“Um-hm.”
“Mother let you bring cups and mugs down to the water so you could mold lots of different-sized piles. And you were so proud.”
“We have a picture of it,” says Rosemary. “In one of the albums.”
“Yes. That was a good time. Think about that. It was such a good day.”
Rosemary begins to cry softly.
Oh, not now, little one. Don’t need me now. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not going to make a castle again,” she says. “I’m never going to make another one.”
“Oh, love. We could make one.”
“I’m not going to see Tomkin again, either,” she says. “I saw him for the last time, and I didn’t know it was the last time.”
“You could see him,” I say. I don’t want to tell her Tomkin won’t be coming to the island again.
“No,” she says. “I am just here to visit you. And Mother, but she doesn’t want me.”
“But maybe if you visited him, you’d feel better. Tomkin would play with you. He’s much more into board games than me, and you could teach him to weave the bracelets.”
Rosemary shakes her head. “I only come to this house. And you. I told you that already.” She wipes her nose on the hem of her shirt. “It’s what happens. I’m not the boss of it. I’m just here.”
I snuggle her. Her sobs slow down. She sniffles a few times.
I think of Bess, down on the cold dock with a dead body.
And Penny—where the hell is Penny? Is she back? Did she get what we need?
“I’m going to run my bath,” I tell Rosemary. “And get out of these wet pajama pants.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Just hang out, and I’ll be back in a little bit. I gotta warm up, and I need the bath to make me sleepy.”
“Um-hm.”
I grab a clean pair of sweatpants and an old pink sweatshirt. I go into the bathroom and shut the door. I run the water, but I don’t put the plug in the tub, and I don’t run it hard, because I don’t want to make any noise that would wake our parents.
I put on the dry clothes, shove my feet back in my sneakers, and ease open the connecting door to Bess’s room. I tiptoe through it and run downstairs. I throw my damp pajamas into the laundry and grab a bottle of whiskey from the basement. Then I run as fast as I can to the family dock, leaving my sad, isolated, needy ten-year-old ghost of a sister waiting for me to come back.
I feel worse about this betrayal than anything else, really.
59.
BESS IS ON the dock. “Where’s Penny?” I whisper when I am close enough for her to hear.
“She never came.”
“Did you look for her?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Why not?”
“You didn’t tell me to.”
“Did you get the boards clean?”
“I went over them twice.”
“What did you do with all the paper towels?”
“They’re in the tote bag.”
“Good. We can burn them later. Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see what’s keeping Penny.”
“Should I come?”
“I said stay here.”
“I don’t want—I don’t want to.”
“Just stay.”
I leave her and head to Goose Cottage. I am reaching a hand out to the gate when I hear “Carrie.”
Penny is crouched in the bushes, just off the walkway. I kneel down by her. “Are they still awake?”
“They were. They went upstairs finally, and it took forever, but Major’s light is off now.”
“Is George’s off?”
“It was when I checked. His room is around the back of the house.”
“How long does it take people to fall asleep?”
“Not that long, I don’t think. They were drinking beer earlier.”
We walk around to the back of Goose. George’s light is still off, but the bathroom light is on.
“Is someone in there?” whispers Penny. “Or are they just wasting electricity?”
“Probably wasting.”
We go back to where we can see Major’s window. We sit down on the walkway to watch. And Penny, who hasn’t ever really cared how I feel, who thinks only of herself— selfish,
beautiful
Penny—
reaches out to
take my hand
like she did when we were kids.
She used to reach for my hand when Harris was mad at us,