by Mariah Dietz
I consider offering the same sage advice my dad has given me on multiple occasions about how failure isn’t the same as not being successful, but she sinks below the surface again, and I decide to jump. The rope cuts into my palms, and the breeze feels cold against my bare legs, welcoming the water to coat me as I fall into it. When I surface, Kennedy is floating on her back a few feet from me, her eyes closed. I imagine this is how her skin has darkened so quickly.
“You’re out of questions?” I ask.
“For now, let’s say that’s the case.”
I tread water, watching her float. “Are you homesick?”
“For Boston?”
“Mmhmm.”
Her fingers tickle the water. “I think so. But I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Why didn’t you just move in with a friend or a boyfriend?”
Rather than reply, she simply smiles again. It teases my senses and emotions, which fire off question after question, desperate to know what the expression means. What secrets is she keeping? How close am I to the truth?
“Trust me, I debated my decision to return home for a long time. This was the right choice. Plus, being back gives me an opportunity to spend time with my sister, who moved back a while ago.”
“Your sister is Grace?”
She turns and the gesture makes her start to sink. “How’d you know her name?”
“Ethan, the cop,” I add. “He mentioned her name a couple of times. I’m guessing they have a history?”
“They were high school sweethearts,” Kennedy says, regaining her balance to continue floating.
“Where is she back from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“A cheesehead?”
Her customary reaction to grin or smile doesn’t happen. Instead, her lips curve into a frown.
“What brought her back to Haven Point?”
“I think she just needed to feel the security this place offers. The refuge home provides.”
Once again I find myself wanting to ask more questions, realizing how vague Kennedy’s answers tend to be, and how so many are laced with trigger words.
“Is it just you and your sister?”
She hums a yes. “What about you?”
“I have four sisters.”
She sits up to look at me, and once again, sinks up to her chin. Her arms and feet flail to keep her head above water. Rather than resume her floating position, Kennedy wades back to the shore and follows the same path up to the rope swing.
“I would’ve answered your question down here,” I call.
“Why are you here when you were on TV last week, naming a potential suspect for the serial rapist in DC?” Her lips form a thin line, and when I don’t reply right away, her eyes narrow.
Sarcasm and defiance make me want to respond to her by asking how many times she Googled me and what else she discovered in her searches. Then I note the rigidness of her shoulders and hands, which haven’t moved since she asked the question, and I realize she’s upset with me.
“Whatever you think you know about that case, I can assure you, you’re wrong.”
“So he has been arrested, and the news just hasn’t shared it?” Her brows rise, but still her hands and shoulders remain pinned.
“There’s so much more to the story.”
She waits.
“I can’t talk about it. It’s still an ongoing investigation.”
“That you’re working really hard to solve, right?”
I shake my head. “I thought you only got one question.”
“You never answered it.”
“Then you need to ask another one, because I’m not allowed to talk about Holden or any other open case.”
“You’re an asshole, and that’s a terrible excuse.” The rope falls from her hands, swinging idly as she walks back down the bank and loops around toward the other side where our clothes sit.
“How’d we go from middle ground to you hating me again?”
“We were never on middle ground.” Her strides are quick and wide with intent.
I begin swimming toward the shore. “I don’t understand. Can you clue me in? What just happened?”
“He’s a monster, and you’re here swimming in a pond and working on your tan!”
“I was taken off the case!” I yell.
Kennedy is already shrugging her shirt over her head, trying to pull it over her damp skin, when I reach her. “You think because you’re good-looking, you can do anything you want. But your actions have consequences. And it’s other people who pay those prices.” She doesn’t bother with her shorts, just slides on her shoes while I fight a barrage of accusations and questions.
Chapter 8
Kennedy
“Dad’s going to kill you.” Grace’s blue eyes flash to my hair, which I washed after getting home from the pond.
“No, he won’t.”
She shakes her head, laughing softly. “Did you forget? You were supposed to be a part of the party that went to help install the insulation,” Grace reminds me. “By the way, these were here for you.” She plops a bag filled with jelly beans on the counter. Kip has kept his promise and has been randomly dropping off containers of jelly beans nearly every day. I’ve begun to toss many of them out because they’re now everywhere I go: my car, my purse, the back office, even my room at home is littered with bags of them.
“It was canceled,” I tell her. “I guess Coen got called in to work.”
“So you went AWOL?”
I stare at my sister, trying to read the anger in her tone. I haven’t had a day off since I’ve been back, and though I spent the morning at the pond, I’m still here—working. Her rounded eyes pool with tears. As quickly as they come, my sister turns, busying herself with numerous stamps and small miscellaneous objects that always pile up near the register.
“I didn’t mean to disappear. Dad told me it was supposed to be a slow day and suggested I work on my résumé. Which I did . . . for a while.”
I’ve rewritten, reformatted, and reedited that document to death. It barely reflects me anymore.
Grace doesn’t respond or turn to acknowledge me, working to keep her hands busy.
“Do you want me to take over the register so you can work on more of the payables and receivables?”
