by Mariah Dietz
She stands, her glare intensifying. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” Grace steps closer to me. “What in the hell happened to you?”
“I thought you were going to kill yourself in the pond today!”
“You’ve never treated me like I was any different, and suddenly you’re leading the lynch mob.”
I swiftly shake my head. “I’m not! I’m worried about you. I want you to be safe and healthy.”
A humorless chuckle escapes my sister. It’s as foreign as the loathing expression that has her eyes pinned on me. “You haven’t even been around. Don’t pretend like you care now.”
Tears appear and fall before I register their presence. “I didn’t know how to help you,” I admit, feeling the guilt from the past five years compound and crush my heart. “I still don’t.”
“Exactly! So stop giving me advice. My meds are fine. I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”
“I have to tell Mom.”
Rage contorts my sister’s features.
“You need to talk to someone,” I repeat.
“Get out of my room, Kennedy!” She shoves me.
I catch myself, and strive to remain calm and composed. “You can talk to Mom or I can, but she needs to know.”
“Get out!” she screams louder, shoving me harder.
“I love you!” I say in defeat. “Can’t you understand that?”
“I hate you.” She slams the door in my face.
Chapter 11
Kennedy
Mom and Dad appear, their eyes wide with fear, short of breath from running the short distance.
“What’s going on?” Mom looks to Grace’s closed bedroom door and then to me.
Tears warm my eyes as they spill freely down my cheeks. I’ve been feeling like a failure due to my lack of finding a career, and now I’m realizing how badly I’ve failed my sister—something vastly more significant. I pull in a short breath, my nose running and my throat tight from tears, knowing I’ll only fail her more by not telling them. “Grace told me she wants to die.”
“I hate you!” Grace screams through the closed door. “I hate you so much!” She swings open the door, her face red with anger. “Go back to Boston!”
She lunges for me, and Dad catches her. I watch in horror as my sister thrashes and fights against his hold. Once more, I have no idea what to do. These weren’t her lows until the past few years. Before that, she spent these days in her bed, sleeping and staring off into space while I tried to entertain her and spark interest with grand ideas and stories.
“Grace.” Dad’s voice is a low growl. He continues saying her name, quiet and even until she stops struggling.
“Kennedy, why don’t you go take a shower?” Mom says, turning to me.
I stare at her blankly. Showering is so far outside of my thoughts right now that I want to scream with frustration. I don’t want to shower. I want to make sure my sister is okay. That she isn’t going to kill herself tonight while we sleep.
“Kennedy,” Mom says my name again, calling for my attention. “Go shower.” Her hair is pulled back in its familiar twist, but nothing feels familiar about this moment or this house right now. My family is comprised of strangers, and this moment is so surreal, I can’t wrap my thoughts around it being a reality.
I have to think about each of my steps, dictating to my limbs how to move as I head to the bathroom. It no longer feels like a time warp but a prison as my thoughts collide with my fears.
My clothes fall into a wet heap, and I turn the shower to its hottest setting. Once steam appears, I step in, letting it scald me for a moment before turning it down. Then I sit on the floor of the bathtub and cry.
I cry until I’m out of tears and the water runs cold, and then I towel off and get dressed. I wrench open the bathroom door, waiting for the unexpected to resume.
The house is silent. Even the TV is off. I walk down the hall, peering into Grace’s empty room and then mine before reaching the dark kitchen. I continue to the living room and then to my parents’ room before looking out to the driveway and noticing my dad’s truck is gone.
I head to my room and change out of my pajamas and into clothes, then sit on my bed and call Vi.
“Hey!” Her voice is a cheery greeting.
“My sister said she wants to die.”
“What?” The concern in Vi’s voice brings a new wave of tears. “I thought things were better?”
“I should have come back here years ago.”
“You did!”
“I should have stayed, though.”
“Kennedy, you graduated a year later because you missed most of your senior year.” Her words are spoken softly, filled with compassion.
I sniff. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re doing it,” Violet tells me. “You being there, caring about her, caring about her so much you’re willing her to care.”
“I know this is a lot, but if you can still make it, I’d really appreciate having you here. I need some normalcy in my life.”
“I’ll be there. I promise.”
“Thanks for talking to me.”
“Anytime, you know that. I’m always here for you.”
Another tear slides down my cheek.
“Where’s your family now? What happened?”
I suck in a deep breath. “I don’t know. I went to talk to Grace, and she freaked out, and then my parents came and asked me to take a shower. By the time I was out, they were all gone.”
“Do you think they took her to the hospital?”
More tears follow the first. “I don’t know. I hope so, and yet I’m horrified that they might have. I feel so guilty.”
“You can’t feel bad, Kennedy. You might have saved her life.”
“It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’ve betrayed her and ruined what’s left of our relationship.”
“I promise, you didn’t.”
My throat tightens with emotions again. “I’m going to try calling my mom to see if I can find out what’s going on.”
“Okay.” There’s hesitation in Violet’s tone. “If you need anything—anything at all—just call me, okay?”
“I will.”
“I love you, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Love you, too.”
