to see Cade the night I got to Grammie's house. A wave of emotions fills me, and memories rush into my mind. I can't pretend I didn't stand there, waiting for him. It doesn't hurt like it used to, but I can't push the memory away. I can't act like everything is how it used to be.
I stand up, pulling away from Cade. He stands beside me, reaching for my hand, but I take a step away, pretending like I'm bringing my dishes to the side of the fire.
"I'm exhausted," I say. "I think I'm going to go ahead and get some sleep."
He nods.
"Me, too," he says. "We'll head back in the morning."
He doesn't sound angry, but there's a hint of bitter disappointment in his voice, and I wonder if it was always his intention for us to only stay for the night, or if we are leaving early because of that incendiary kiss.
12
Fiona
The next day…
"Grammie, who is Arthur?" Cade comes into the room and looks at me questioningly. "Grammie… no, Grammie… who is Arthur?... Alright, well, keep me updated, I guess."
"Any idea?" Cade asks as I end the call.
We've been navigating carefully around each other all day, neither wanting to be the first to acknowledge our kiss last night.
"Still no," I say. "But I'm really starting to wonder about the authenticity of this rehabilitation program. It seems like some of the people in the background are always a bit too enthusiastic for a medical facility."
Cade's eyes flicker away from me, and, not for the first time, I wonder what he and Grammie are up to.
"What did you get at the store?"
"Just a few things," I say. "I thought we'd have lasagna tonight."
"Sure. Before you start on that, though, there's something I want to show you."
"Did you find something when you were going through the stuff from the basement?"
The pile of
basement items outside has gradually grown smaller, and Cade has already taken two trips to the landfill today. The tree still rests across the back porch, but a tree-removal service crew is scheduled to come by tomorrow night. We've managed to accomplish a lot as both of us try to keep our hands and minds busy, and I've started to feel hopeful about making significant progress before Grammie gets home. Whenever that will be.
"I did," he says. "It’s upstairs. Come with me."
I grab two of the glass-bottled sodas that were my grocery store victory of the day and follow Cade up the stairs toward his bedroom. My belly flutters as we step inside, and I quickly remind myself that not only am I an adult but I've already been in here this week. Stealing sheets to wash might not be the most interesting reason to sneak into a bedroom, but I'm going to count it anyway.
"The sheets look good," I say. "Smooth."
Did I just compliment a grown man on his ability to make his own bed?
Cade looks over at me.
"Thanks," he says. "Go ahead and sit down."
Left with no other options, I sit on the bed and pop open a soda. Cade walks over to the wardrobe and opens it.
"You hid it?" I ask, tilting the bottle to my lips and filling my mouth with the nostalgic taste of the sugar-sweetened drink.
"It seemed appropriate," he says. "That's what we intended."
"What do you mean?" I ask, but as I twist around to see him, I know exactly what he means. "Oh my god – are you serious?"
Cade carries the old metal coffee canister to the bed and climbs up so he’s sitting across from me. He places it in between us and smiles kindly at me.
"I found it in the bottom of the box," he says. "And there was a note attached to it."
"A note?"
"Yeah," he says. "It pretty much just disintegrated when I touched it, but it was from Grammie. It said 'Rupert, stop burying things in the yard'."
I laugh, tossing my head back.
"I wonder how long it was actually buried," I say. "When were we supposed to open it?"
Cade turns the canister around until he finds a scribble of black permanent marker across the surface.
"Time Capsule," he reads. "Do not open for ten years."
The time frame takes some of the breath out of me, and I feel my smile falter. I remember making the time capsule with him when I was thirteen.
"Since it’s more than five years overdue, should we open it?" I asked.
"I think so," he says. "I don't even remember what we put in there. Do you?"
I shake my head.
"Ready?" he asks, putting his hands on the edge of the lid.
I nod.
"Let's see what was so important to us."
He peels away the lid and puts it aside. We both lean forward to look into the canister as Cade pours the contents out onto the bed. The first thing I see are pictures of both of us. I immediately think of the picture I found in Cade's wallet, and my heart skips. He picks up the picture of himself, and I see him cringe.
"There should be some sort of screening process for teenagers before we're allowed out in public," he says.
I pick up the picture of myself, mirroring his cringe as I look at my frizzy hair and the bright scattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose.
"I wish Grammie had let me wear makeup then," I say.
"Why?" he asks.
I turn the picture toward him.
"Are you kidding? Look at the freckles."
"I like your freckles," he says. "I think they're adorable."
Cade brushes his fingertips over my cheekbone, and I draw in a breath, remembering what followed a similar touch last night.
"I've never liked them," I say, looking down.
"I know."
I put down the picture and reach for a piece of paper. Unfolding it, I realize it's a list of groceries and their prices from the year we buried the capsule.