She moves the stapler for the third time and shakes her head.
“All right. Well, if you need me I’m going to be in the back unloading crates with Jackson, okay?”
Nothing.
With a deep sigh, I wander to the back, my cowboy boots clipping the tiled floor and casting shadows. Guilt burrows itself in my chest, making my skin burn with embarrassment and anger, sadness, and confusion. My sister’s reaction and behavior has me realizing I just successfully did exactly what Grace has been doing to me and others for years: alienating, confusing, and pushing away. I did that to Joey, a man whom I barely know and who was willing to extend an olive branch. A man I have held an entire truckload of assumptions about.
“Hey, Jelly Bean.” Jackson breaks my pity party. His smile is warm as he looks over his clipboard at me. “Look at you going all country.”
I glance past my denim shorts to my brown leather boots. I’d found them in the back of my closet last night when I was digging through all the things I’d left at home a decade ago. “I’m probably going to have blisters for weeks from these old things.”
He blows out a laugh. “You want to check things off as I read them?”
I don’t. I really don’t. Yet I take the clipboard from him and check items off one at a time as he calls them out, my mind still at the pond, wondering why I asked that question and if Joey could have possibly answered it so that I wouldn’t have wanted to punch him in the face.
Six hours and twenty-two pages of inventory later, I’m behind Frosty King with a strawberry milkshake and my phone, calling Violet.
“If I break out into song, will it make you come home sooner?” she asks.
I la
ugh, grateful to hear her voice. “I just counted out four hundred and thirty-seven bolts.”
“Dear God. Please tell me you’re drinking. Drinking heavily.”
“Does a strawberry milkshake count?”
“Only if it’s spiked with vodka.”
“Then I’m failing at this, too.”
“Well, I have some news that might make you feel better . . .”
I sit up, my thoughts whirling. “What?”
“Well, I have some vacation to use, and I was thinking it would be really great to come see this itty-bitty town with a high sheep population—”
I shriek. “Seriously?”
“Yup.” I can hear Violet smiling through her high and happy tone.
“When?”
“I was hoping tomorrow . . .”
A squeal bursts through my lips. “Are you serious?”
“Are there hotels around where you live? You make it sound like there’s nothing. I won’t have to buy a tent or anything, right?”
“Definitely not. You’ll be staying with us!”
She laughs. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Oh my gosh. Stop. You will not be imposing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“If I get stuck behind a bunch of sheep, will you come to my rescue?”
I laugh, my heart and mood lighter. “You saw how I faired against the sheep.”
“You’re telling me I should pack lots of snacks and a pillow just in case?”
“Don’t forget water.”
“You mean alcohol?”
“That, too.”
We laugh, and my thoughts of the day and being back in Haven Point are barely a shadow as I focus on the upcoming weekend. “I’m so excited to see you. It feels like it’s been far longer than a couple of weeks.”
“It does for me, too. I’m sorry to cut our call short again, but I just pulled into my parents’ driveway, and it’s only a matter of time before my mom assumes I’m dealing drugs because I’m on my cell phone.”
“Tell her those transactions are all handled via text.”
Vi laughs. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“I’m seriously thrilled. Have a good dinner, and let me know when you’re heading this way.” I disconnect and lay my phone beside me, finishing my milkshake with a smile as I think of the weekend.
When I arrive home, Mom is at the stove, stirring a large stock pot.
“Hey,” I say in greeting, moving to open the fridge and pull out the pitcher of sweet tea. “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, no, I’m just making some chicken and noodles. Easy supper tonight.”
“Want some tea?” I ask.
She shakes her head and then looks at the back door I passed through. “Where’s Grace?”
“Isn’t she home?” I ask. My sister had left the store before I went to get a milkshake.
Mom’s shoulders stiffen. The metal spoon she was using to stir the pot of noodles clanks against the side of the pot, and her eyes grow wide with fear. She wipes her hands on the checkered apron tied around her waist, turning toward the window over the sink that looks out to the driveway.
“She’s probably at the pond.” My glass remains empty as I set the pitcher down. “I’ll go check.”
She nods absently and checks her phone for a third time.
The familiar path is a blur as I consider what I’ll say to Grace when I find her. I’m assuming she’s doing this as retribution for not knowing where I’d gone this morning. But my absences are to seek peacefulness and rest—she has a record of the opposite.
I burst through the woods, and my heart sinks when I don’t find her swimming in the pond like I was so certain I would. I follow the path down around the shore and reach the opposite side before going up to the new playground.
It appears empty, but rather than retreating, I head up to the play structure and peek my head inside the bright-yellow tube slide, recalling how Grace mentioned hiding there. I find my sister with her knees tucked up against her chest. Her blue eyes are hollow as they flash my way, immersed in her past.
“You forgot to say boo,” I tell her.
Grace tries to force a smile, but it falters, and with a big heave, she drops her head to her knees and cries.
Using my hands and feet to anchor myself, I slowly slide down beside her. My eyes itch with tears as I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her against my side. “You have to talk to me.” I mean for my words to sound like a command. A fact. But they sound like a plea, my heart fracturing as my sister’s cries become guttural and wild.