Hours pass, but I don’t try to reach my mom. I’m not ready for the truth yet.
Still dressed, I climb under the covers. The sheets are crisp and clean; my mom must have replaced them. It’s both comforting and strange. I haven’t had my mom change my bed in over a decade. I’m setting the alarm on my phone when I receive a message from a number with an unfamiliar area code, which I Google. When I learn it’s from Washington, DC, I add Joey to my contacts and lean back into my pillow.
Joey: What’s your favorite thing to do in Haven Point? Asking for a friend.
I sigh, not with agitation, but relief. He’s practically a stranger, and yet, right now, he brings a sense of peacefulness that I’m desperate for.
Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know me that well.
Maybe it’s because he saw one of my demons and didn’t run.
Me: You don’t have any friends.
Joey: Harsh!
I chuckle. And the release feels so good, almost cleansing, leaving me to take another deep breath.
Me: It depends. There’s the pond—of course. A couple of lakes that are good for fishing or boating. There are a couple of restaurants, a farmers’ market on Sundays that can be kind of fun, and . . .
Joey: What’s “. . .” ?
Me: Not what you’re thinking.
Joey: How do you know what I’m thinking?
Me: Because you’re a man.
Joey: Fair enough ;)
Me: I was just trying to think of other things that you might enjoy. There’s an ice cream place downtown, and in a couple of weeks, there’s going to be a small fair.
Me: Do you know yet how much longer you’ll be here?
Joey
: I don’t.
Me: In a town where so little changes, we’re transients.
I wait for several minutes for him to reply, and when he doesn’t, I consider messaging him again before I bury the phone under my pillow and close my eyes.
My thoughts settle back to Grace. I came here to save money and apply for jobs that could offer me a higher salary, benefits, and the opportunity for growth. Now those reasons seem so miniscule and insignificant compared to my sister and her well-being.
Morning arrives with a dull ache between my eyes. I wonder if it’s from the pond water or from the restless sleep that was filled with nightmares of Grace scratching at her body with scissor-shaped fingernails that she kept turning on me. Ten years ago, I could survive on a few hours of sleep after Grace would come into my room with flashlights and stories of treasure and wild ideas about ghost hunting and building castle-size forts. Maybe it’s because those events were filled with giggles and excitement rather than trepidation and tears, but this morning my eyelids feel like they’re coated with a thick layer of lead eyeshadow. I stumble through my room, pulling on a clean white T-shirt and another pair of jean shorts before fishing through my old dresser for a long pair of socks to wear with my cowboy boots.
I search the house, and once again find it empty. I’m relieved it’s not only Grace who’s missing, but I feel isolated without knowing where they are or what’s happening.
My exhaustion peaks when I catch my reflection while brushing my teeth. Makeup hadn’t been a consideration, but now it feels like a requirement as I study the bags under my red and puffy eyes.
“What the hell, body? You’re twenty-seven. Stop being such a bitch,” I mutter, swiping some additional makeup on to combat the effects of not sleeping.
I put on my collection of bangle bracelets that Violet gives me for each holiday, apply another coat of mascara, then put on a pink shade of lipstick.
If there was more time, I might consider curling my hair or applying a flat iron to tame my inconsistent tresses, but I had apparently hit “Snooze” a dozen times before forcing myself up. So I section my hair into plaits and braid it.
It’s hot and muggy this morning, the air perfumed by Mom’s vast rose garden.
I should walk to work. It would be good for me and likely help me wake up. But I only have fifteen minutes until I have to open the store, and I have a stop to make. I pull up to Haven Point Rises and leave my car running so the air conditioning will keep the temperature comfortable while I’m inside.
The shop feels cold in contrast to the humid morning air. Robin’s-egg blue walls welcome me like a hug. The scents of sweet dough and sugar fill me with memories, and glass cases filled with carbs, mouthwatering glazes, and sprinkles have my attention bouncing from one treat to the next.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Wanda comes out from the back with a white apron tied around her waist, her hair the same metallic shade of orange it’s always been. “I heard you were back in town. What’s taken you so long to come by?” She cocks her head to the side, her lips pinched as she fights a smile. She moved to Haven Point and opened her doughnut shop when I was nine. After that, I saved my allowance to come buy treats every weekend and some days after school.
“Believe me, if my body still burned calories like it once did, I’d be here daily.”
She allows her smile to break free. “We’ve missed you!” She practically yells the words for emphasis. “So tell me: are you back for good or is this just short term? I’ve been hearing both.”
“Short term,” I tell her, my voice gentle as though apologizing.
Wanda frowns deeply, as though I’ve hurt her. Shaking her head, she moves to where the espresso machine is. “You still like your white-chocolate-mocha yuppie drink?”
“I like plain coffee, too,” I say.
She nods. “But you prefer the yuppie stuff, right? That’s why you’re only here for a while?”
I lift a shoulder, uncertain how to answer. Do I admit I prefer mochas to coffee if I have the choice? Do I tell her being home wasn’t originally in the plans? How being here makes me feel like I’ve failed at being an adult?
