Underneath the Sycamore Tree
B. Celeste
Dedication
This book is for the chronically ill.
For the people who fight every single day for relief, belief, and a cure.
This book is to fear.
Fear that drives us to keep fighting whether we know the outcome or not.
This book is for anybody who feels they aren’t heard, seen, or believed. I hear you, see you, and believe you.
Oh, and to Aliana, who said she’ll stab anyone who tries claiming Kaiden.
Playlist
PLAYLIST
In My Blood – Shawn Mendes Nobody’s Home – Avril Lavigne You Are My Sunshine – Elizabeth Mitchell i hate u, i love you – Gnash Late Thoughts – Hanx Team – Noah Cyrus & Max How You Remind Me – Nickelback Goodbyes – Post Malone ft. Young Thug My Immortal – Evanescence Soon You’ll Get Better – Taylor Swift
Prologue
Mama’s eyes are golden when she cries. Not like mine, which are a murky shade of dirty pool water—not fully green or brown, but a mixture of the two. Though when I was just shy of ten years old and saying goodbye to my sister, Mama told me that my glassy gaze was speckled with emeralds just like Daddy’s.
But Daddy wasn’t at Lo’s funeral. Not when the pastor spoke the eulogy to the half-empty church, or when the slow toll of cars paced the streets to the cemetery, or even when they lowered the kid-sized white coffin into the ground. Mama and I watched every step of the way. Her eyes trained on the half of her heart sinking into the dark soil, never to be seen again, while mine stared off into the distance waiting for Daddy’s familiar face to appear.
Looking back now, Lo had suspected the end of our parent’s marriage long before Daddy packed his things and left. She always knew it’d end that way.
I wondered what else she knew.
Mama wipes a stray tear from her eye, hoping I won’t notice how they glisten in the fluorescent lighting of the drab white room. I want to tell her I’m all right, that everything will be fine. But the weak attempts of comfort would roll off her tense shoulders in disbelief.
When Lo was diagnosed with lupus it was too late to save her. The disease had eaten away at every piece of her—body, skin, and organs. No matter how hard Mama tried controlling the disease, it couldn’t be fought.
Logan died in her sleep.
Everything was different now. Mama is cautious, always keeping a close eye on the things she blamed herself for missing in the past—the sunburns, constant napping, and aches. Despite Grandma telling her not to feel guilty over the unknown, Mama’s eyes dull into empty pits every time they swipe over a picture of Logan.
They do the same thing when she looks at me, because Logan Olivia Matterson was my twin. Every feature on our fair faces were identical, down to the button nose and full lips. We shared the same silver-blonde hair and green eyes that we got from Mama, although I always thought Lo’s were prettier.
Mama tries being strong for me, but I see her break apart a little more each day since that sunny August afternoon we laid Lo to rest. There were no clouds or gray skies to match the mood of the moment. No rain or thunder to match the hammering of our broken hearts. It was beautiful. Peaceful. Birds were quiet, the breeze was light, and the sun kissed our skin in comforting caresses. There’d been a bright rainbow in the distance, and I knew it was Lo’s last gift to me because it hadn’t rained in days.
Mama’s wavering composure next to me makes the too-clean room we sit in much smaller. She holds my hand, squeezing it as the doctor with salt and pepper hair explains the results from the labs they ran last week.
Counting the little brown freckles speckled across Mama’s hand, I take a deep breath.
The doctor’s words fade until silence greets the room. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Emery?” His voice is deep and a mixture of soft sympathy and firm curiosity, trying to pinpoint my level of recognition.
I just wish he’d call me Em. I prefer it over my full name, just like Logan liked Lo. But the doctor keeps calling me Emery and Mama Mrs. Matterson even though she changed her name after Daddy left. She’s Ms. Keller now.
Does the doctor see a scared little girl when he studies me? Or does he see what’s behind the mask I wear—the one I wear every day. The very mask I wear when I’m at home with Mama and Grandma wanting Mama to look at me without being sad. The one that covers my features as I take another frame of Logan from the mantle to ease Mama’s heartbreak a little more. All the pictures of Lo litter the room I once shared with my twin, stuffed away in my closet, hidden under my bed, covering the bookshelf, anywhere she won’t see them.
I doubt the doctor sees that girl at all though. So, I lie and tell him I understand. He can interpret my bleak distance any way he wants. I just stare at Mama, watching a second tear slide down her flushed cheek at my reply.
It’ll be okay, Mama.
I don’t dare breathe the words.
Chapter One
There’s a dead clump of caramel hair resting in the palm of my porcelain hand. I run my chipped yellow nails over the once-silky strands and stare long and hard like I can somehow reattach them.
Two months ago, I tried dyeing it. The evidence of my failed attempt rests in my hand, a mixture of brown and blonde undertones. It was a summertime project that Mama told me not to bother with. She insisted my hair was too brittle.
Like always, Mama was right.
Like always, I was too stubborn to listen.
Not only did my tender scalp burn from the dye, but my hair fell out minutes after applying the color. It left my blonde strands in patches that Mama helped me rinse out.
Wrapping the evidence of my abnormality tight in my grasp, I stare at my reflection in the large mirror that hangs over the vanity. I see paleness. Baggy, glassy green-brown eyes. Narrowed cheekbones tinted pink but not from the expensive blush like Mama wore once upon time. Mine is from my body’s internal war on itself.
I’ve filled out since starting new medication last month. The doctor told me it should help regulate my system, so I stop losing weight. My cheekbones aren’t as prominent anymore, nowhere near as hollow and sickly. Instead of the three pills I was taking before leaving Bakersfield, I take nine. It’s worth it, I suppose, to not look so skeletal.
Usually I keep my head down while I go about my morning routine. It’s easier than seeing the way my collarbones stick out and hair thinly frames my face. I hate seeing my reflection because I don’t recognize the girl staring back.
Today I force myself to look. Dropping my fallen hair onto the granite countertop, I study what the mirror shows from the waist up. A sliver of my lean stomach peaks out from the blue tank top I sleep in. Travelling my gaze upward, I notice slim arms, narrow shoulders, all the way up to thin, chapped lips. Nothing about me is particularly beautiful, yet I still see Mama in my frailty.
For the longest time, she wouldn’t look at me for more than a few seconds. Her eyes would find mine as she told me good morning or wished me a good day at school, but then they would quickly go anywhere else. Grandma would pat my hand and tell me not to let it get to me. It wasn’t that easy though.
When Mama looked at me, she saw Logan and the possibility of another early funeral. I was always going to be a reminder that one of her daughters was dead, and for all she knew, I was mere steps behind.