My own flesh and blood has stolen from me.
That infuriating excuse for a sixteen-year-old has swiped his father’s journal from a drawer in my bedside cabinet. I should have known he’d take the diary for himself if he ever found it. I hope he hasn’t read very far yet.
I love him, but Donovan is a problem. And I’m not sure what to do about it.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as I drive Delilah downtown to do a few errands. I’m dying to ask her what Donovan is up to, and where he has squirreled away Peter’s journal, but I don’t want to force her to choose sides.
The kids don’t look alike, but they’re still twins. It’s hard for Del to choose a side that’s not her brother’s.
We pull up to the mom-and-pop drugstore. In the display window is a fading American flag and a cheap blue plastic beach shovel that was never taken down at the end of the summer.
“Okay if I run over to the penny candy store?” Delilah is leaning forward to look out the windshield, rubbing her mittens together. We’ve got the heat blasting and seat warmers on, but we’re still freezing. I’m sorry Delilah has inherited my poor circulation. She has a red knitted hat pulled down over her forehead all the way to her dark eyebrows. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.”
“Sure, sweetie.” I hand her a few dollars, and she’s off.
I head toward the drugstore, pulling my purse strap up on my shoulder. As I yank open the door, I hear the bell start to clang in the steeple of the Congregational church up the road; it must be four o’clock.
I’m just intending to pick up my Xanax prescription, but as I round the corner to turn down aisle two, I freeze. Because lo and behold—there is my son.
The thief.
I had no idea he was downtown. Delilah mentioned he went out after school with a “friend.” But now I see that the friend is a petite girl with long, straight dark hair and a mischievous smile who I’ve never seen before.
I duck behind a display of ceramic Christmas tree ornaments: snowmen, trains, and golden retrievers wearing red scarves. I take another quick look to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me.
Nope, that’s him. No other boys around here have a blond ponytail. If he grew a beard to cover his baby face—and I doubt he could, even if he tried—he’d look like a young Viking. He and the girl are side by side, holding hands, fingers intertwined. They talk quietly, and when she looks up at him, Donovan smiles. Lately, it’s rare to see him happy. My heart skips a beat.
The girl pivots so she’s facing him, her body nearly touching his. Her down jacket is unzipped and she’s wearing a shirt so tight it could be a ballet leotard. She reaches up to smooth a loose strand of hair back behind his ear with her fingertips. It’s a tender gesture, warm and familiar. As she gazes up at him, she smiles with a flirtatious tip of her head. Obviously these two know each other well.
So why have I never met this girl? Why has Donovan never mentioned her to me?
I don’t dare interrupt them. Donovan and I have been fighting so much that I’m sure he wouldn’t be pleased to see me. I decide to leave him alone.
And there are only a few things a teenage couple could possibly need in a drugstore. I hope they came in for a bottle of water. I chew on my lip and decide I’d better not think too hard about it.
I go out to the car empty-handed. Delilah is waiting for me and looks puzzled. “Something wrong?”
I wave that thought away and shake my head. I’ll get my prescription another time. “No, no, I just remembered they’ve got better prices at Brown’s. Let’s head over there, because we need milk, anyway.”
As we walk to the supermarket, Delilah digs into a small brown paper bag and hands me candy—my favorites: a square of dark chocolate and a few meltaway mints in pastel green, yellow and pink.
“What are you eating? It smells amazing.”
She shows me the wrapper. “Strawberry taffy.”
“Hmm. I might have to get that next time.” I try to keep my mouth shut about her brother, but it’s no use. “Delilah, do you know who Donovan was going out with after school?”
She just shrugs, her eyes wide and innocent. “He didn’t say.” Del is two inches taller than I am, just like her brother, and wears a sensible, oversized wool coat. She sticks the rest of the candy in her pocket and locks arms with me as we stroll down the sidewalk, huddled together for warmth.
I’m sure she knows who Donovan is with. I warn myself for the second time to back off. But I can’t seem to stop asking questions before they blurt out of my mouth.
“Del, you know what’s strange? Your dad’s journal is missing from my bedside table. Do you know if Donovan happened to borrow it?”
I glance over at her. Her face doesn’t give anything away.
“I dunno, Mom. Maybe he did. I can ask him for you if you want.”
“Thanks, baby.” I squeeze her arm tighter. “I appreciate it.”
“Maybe he took it because he really misses Dad.”
“I know he does. We all do.”
In the sixteen months since Peter died, Donovan’s behavior has deteriorated. He wants nothing to do with me, but at least he still listens to his sister. Delilah personifies all of Peter’s best qualities, which makes it easy for Donovan and me to cling to her for support.
Once we enter the supermarket, I grab a basket and head for the dairy aisle. Delilah follows me and scours the ice-cream choices in the freezer case while I look at yogurt, but I can’t focus.
“Are we stocking up for the storm?” Delilah points at something behind the glass. “Can I get ice cream? Rocky road?”
“The storm?”
She scoffs. “Yeah, Mom. Not following the news much, huh?”
I shrug. I hate watching the news—too depressing. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. They always get it wrong.” I watch her dig out a pint of ice cream from the back of the case. It’s coated in freezer burn, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You have a terrible sweet tooth, you know that?”
“I know.” She grins back at me.
