by Natalie Lund
They’re more right than they know.
“I should follow her,” I whisper to my mom.
She squeezes my hand.
I find Izzy in the back seat of their car, her head down like she’s praying. I knock on the window, and she waves me inside. The air-conditioning is on full blast, but her forehead is shiny with sweat.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods and points to an iPad in her lap. “It’s Israel’s.”
She has the tablet’s browser history open, and I lean over her shoulder to read. His last search was the time for sunrise on the Sunday they died. Before that, a website for Bradley Simpson, Flight Instructor.
“Let me show you something.” She opens the email app and hands the tablet to me.
I read the thread quickly. For some reason Israel is lying about being a researcher to a guy named Peter. At the end he claims to be the guy’s father.
“See,” she says, stabbing the email with her finger. “They did it.”
“What is this? I don’t get it.”
“Since he was little, Israel said he remembered a past life. He died getting medicine for his son. Israel found him—the real, live son.”
I know I’m staring at her, my mouth open. Maybe I should tell my mom what’s going on with her—see if we can get her some help. I swallow and try to respond calmly. “Let’s pretend for half a second that’s true; I still don’t see what it has to do with them magically turning into dolphins.”
“He lived a life before as someone else. He’s living a life after now, too.”
She must read disbelief on my face. “You never trust me, Cass,” she says.
“I trust you. But I’m so, so sad, and pretending they are swimming around out there only makes it worse. Izzy, it’s just not scientifically possible.”
“Of course. Of course. There’s the Cass path, and every other path is wrong.”
“That’s not what I—”
A gentle rap on the window interrupts us. My mom is outside. There are others outside too, milling around the parking lot in dark clothes, blotting their sweaty foreheads with handkerchiefs. The funeral is over.
I take a deep breath, trying to collect myself. “I should go. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay,” she says. Her attention has already returned to the iPad, to whatever she hopes to find.
As I walk to our car with Mom, I think of that name I spotted on Israel’s iPad: Bradley Simpson. Maybe they told him something. Maybe he knows whether this was an accident or something they chose.
Maybe I have to seek some answers on my own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JANIE
Four days after
DAD AND I arrive toward the end of Nate’s wake. A group of chairs have been moved into a circle near the back of the room, far from the coffin. I can see Nate’s profile, but I don’t allow myself more than a glance. There’s a portrait of him—a soccer photo from last year—next to the coffin, and I look at that instead. His mouth is a line and he glares at the camera with what I’m assuming is supposed to be an intimidating expression, but he looks small in his oversized uniform jersey.
“Gavin, Janie, have a seat,” Nate’s dad says when he sees us, gesturing at the circle of chairs. I’ve never seen him in anything but the stained jeans and ratty T-shirts advertising local restaurants that he wears on fishing tours. Today he is in a slim and expensive-looking navy suit. He is clean-shaven and looks like he could be heading out to the orchestra or opera. I wonder if this is what Nate would have dressed like had he gotten the chance to become a grown man. The thought makes my heart ache.
Nate’s mother has removed her shoes, and she has blue nail polish, chipped, on her toes. Aaron, Nate’s older brother, is holding her hand. He used to look boyish, with freckles and dark wavy hair, but college seems to have given him a more rugged appearance, with a fuller face and facial hair. He’s taller than Nate was, though still shorter than most men. The cuter brother, according to many girls in our school.
My dad tugs at his beard, which means he’s uncomfortable, but slides into a folding chair. There’s another neighbor, Mrs. Kearn, in the circle, and a few people I recognize as belonging to the short, dark-haired Herschel extended family.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, because what else is there?
Here, among his family, I’m openly known as his friend. Tomorrow, at the funeral, there will be a million people from school. People who’ve rarely, if ever, seen us speak to each other. The two worlds—the two Janies—will collide.
Nate’s mom notices me for the first time, and she opens her mouth as though she’s about to say something but then closes it.
“Thanks for being here,” Aaron says. It sounds so idiotic coming from him—this boy who was always part of the Nate and Aaron wars—but here he is being the responsible one, the family greeter.
I sit for a few minutes next to my father, who is tugging his beard so hard I’m afraid he’ll start pulling it out, before I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I don’t really need to go; I’m just afraid I’ll blurt out something awkward if I stay.
Aaron excuses himself too. Before I get to the bathroom, he hisses, “Hey, Janie. Come outside?”
I follow him to a small garden of concrete pavers and succulents near the back entrance to the funeral home. Aaron is the one I have to thank for introducing me to weed. He was in ninth grade the year after my mom left, and he offered it to me casually once when I was over at their house. It relaxed my brain enough that I fell asleep, right there on the couch while Aaron and Nate played a video game. After that I started asking him for it so that I could sleep at home. Eventually he introduced me to the island’s one dealer, a gentle hippie named Horace, who lives in a camper trailer and manages the campground on the south end of the island.
Even though Aaron was in high school with us for just two years, he’s also the only one who knows that Nate avoided me there. We’ve never talked about it, but I’ve caught him looking at me pityingly.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
Terrible. I’ve lost my best friend, who didn’t think I was good enough for him to begin with. “It comes and goes,” I say instead.