"We should keep this," I say. "I wonder what the prices will be like in another ten years."
"We'll bury it again," Cade says. "Grammie won't find it this time."
"Well, maybe this time we shouldn't bury it at the edge of her vegetable garden."
"That's probably a better plan."
"Look at this," I say, picking up another piece of paper. This one is folded in a complex pattern that isn't quite origami, but I remember being popular when I was in high school. "I think it's one of the notes I wrote to you."
"What does it say?" he asks.
"Cade...I miss you so much. I'm thinking about you so much today. I don't know why. I wish it were summer and I was at the country house. I never thought I'd say that. I used to feel so lonely there and dreaded having to go. Now it's the only place I want to be."
My voice shakes slightly as I read the words. Cade takes the paper from my hands and looks down at the lines written beneath the note to him.
"Fiona...I miss you, too. I'm always thinking about you, and I know exactly why. You should be here. I don't understand why you have to wait until summer to be here with me. I never want you to feel lonely again."
The words are heavier now that they’re spoken in adult voices deepened and intensified by the decade and a half that has passed since then.
"We were just kids," I murmur.
"I meant it," he says.
I did, too. Even though it would be years before we understood what we were feeling, or the depth of what was happening between us, I know I meant those words. Every single one.
I've turned my attention back to the assortment of trinkets from the time capsule when I notice Cade staring across the room. I follow his gaze and see he's looking at the massive vanity table positioned on the opposite wall from the bed. He looks curious, and for some reason, completely fixated on the piece of furniture that has been in the room for as long as I can remember.
"What are you looking at?" I ask.
Cade picks up the other soda and takes a drink.
"Does that vanity look strange to you?"
“No, it looks just like the one in my bedroom.”
"Something about it is off. It’s strange," he says.
"Well, I know it's really old. The one in my room has been there since well before I was born. I think Grammie told me it originally belonged to Gramps's grandparents."
He shakes his head.
"No, that's not it. I know what antiques look like. There's just something weird about this particular vanity."
"What about it?"
He gestures towards the table with his bottle.
"It's flat against the wall.”
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't.
"It's a piece of furniture," I say. "Isn't it supposed to sit flat against the wall?"
"No," he says. "I mean, yes it's supposed to be on the wall, but not flat against it. Think about your vanity – the physical body is against the wall, but the mirror isn't. The table has an edge, which means the mirror should be standing out a few inches from the wall. The edge would touch the wall, keeping the mirror out away from it. But look at this table. It's not doing that. The back of the mirror is flush against the wall behind it."
"Could the tables just be designed differently?" I ask.
"I guess," he says, climbing off the bed and crossing over to the vanity. I see him run his fingers along the edges of the table. Suddenly, he pauses.
"What is it?" I ask.
"A piece of the edging is loose here," he says.
I get off the bed and walk over to him. Setting my soda on the table, I step up beside him and look at the section of the wood he's touching. I watch his fingertips wiggle a piece of the decorative scrolling back and forth. The wood responds by moving out of the way. I expect it to fall, but instead, it swings to the side. Cade runs his fingers along the inside until there is an audible click. Almost instantly, the entire vanity shifts forward a few inches.
"Did you see that?" Cade asks. "It moved."
I nod. I'm getting as swept up in the myst
ery as he is.
"Can we move it more?”
"Help me," Cade answers. "Go to the other side."
We grasp the sides of the vanity, and I prepare myself for the antique piece to be horribly heavy. Instead, it glides out of the way, opening like a door. I walk back around to stand beside Cade, and we both stare incredulously at the dark, narrow opening that just appeared in the wall.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Cade's face lights up.
"It's a secret passage," he says. "A hallway probably used by servants when the house was first built. I studied things like this back in architecture school. They aren't very common anymore, but they were a century or so ago. People liked to carry on the image of their home running seamlessly, so, their maids and butlers couldn't be seen around the house handling things. So, they had these passages built that would let the staff move around the house undetected. Usually, they would connect the areas most used by the staff, so one would go from the kitchen to the bedrooms or to the sitting room or the nursery. Did you know there was anything like this in the house?"
I shake my head.
"No," I say. "Grammie and Gramps never mentioned any kind of secret passageways. They probably thought I'd get lost in them." I shrug. "Shit. I probably would get lost in them."
"We don't know where it leads," Cade says.
I look at him.
"Which would be why I would get lost in them."
"Valid." He grins at me. "We'd probably still be looking for you." He glances into the passage again, and then back at me. "Shall we go in?"
"You just said we don't know where it goes."
Cade peers inside. He straightens and pulls his phone out of his pocket, directing it into the darkness.
"It looks like it goes behind this room and the stairs. That makes sense. The dimensions of this room are off. It's not as wide as the other rooms on the floor. That's because this thing is behind it."
