I lean my head against the locker behind me.
“I can’t get in unless you show me how,” I say, unsure who I’m speaking to.
My mother?
Rafe?
Whoever it may be, I hope they are listening and I hope they can help.
28
ON VANDENBERG PROPERTY
Igive the mold on the top shelf of our refrigerator a gentle shake. The lime Jell-O concoction, which includes cranberry juice, walnuts and—to Twig’s perpetual disgust—finely chopped celery and carrots, was always on Dad’s Thanksgiving table. His mother made it from the time he was young, and my mother loved it the first time she had a taste. So after they were both gone—his mom and mine—Dad and I carried on the tradition. The first time we brought it to the Calloways on Thanksgiving, Twig scrunched up his nose like we came with roadkill instead of a perfectly suitable holiday side dish.
“You put carrots in Jell-O?”
Mrs. Calloway had scolded him gently, thenmade room in her crowded refrigerator. She went on to have a respectable serving with her meal, and finagled Mr. Calloway to do the same, who ended up loving it as much as my mother. Twig watched him take each bite, convinced he was bluffing, until he got himself a second serving that was even bigger than the first.
“How’s it looking?” Dad asks.
I turn around.
He stands at the bottom of the stairs sliding his belt through the loops of his jeans, donning not just an ugly Christmas sweater, but an ugly Christmas sweater vest.
“Wobbling to perfection,” I say, shutting the refrigerator. “And you look amazing.”
“Yeah?” He clasps his belt, his hair still wet from the shower, his face cleanly shaven. “You don’t think this is too… subtle?”
The vest is white, red, and green with alternating embroidered squares of candy canes, holly, and jingle bells. “I think it hits just the right note.”
“Well that’s a relief, because this thing wasn’t cheap.”
I smile.
The monstrosity was absolutely cheap. I found it on a rack at The Lucky Penny. Dad’s a good sport for wearing it. I join him at the bottom of the stairs, give him a quick kiss on the cheek, thenhead up to my bedroom to put on my own ugly Christmas sweater.
I grab it from my wardrobe, then stop at the sight of my warped reflection in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. I peer into the glass—into my own eyes—and speak Rafe’s name three times out loud.
Nothing happens.
I stand a little taller, take a deep breath, and try again, this time with more formality. “Raphael Vandenberg. Raphael Vandenberg. Raphael Vandenberg.”
Still nothing.
I glare up at the light, willing it to flicker.
It doesn’t so much as dim.
Frustrated, I pull the sweater over my head, fix my hair, and shut the wardrobe doors.
The plant glows on the other side.
There’s no new leaf, but tiny twinkling dots dance up and down the thorny stem and spread across the skeletal leaves.
Dots like Lainey’s.
Dots like Griffin’s.