He nods at this. “Yesterday I was barely functional and today I’m keeping them functional.” He gestures at the funeral home. He rocks onto his toes and back. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”
It’s my turn to nod.
“Listen, Janie, I have a favor to ask.”
“Okay.”
“I’m supposed to speak tomorrow, but I have no clue what to say. The only funerals I’ve ever been to are Shane’s and Israel’s. You’re a good writer. Could you maybe help me write something?” He hands me his phone, where he’s written one line on a note.
Nate was an incredible brother and friend.
“I have to lie, don’t I?” he says with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s all lies.” He understands as well as I do that there were two worlds. But which Janie is the real one? Which Nate? “Sure, no problem. I can come over after this ends.”
Aaron thanks me and returns to the parlor, but I’m not ready to go back in yet, so I stop at the drinking fountain outside the bathroom. I hear the soft smack of bare feet on tile. Nate’s mom is behind me, twisting her wedding band. She’s freckled like Aaron, petite and dark-haired like her husband and sons. Her hair is streaked with gray in a way that seems too purposeful to be natural. She isn’t wearing makeup—she never does because she’s always out on boats for her research—and her face is lined in that wholesome, friendly way you see depicted in TV ads for arthritis medicines. I’ve never seen her so beautiful or sad.
“Janie, you were his best friend,” she says with a hint of an Alabama accent. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. Did he tell he
r that?
She looks down at her ring and twists it again. “Do you know why? Why would he do this?” She’s whispering now, talking more to herself than to me, and her voice cracks on the why. I want to tell her I knew something was wrong with him and didn’t tell anyone. I want to tell her I ended our friendship during the party. But I can’t hold the tears back. They slip down my cheeks, catching on my chin before they drop to my neck, my collarbone. I swipe at them but it’s no use.
“Shhh. Shhh,” she says softly, cupping my cheek with her hand. “That makes two of us.”
But I don’t know what she means. Two of us crying this way? Two of us who don’t know why? Or two of us who might?
The memories cascade, one after the other:
Nate, sunk into himself, staring blankly at the television.
Nate, pointing to the stars.
Nate, at the party with that strange look on his face when I said I couldn’t pretend anymore.
“I don’t know why this happened,” I say. “But I’m going to find out. I promise.” And I will. Tomorrow I’ll get that boat for Cass and Izzy and ask them what they know.
Nate’s mom gives me a sad smile and a quick squeeze of my hand, then turns to go back inside and leaves me standing there alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CASS
Five days after
I WANT TO skip Nate’s funeral. I’m at the point where grief has settled into exhaustion, where I want nothing but to sleep until everything is muted and gauzy. Izzy texts me, insisting I go because Shane would want it.
I don’t answer right away. Let her think I’m still mad. Plus I’m not sure she’s right. Shane hated anything slow and morose and probably would have hated his own funeral. But funerals are for those who’ve been left behind: Shane’s was for his mom, surrounded by floral arrangements she didn’t make; for his sister, holding his hand one more time; for his dad, comforting sobbing teenager after sobbing teenager and allowing it to fuel his rage. He whispered to me, It’s okay, sweetie. I will not rest until I find out who is to blame, which only made me cry harder.
I wear the leopard print and black cardigan again and ask my mom just to drop me off. I’m tired of the hand pats, the back rubs, the hovering to make sure I’m okay. I’m not, and no amount of hugging will change that.
Izzy meets me at the church, wearing slightly dressier clothes than for her brother’s funeral—jeans and a black blouse. “Hi,” she says, like nothing happened yesterday.
“Hey,” I say back stiffly.
It doesn’t even register. Not that I expect an apology.
She picks a pew in the middle of the church, and I slide in beside her. Janie is sitting right next to Nate’s mom. Her hair is in a crooked French braid, and she’s wearing an oversized skirt suit in a sober plum color. It looks like something made for a much older woman. She keeps glancing behind her, her eyes roving like she’s trying to find someone but can’t focus. Mrs. Herschel bends Janie’s head toward her own and pets the girl’s hair like she’s family. It makes me unsettled, this intimacy. Janie is their next-door neighbor, but I’ve never even seen Nate talk to her.
Izzy is watching them too with a thoughtful expression, and just like that day in film class when Janie turned in that mess of a script, Izzy seems to see something that I do not.
“That’s weird,” I whisper, hoping it will prompt her to share whatever she sees.
“It’s interesting,” she says without elaborating.
Other people from our school have noticed too. Tien, sitting across the aisle from us, is doing the most obvious cup of her hand around her mouth as she talks to Shelly. Marcus is flat-out staring.
The pastor invites Aaron up to deliver a eulogy. He clears his throat, unfolds a paper, and smooths it out on the lectern.
“Nate was an incredible brother, son, and friend. He was the kind of soccer player who made it look easy, which you all know. But I want to tell you something about Nate that you probably didn’t: he loved the ocean. When he was younger, he’d ignore how hot it was and ride his bike to the seawall. He’d climb out on the rocks on the south side and watch the waves for hours. Not even our mosquitoes could keep him away. Once, I asked him why he spent so long looking at the ocean, and he said, ‘Because it’s magic.’
