chapter eighteen
By the time I get back to Sea Rose Cottage, I’m ready to put Peach to bed and crash. I’m exhausted from carrying my sister the half mile back to the cottage, all the time worrying Lemon was going to chase me down and badger me into coming to her sleepover.
She didn’t.
When I open the door, Peach still nestled in my arms, I look behind me, squinting through the dark for Lemon’s phone light or a glint of the moon off Kiko’s glasses.
Nothing.
I swallow hard, push down some feeling I can’t figure out that keeps trying to rise up in my throat. I walk into the living room and lay Peach on the couch, shake out my aching arms. A single lamp on the side table lights the room, but the house is quiet.
“Mama?”
I tug my phone out of my pocket and check the time.
Nine thirty.
I check for missed calls, texts, voice mails.
Nothing there, either.
I tap Mama’s name and press my phone to my ear. It rings for what feels like a thousand years before there’s a click, followed by a surge of noise—crowd noise, laughter, loud and wordless—and finally, Mama’s voice.
“Hazel?”
“Mama?”
“Hey, sweetie, how are you?”
“Fine. Um, where—”
“Hang on a sec, Haze.”
Then her voice fades, just a little, as though she’s holding the phone away from her mouth.
“Okay, yes, one more glass,” I hear her say. Then she laughs, clearly not talking to me. “No, this has to be the last one.” More laughing and then she comes back at full volume. “Hazel, honey, you there?”
“Yeah,” I say through clenched teeth. “Where are you?”
“We’re still at the Solstice Fire. It goes all night, apparently. It certainly is a party out here!”
We.
“Yep—oh my god, Claire, no, do not order more fries. I’m stuffed!”
More laughter. More talking to someone who’s not me, who’s not Mum, and who definitely isn’t part of our family.
“You found Lemon, right, sweetie?” Mama asks. “She texted Claire a few minutes ago and said you did, that she was okay.”
“Um, yeah.”
“Good. You did a good thing, baby girl, I’m proud of you. Are you home?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. Suddenly, all I want is her here. I want to talk to her about how I laughed tonight, about goodbyes, about this feeling I can’t get rid of, about the way my stomach felt funny when I noticed the way Jules chews on the side of their lip when they’re listening to their friends. I want to talk to her about Mum, about Claire, about how I’m scared that Mama is forgetting Mum.
That she’ll forget me.
That we’ll all just disappear one day, the Sadness swallowing us whole.
“When are you coming home?” I ask. I barely get it out. My throat is closing up, tears rising like a flash flood in a narrow canyon.
Mama doesn’t notice, though.
“Oh, honey, in a little while,” she says. “Claire needs this, you know? Just some time. I do too, if I’m being honest.”
“Time for what?”
“Just… time. To have a little fun.”
Tears spill over now. Time away from you. To have fun without you. I know she didn’t say those words, but I feel them anyway. It’s always there since Mum died, the distance between Mama and me, distance when I need her close, close, close.
“Get Peach to bed, okay?” Mama says. “Love you!”
I hear Claire’s voice say something in the background, pulling another laugh from Mama, before the line goes dead. I sink down onto the couch next to Peach, whose mouth is open a little, hair spiraling out on the throw pillow.
I know I should get Peach into bed and just go to sleep, but I can’t seem to make myself move toward our room. The walls stare back at me, all of them white and blank except for a few generic paintings of the beach, the kind I’ve seen in dozens of motels and rental houses between here and California.
I could be anywhere.
I could be anyone.
I stand up, opening the front door and letting in the cool, salty air. Under the moonlight, the ocean is all silvery waves, peaceful. I go out onto the porch, close my hands around the rough wooden railing. Footprints litter the beach below, probably made just minutes ago by Lemon and Kiko and Jules. Down the way, Lemon’s house is lit up. Warm. Probably full of laughter and noise.
I pull my gaze back to my little stretch of sand, our cottage quiet and nearly dark. I think of Rosemary Lee a hundred and forty years ago, maybe standing just like this on the Lancaster porch, lost even before she went into the sea, no one left to say goodbye to.
Then she vanished.
Like she never even existed in the first place.
A different kind of panic surges into my heart, moving my arms and legs and pushing me back into the cottage. Inside, I quickly stuff my backpack with toothbrushes, some pajamas, nothing else. Then I scoop Peach into my arms again and head out into the night.