We hang up, and I walk into the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the inside. Of course, I know what it’s like to share a space with a man, but I’ve lived alone for six months now, and there are things that we’ll need to work out: things like groceries and cooking and refrigerator space and privacy; how long he’s staying, what’s acceptable. What’s not. I make a mental note to clear out some space in the pantry for him when my eyes catch the stack of mail still sitting on the counter.
I notice my parent’s card again, that check still sitting untouched on top. I walk over and pick it up, eying the little bouquet of daisies on the cover. Inside, it’s completely blank.
Fitting, I think, tossing it into the trash. We’ve never quite known what to say to each other, my parents and I. Not for a while, anyway.
I pick up the check next and fold it in half, stuffing in into my purse. I know I’ll deposit it eventually—I’ll have to soon, with no real cash coming in—but until then, I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to think about it. It feels like blood money to me. Like a payment for this prolonged silence—only I know it isn’t my silence they’re buying.
It’s theirs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THEN
Margaret clambers into bed first, her hair wet and smelling of lavender shampoo. We had a cold bath tonight, lowering ourselves in gently, our legs prickling when the ice water hit our skin.
“How much longer?” Margaret asked. Dad had been tinkering with the air conditioner since he got home a few hours earlier, but still, it wasn’t fixed. I could hear him muttering cuss words beneath his breath as he slammed around various tools, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled to his elbows. His collar damp with sweat. “It’s so hot.”
Mom turned to us then, her elbow resting on the edge of the tub. Her curls were in a ponytail draped over one shoulder, the ends swirling and sticking to the sweat on her chest. It reminded me of the algae that I sometimes saw growing on the bottom of the dock, stringy and green, like strands of hair pulsing with the waves. When I was younger, I used to think there was a body stuck beneath it, mollusks for skin.
“Not much longer,” she said, trailing her fingers along the surface of the bathwater. She scooped up a handful of suds, clumped together like a tumbleweed of sea foam coasting across the beach on a particularly windy day. “We’ll be comfortable soon.”
“By morning?”
“Sure.” She smiled. “By morning.”
We got out of the bath and put on our matching nightgowns, little yellow daisies, our sweat immediately pushing back up through our pores, skin like squeezed sponges. The heat is oppressive tonight, especially inside. It makes the entire house feel like an oven. Like we’re trapped in it.
Margaret plops on top of the mattress now while Mom rips off the comforter and tosses it to the floor. I walk over to the window, unlatching the lock and hoisting it open. Immediately, I smell the marsh, that prehistoric stink, but it isn’t as strong as it normally is. The water is twinkling in our backyard, deeper than usual, and that’s when I notice a full moon reflecting off the surface like there’s some kind of orb submerged underneath. The intensity of it is masking our yard in an eerie kind of glow—somehow both dark and bright at the exact same time—and I remember that Dad had told me about this once. It’s called a spring tide. When the earth, moon, and sun all find themselves in perfect alignment, something extreme happens.
I turn around and find Margaret nestled in bed, her body like a pill bug, curling in on itself. She looks so small like that, so compact. I know that sleeping together will only make us hotter, body heat radiating, but I also know that Margaret’s mind is her own worst enemy. She feels safest in the company of others.
“Don’t forget to say your prayers,” Mom says now, sitting on the edge of the mattress. I slide into bed beside her, already feeling the heat from Margaret’s limbs searing into the sheets. She has her doll in her arms, those unblinking eyes staring straight into my soul. “My two beautiful girls.”
“You forgot Ellie,” Margaret says, lower lip jutting out.
I look up at my mom and register her expression—her tired eyes and drooping smile; those thin, delicate fingers that rise to her sweat-dotted lip like she’s trying to tamp something down, keep it from escaping.
“Yes, well,” she says, clearing her throat. “Of course we can’t forget about Ellie.”
Margaret smiles then, pinching her eyes shut and placing her palms together, fingers stiff like they’re stuck together with glue.