“I think he believed in the ocean’s ability to wash us clean and give us a fresh beginning. Nate was always willing to begin again. When I was on the soccer team with him a few years ago and we were facing that losing streak, he’d start every practice and game like we were going to win the championship. After his knee injury, he went to every PT appointment. His physical therapist said he was a warrior; he was right. I probably know that better than anyone. We fought all the time as kids. Nate was a stubborn son of a— Sorry, Mom.”
The audience chuckles, and Aaron looks for someone in the crowd. Janie? “One time we had a terrible fight about who could have shotgun. It ended with us rolling in the grass outside and our dad dragging us apart by the collars. But, once we were in the car—with me in the front seat, of course—he cracked some wry joke that made us all laugh. Because with Nate, you could always start over again too. He gave us all that.
“I hope each of us can keep our memories of him as that sarcastic, half-smiling, hilarious soccer demon that he was, but also remember that he was a person who saw magic in everyday things.”
Aaron bows his head. The crowd joins him in a moment of silence, punctuated by sniffles. When he returns to his seat, a hymn begins.
“He didn’t write that,” Izzy whispers to me.
“How do you know?”
Izzy is watching Janie with a slight smile on her lips. “I can just tell.”
* * *
• • •
After the funeral, Janie frees herself from Mrs. Herschel and looks like she’s trying to escape the church. Izzy has a sharklike ability to navigate through crowds—precise, fast, and cunning—and we intercept Janie.
“Is the boat ready?” she asks without a hello.
“Theo should have it ready by the time we get there,” Janie says, tugging on her braid nervously.
After our visit to the theater, they made a plan without me, I realize. Izzy rarely surprises me. Her feelings are so big that even the secrets she thinks she has are as visible as her eyeliner. But her interest in using Janie when there’s a whole town of boat owners around us is baffling to me.
It’s not that Janie isn’t nice enough. Or smart. Or generous with the weed that she gets from God knows where. It’s the way she seems tethered to a different world, unsure of the rules of this one—how to be near people without hovering, how to moderate her tone with teachers, how to think and talk at the same time, how not to punch cafeteria walls.
“Can you drive?” Izzy asks Janie with what sounds like sympathy. Janie nods back.
They start toward the parking lot, and I hang back—not sure if I’m still expected to join this pointless expedition. Mom has warned me that I need to defend my boundaries, decide for myself if something will help or hurt me. Izzy’s dolphin bullshit hurts because it feels like a lie, like something you make up so little children can stomach grief: We took Fluffy to a nice farm.
Janie glances over her shoulder and notices that I’m not in step with them. “Cass isn’t coming,” she says, but characteristic of her awkwardness, she’s looking at me, talking to me.
Izzy turns, and I expect her to insist or cajole, but her face is impassive. Patient, even. The decision, for what seems like the first time, is mine.
And I choose my friend.
* * *
• • •
Theo begins untying the boat while we climb in. It dips with my weight, and I sit immediately, right where I stepped in. Janie is already at the helm and Izzy sits on the bench across from me. She moves her legs, presumably so that I can sit beside her,
but I stay planted on my side of the boat. I know it will be too loud to talk anyway, and I want to be alone in the whirring, splashing pocket of sound.
Janie points at the bench where three life jackets are stored, and we all pull them on over our funeral clothes. The vest is damp, and I can feel it soaking my mom’s cardigan.
Janie is a nervous driver, and that’s no different with a boat. She taps her thumbs on the wheel, bites her lip, and glances back at Theo, who is standing on the dock with his hand bridged over his eyes. The boat glides at a snail’s pace out of the marina, so there’s no threat that we’ll hit something. When we clear the bay and Janie hits the throttle, we’re still moving slowly. This is a tourist’s boat. A toddling-around-the-bay boat.
We pick up speed as we approach the southern end of the island and loop around, heading north toward the beaches, toward the party beach. My hair is whipping, curling around my neck, tickling my cheeks, dashing across my forehead. There is no order out here, no calmness.
Izzy looks right at me and says something. I cannot hear her, and I try to read her lips as she repeats it. I decide that she’s apologizing.
It’s okay, I mouth because my voice will get lost.
She grins, and I feel lighter. I think I can face this moment, looking into the water where we lost the boys—even if she brings up the dolphins—because our friendship is solid. Because I can be Cass and she can be Izzy, and there are years and years of us to stand on.
Janie cuts the motor to a purr, and then off. We float. And drift. I’m struck by the vacuum of sound. My ears almost throb with it. There’s only the water lapping against the side of the boat. There’s only us, waiting for Izzy to say or do whatever we have come here for.
It’s hard to get my bearings from this view of the beaches. Between Adventure Pier and the northern tip, it is one flat stretch. The businesses and hotels across Ocean from the seawall provide the best guidance. There’s also a statue of an angel mounted on the seawall, across from the Kroger. The angel was built in 1910 to commemorate the victims of a particularly devastating hurricane. We call her Gully because of the number of seagulls that have shit on her head and dress.