“I want to die,” she cries.
Tears course down my cheeks as I shake my head and hold her tighter. Chills run across my skin like electricity, making every hair on my body stand on end, though the heat and humidity is hot enough to choke on.
Last night streams through my mind: Grace waking us both up with her kicking and screaming. The tennis shoes she still can’t sleep without wearing.
My thoughts bounce to how hard she tries to prevent any physical contact.
The eerie look that fills her eyes when she gets lost in thought.
Even now I can feel how much she loathes me touching her, and still I grip her tighter, tired of allowing her to widen the gap.
“I love you,” I tell her. “I love you so much, and I wish I could take this away from you. I wish I could take it all.”
She shakes her head in swift jerking movements. “No!” she screams. “No!” she screams louder, her eyes focus on me, wet and feral-looking as her lips curve with a dramatic frown.
But I do. I wish I could take the nightmares that plague my sister’s mind. The evilness that has taken residence in every single one of her thoughts and perceptions of others.
“I just . . .” She begins to itch, using her nails like weapons, scraping at her forearm in vicious pulls that turn her skin red and angry. “I can’t get it off. I want it off!” she yells. Her words bounce around the tube, so loud they make my ears burn. The scrapes turn into clawing, and skin ripples in long paths from where her nails are pulling it back.
Each time I reach for her hand, she screams and slaps me away, pulling and jerking until we both slide to the bottom and fall on the ground in a heap.
“Stop!” I tell her. “Please, stop!” I’m desperate, my words far less sure than my hold on her wrists.
She screams again, sounding like a wild animal. Tears slide from her eyes, and then she closes them, her body lying still under my tight grasp. “I just want it off of me.” More tears slip down the side of her face.
“Let’s go to the pond.”
“That won’t help. It never comes off!” Her chin drops back, and she screams again—a shriek of pain and terror against the silent woods as her muscles constrict. My heard pounds as I tighten my grip, expecting her to lash out and try scratching herself again. “It never comes off!” she yells.
My eyes blur. I haven’t seen her react like this in years, but the fear of a similar scenario happening is part of what’s kept me away so long. State lines and a thousand miles allow me to remember my sister as happy and easygoing, strong and healthy.
“Please stop touching me,” she cries, closing her eyes and falling weak. “Please.” Her voice is a whimper, shredding what’s left of my heart.
Slowly, I release her, though everything in me is urging me not to. I stand, allowing my sister the buffer that seems almost vital to her.
“Come on, Grace. The pond is ten feet away.”
Her head snaps to the woods. I follow her gaze for a second before focusing back on her to ensure she’s not going to try anything. She continues staring at the woods for several seconds before slowly nodding.
I nod, too, as though it will convince her further that this is a good idea. Because I can’t reach out and take her hand, I continue to look behind me to ensure my sister follows me to where the soft man-made material that surrounds the playground t
urns to bracken and then breaks to the shore of the pond. I kick off my boots, and, like my sister, I wade into the water fully dressed, tossing only my phone to the shore.
She gets to where the water meets her chest and then drops below the surface.
I count the seconds she remains under, my heart accelerating as the numbers grow higher.
. . . Five. This will help her . . .
. . . Ten. She needs this . . .
. . . Fifteen. What was I thinking?
. . . Twenty. She wouldn’t do this to me . . .
. . . Twenty-five. Right?
When I hit twenty-seven, I plunge into the dark water, unconvinced of anything but how unstable everything feels.
The water is murky, making it difficult for me to see as I dive deeper, my eyes resistant to being open with all the debris floating around.
I surface and take a deep breath, my eyes burning. Seconds later, someone else pops up and gasps for breath. I look over, and instead of finding Grace, I see Joey, his hair slicked back, a black T-shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders.
“See? It’s not very funny, is it?”
I whirl around to find Grace treading water several feet from me.
I want to tell her that the differences are vast, separated by worlds and multiple pleas for death.
I suck in a deep breath, my eyes burning from the assault the endured from the pond.
“You must be one of the DeLuca brothers,” Grace says, her tone controlled and level. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Grace, Kennedy’s sister.” And just like that, she’s back to smiling, while I’m still hearing her beg to die and seeing the scratches on her arms each time I close my eyes.
Joey looks to me, his brown eyes calm and his smile genuine. I have no idea what he saw. What he heard. Why he’s here.
He wasn’t here when we arrived.
Was he?
For a moment it feels as though I’m crazy as I stare at him, silently begging for answers and clues about his presence. About what just happened. I want confirmation from Grace that she wasn’t trying to kill herself and that she doesn’t really want to die. She’s thirty now. How is it that boys are still able to break our hearts? When I was a teenager, I believed that thoughts of suicide, insecurities, and self-loathing were something that passed once you graduated high school. Now I recognize them happening in people twice my age, and it terrifies me that they’ll always be present in each and every relationship and experience. A shadow that I’m continuously attempting to scare away with light words and brighter smiles.
