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This doesn’t feel like two strangers saying goodbye. It doesn’t feel like ripping off a bandage. It feels like pulling a single thread and watching the universe unravel. It feels wrong.
Before either of us can stop it, I find myself climbing into the truck with a portly man wearing overalls. A cigar dangles from his bottom lip, and the interior of the truck’s cab reeks of cheap whiskey. His sausage fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead of us as Shadow grabs a crate of food out of the truck bed.
Beacham reminds me of my grandfather, though, admittedly, I don’t really remember him that well. Grandpa Frank died of a massive heart attack when I was just six years old. The heart attack came soon after the stroke, which was probably caused by the two gallons of cheap wine he drank every day while watching reruns of I Love Lucy and The Carol Burnett Show.
“H-Hi,” I stutter, putting my hand out. “I’m Cassidy.”
The man doesn’t attempt to shake my hand. “I don’t care what your name is, sweetheart. Just keep quiet, and we’ll both enjoy the ride a lot more.”
I nod as I pull my hand back and rest it in my lap. “Yes, sir.”
A knock on the passenger side window startles me, I quickly roll it down for Shadow.
He reaches in to hand me a red apple he must have taken out of his delivery. “For the road.”
My stomach flutters as I take the fruit from his hand, my fingers brushing against his palm. “Thank you,” I whisper, so as not to annoy Mr. Beacham.
Shadow tilts his face up, and I’m finally able to get a good look at him in the daylight. Wearing that mischievous smile, he looks boyishly handsome. But there’s still a sadness in his eyes I can’t ignore.
Who hurt you? I want to ask.
Instead, I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on his cheek right where his beard melts into his impossibly soft skin. He doesn’t flinch this time. His smile falls, and he seems frozen as the truck pulls away.
As I watch Shadow’s reflection getting smaller in the side mirror, I have a strong feeling I’ve done this before, and it didn’t end well. “Turn around,” I blurt out. “Please,” I beg, turning to Mr. Beacham. “Please turn around. I have to go back.”
Beacham makes no attempt to slow down. “I thought you was going to town.”
I pause for a moment to rethink my outburst. I do want to go to town. And from there I want to go home. But I can’t shake the feeling I’m leaving something more valuable than my car with Shadow.
I look around, examining the trees on both sides of the narrow country road, but none of it looks familiar. “This isn’t the right way. You’re taking me the wrong way.”
Beacham’s dark eyes flash with annoyance. “I know which way I’m going.”
My chest tightens with fear. “No, this isn’t how I got here. I’ve never seen any of this. Take me back.”
“Of course, you ain’t never seen any of this. You were driving here at night.”
“But I’ve been here before,” I insist. “I would recognize it. Take me back. Please!”
Beacham rolls his eyes as he begins to slow the truck. “Suit yourself.”
As he turns the truck around, I let out a sigh of relief. I willfully ignore the voice in my head that tells me I’m making a mistake. Beacham won’t come back for another month. Will Shadow and I have enough food to get us through?
I’m about to change my mind again when the truck pulls up in front of the house. Somehow, I’m not surprised to find Shadow standing in the exact same place.
“I’m sorry for the trouble,” I say to Beacham before I hop out of the truck, the soles of my topsiders smacking the asphalt.
Shadow’s eyes are locked on mine as he pushes the passenger side door closed behind me. “Are you okay?” he asks again.
I smile. “I am now.”
A Performance
Eleven months earlier
The 11,000 square foot Georgian style mansion in Chestnut Hill never felt cold or empty when I was a child. It was always a magical place full of adventure and stories. But as Marc pulled his Audi around the circular drive, the ivy-covered brick exterior looked institutional for the first time in my life.
“You know what to say if you want to leave,” Marc reminded me for the third time today.
We had several code phrases we used when we wanted to leave a social gathering: I have to go feed my neighbor’s cat… We have to drop off some papers at the courthouse… I have a ton of papers to grade… The house alarm is malfunctioning again… And my personal favorite, which could only be used with my family: I think I just soiled my poop-free record.
I’d never used that last one. I was saving it up for a special occasion. Maybe that would be today.
My mother invited Marc and me to the house for Sunday brunch to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of the publication of my father’s first book, Word Sprinkles. It was a book of whimsical children’s story rhymes, and it was still my favorite of all his works. Surely, my mother must intuit the irony and sadness in commemorating this milestone. I doubted my father wanted to be reminded of what he was about to lose.
But once my mother decided on a course of action, she could not be deterred. Like the time she decided she was going to turn the pool house into a pottery studio. She converted it back to a pool house a few months later when she discovered pottery required her to sit still longer than ten minutes. Mom was always on the go.
As Marc reached for the door handle on the front door — we never knocked or rang the doorbell, lest we get a lecture from my mother and father about how family doesn’t knock — the sight of Marc’s hand on the brass latch reminded me of something I’d read in his secret journal.
* * *
Looking into Cassidy’s eyes is like looking at a locked door, one I’ll never have the courage to go through. Because the moment she shows me what’s on the other side, I’ll have to do the same.
* * *
Oh, Marc, what are you hiding from me? And what do you think I’m hiding from you?
As we stepped into the cavernous foyer, Marc closed the door behind me as he called out, “Is everyone fully clothed?”
My brother Carter, the youngest of the three of us, came rushing out of the sitting room on our left. “I’ve missed you, Rabbit,” he said, calling me by the family nickname I was given when I was eight years old and addicted to Trix fruit-flavored cereal.
A smile spread across my face as he pulled me into a warm hug. “I’ve missed you too, GB.”
Carter earned the nickname GB in high school when he was trying to bulk up for the wrestling team and eating everything in sight. GB stood for garbage bowl, a concept introduced to the world by my mother’s favorite celebrity cook, Rachel Ray.
“Where’s Lina?” I asked.
Carter and Marc exchanged a look before my brother answered.
“She couldn’t make it. The boys have a soccer tournament today.”
I forced a smile despite my reluctance to believe this excuse. Lina didn’t mention a soccer tournament when we had lunch the other day. Based on the look Marc and Carter exchanged, someone probably asked Lina to skip this family gathering. This soon after losing Mira, basking in the glow of her beautiful, healthy, living children might sting a little too much.
I wanted to tell them I was becoming numb to the pain. That my heart had grown a baby-shaped callous. But I didn’t want today’s brunch to turn into a pity party for Cassidy. We’d had enough of those.
Carter tossed his head back to dislodge the flop of light-brown hair from his face as he led us into the sitting room. This was one of four spaces in the house lined with bookcases. The shelves in here were painted white to contrast with the glossy, black baby grand piano in the corner and the red Persian rug.
My father was sitting in his usual rattan lounger, and my mother was seated at the adjacent sofa. They appeared locked in a silent conversation, a reading of body language, as my father liked to refer to it.
Carter stopped in the middle of the room, so Marc and I followed suit. “He’s not having a good day,” Carter whispered to me over his shoulder.
“Is it possible to have a good day in his condition? Knowing what he knows?” Marc whispered.
Neither Carter nor I answered. Marc had a habit of speaking too plainly and truthfully. I didn’t know if this was because, as a lawyer, he dealt with such varied truths in his professional life. Or maybe it was how he was brought up. I wouldn’t know, considering I knew next to nothing about his childhood.
“I’m sorry,” Marc whispered to me. “That was insensitive of me.”