“How long are you staying this time?”
Her question pins me to the middle of the room, exposed and wounded with the accusations I don’t understand. Is she upset that I left? Because I returned? Because I don’t want to stay?
The bells that hang from different lengths of yarn from the door handle jingle as the door opens behind me and Kip appears, a friendly smile splitting his face. “Hey! My favorite women in Haven Point in one place!” Kip wraps me in a hug, ignoring the decade that’s passed. “You aren’t eating all my maple bars, are you?”
Wanda clears her throat, placing my to-go cup on the counter. “She hasn’t ordered yet.”
“What’re you waitin’ for, girl? Can’t decide how many to get?” Kip bends, peering through the windows. “Looks like we get first pick this morning.”
“Can I get three of each doughnut and a couple of cinnamon rolls?”
“Is ‘a couple’ two up in Boston?” Wanda asks.
An uneasy laugh leaves me. “I’m pretty certain ‘a couple’ means two everywhere.”
Her eyebrows jump, and she stops from putting together a doughnut box. “Just making sure.”
“You coming to the ice cream social tomorrow?” Kip asks. “Your daddy made the stage we helped install. It’s pretty killer.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I have a friend coming into town for the weekend.”
“Bigger and better things to do?” Wanda asks, stacking a third box onto my pile and entering numbers on her cash register.
Once again, I’m dumbfounded—unsure if I should be defending myself or confronting her over the accusations she keeps slinging at me. But Kip doesn’t even blink, acting like her words aren’t anything more than casual morning conversation.
Am I just being sensitive? Are her words innocent?
I grab a couple of bills from my wallet and drop them on the counter before gathering the boxes and my coffee. “Have a good day,” I tell them both, leaving the change.
“Want some help?” Kip asks.
I shake my head, tears burning my eyes, threatening to ruin my mascara and facade of being unaffected by Wanda’s words.
“All right. We’ll see you around, Jelly Bean!” Kip calls as I pass back into the heat.
With the doughnuts safely stored in my back seat and my seat belt on, I take a deep cleansing breath.
“Short term,” I tell myself. “This is all short term.”
I pull into the parking lot of Wallace Hardware four minutes later than the store was supposed to open. My shoulders sink with another sigh as I see the “Open” sign glowing. I grab the doughnuts and my coffee and head inside, spilling some of the hot drink on my arm as I attempt to pull the door open.
Jackson appears, holding the door open and reaching for the bakery boxes as I shake my burned hand. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
My breath hitches, catching on a lump that’s been growing in my throat since last night. I press my lips together and nod, trying to convince us both of its validity.
“Well, whatever’s botherin’ you, Wanda’s doughnuts are sure to make it better.” Jackson smiles, and the familiarity of it bridges a small gap in my heart.
I nod, wiping a single stray tear as we turn to the front counter.
“You got your boots back on,” he says, helping me open the boxes.
“Does it sound silly to hear I missed them?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I don’t think I ever saw you in anything but cowboy boots growin’ up.”
“I haven’t worn a pair since I left for Boston,” I admit.
His chin rumples as his lips press together in thought.
“Oh, man,” I say, not wanting to continue on this trek down memory lane. “They smell so good!�
� I reach for the boxes of doughnuts.
Jackson smiles so wide, thin lines outline the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you’re home, Jelly Bean. I’ve missed you.”
“It’s been too long,” I admit.
He nods. “Now you talk funny.”
I wind my fist back and softly bump it against his flexed biceps. “You talk funny.” I push him with my shoulder. “You better eat before people start coming in.”
He laughs. “You’re right.” He reaches in, grabs a large round doughnut covered in maple and drizzled with chocolate, and hands it to me.
This doughnut is my favorite, the very definition of perfection. It’s the same one I always ordered at Haven Point Rises. Glancing at the opened box, I notice Wanda added six more than the three I ordered.
The front door opens, and Jackson and I turn to see Coen and Joey coming in.
“Good morning!” Coen calls, flashing a smile that I nearly miss as I look to Joey, who stands close behind him. He never did text me again last night. If my mom and I did talk about guys, I’d be telling her this is a mark against him because few things annoy me more than someone who randomly vanishes. Been there. Done that. It ended with him asking me to call him when I return to Boston.
But this isn’t dating.
We don’t even like each other. He said so last night.
This is nothing.
He is nothing.
Short term.
Transient.
“Hey! Come on in. You guys want some doughnuts?” I call, sounding friendly and impartial.
Joey follows Coen inside, his face somber and difficult to read, like it so often is. I take a step back to make room for them to look over the boxes and step into Jackson, who doesn’t move with the impact, forcing me to rock forward again. “Sorry,” I say, as Jackson reaches forward to support me. I move to the side so as to not get tangled with him or either of the DeLuca men, Jackson’s hand still resting on my shoulder.
“If you make a cop joke, I’ll call in a favor and get you arrested,” Joey says, looking at me as he lifts a large chocolate doughnut to his mouth.
“I think what you meant to say was ‘thank you.’” I take a long drink of my coffee. “And you’re welcome,” I say.