The worst thing is, I don’t know what’s in that journal. It’s a navy-blue leather book that was essentially Peter’s diary. He started keeping it when he was a teenager, about the age Donovan is now; then he put it away for many years. A couple of years ago Peter found it in the bottom of his closet, was thrilled to discover it, and started adding to it before he died. He never showed it to me or invited me to read it, although it wasn’t a secret or anything like that. I would often find him at night tucked into bed, scribbling a few lines with a black pen or sketching with a pencil. I haven’t decided yet whether or not I’m ready to read it. So instead, it’s been shelved away for safekeeping.
Until now.
For all I know, Donovan has already started to read the journal, parsing it word by word. Studying his father’s innermost thoughts.
“Hey, Emmy!” Delilah calls to a girl her own age who is just coming around the corner at the end of the aisle.
Emmy wears her hair up in a bun and comes jogging over in uniform. “Basketball tryouts today.” She gives Del a high five.
“You think you made it?”
Emmy smiles. “Our school is so small that literally everyone makes the team. So yes, I do.”
I’m startled when a woman who followed a few steps behind the girl sticks her hand out at me. “I’m Emmy’s mom. Olivia.”
“Oh.” I switch the basket I’m holding into my opposite hand so I can shake hers. “Annika.”
A strand of her sleek black hair falls artfully over one eye, but she tosses her head to get it out of the way. “You’re new in town, Emmy tells me . . . ?” Olivia’s outfit is cute—turtleneck under a ski jacket, light-blue jeans, and duck boots. Honestly, I try my best, but I worry that in comparison I look like a mess.
“No—I mean, yes, we’re new. I grew up here and now I’m back. The kids and I are staying at my parents’ house for a while.” I realize this probably sounds like I’m dealing with a divorce, but I go to great lengths to avoid talking about Peter’s death.
“Will we see you at the PTO spring fund-raiser? Invites go out just after the holidays,” she continues, with an encouraging smile.
“Hmmm. I don’t know. Maybe I can come.” I don’t want to say too much in front of Delilah, but in my mind, Manchester is just a temporary stop.
I suppose I could offer to buy the cottage from my parents. But lately I’ve decided that Manchester isn’t going to be good enough. Getting out of the house where Peter died was a step in the right direction, but this town drenches me in old memories, and I don’t think we can stay.
“Where did you move here from?”
The waistband of my skirt starts to itch, and I shift my weight. These questions are starting to feel intrusive. But when I glance over and see Del and her new friend are deep in conversation, I try to keep up.
“Southern Connecticut.”
“Very nice.”
I can’t tell from her tone if she thinks much of Connecticut or not.
“It was fine. I mean, we were on the water. Lots of woods and rolling hills, with stone walls dividing up the properties. So not that different from here, I suppose.” I think about it. “My husband enjoyed being so close to New York City, but I never quite warmed up to it. It never really felt like home, the way Massachusetts does for me.”
“Oh, for sure,” she says, exhaling as if she’d been holding her breath while waiting to find out what I really thought. “It must be so nice to be back with your parents.”
“Yes. Well. Actually, they retired to Maine. I asked them if they’d keep our old house off the market so the kids and I could move in for a while. So it’s just me and the twins.”
“Delilah has a twin? I had no idea. Amazing.” She brightens, with a quick glance at the girls.
“They’re fraternal, not identical. Her brother is Donovan. You’d never know it. They don’t look exactly alike.”
Her expression changes, and I can’t quite figure out what she’s thinking. “Oh, right. Right, right, right. Donovan. Emmy mentioned him.” Olivia leans in and lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s very fond of his girlfriend, as I hear it.” She holds up a hand and crosses her fingers. “She says they inseparable.”
I nod, at first slowly and then rapidly, as if I’m familiar with the whole situation. “Well, you know.” I put a hand on my hip. “Boys. Hormones. The whole thing. I can’t tell him what to do, and without his father around . . .”
“Oh, I completely understand.” She tips her head sympathetically. “I have girls, no boys. But I can only imagine the trouble.”
“Yes.” I sigh. “Thank goodness for my Xanax prescription.”
She laughs and winks at me. “Ha ha.” She thinks I’m joking.
I grip my shopping basket tighter as it grows heavy. I didn’t move here so my son could cause problems.
I enrolled my kids at Manchester High School so they could walk the halls that Peter and I did before we graduated. I longed to pop into the old library downtown, have the kids pick out some books that are slightly damp, and show them how to shake sand out from between the pages. I yearned to hear the distant foghorn on a rainy day, and breathe in the cool, salty air. I was excited to take them for a box of hot fried clams on a humid summer night, imagining we’d gaze at the fishing boats in the harbor while sitting on a wooden bench.
We did all of those things this summer, and it was a tonic for my soul. A short reprieve. But as soon as school started and I tried going back to work, everything got out of whack again.
“It was nice to meet you,” Olivia says. “Hope this storm isn’t as bad as they’re predicting.”
“Bye,” Del calls to Emmy, who gives a wave.
The entire exchange has exhausted me. I just want to get home and make a cup of tea. “Come on, let’s see what else we need,” I say to Delilah. But my day isn’t over yet.
It’s a shock when, yet again, I run into someone I’m not expecting to see. Delilah and I decide to grab a box of cereal, and we’re just turning down an aisle in the middle of the store when someone catches my eye.
I let Delilah go ahead of me and I squint down toward the deli. Is that who I think it is? Sure enough, it’s two dark-haired men—Sam Parsons with a man who I believe is one of his older brothers, Danny.
I freeze, hoping they don’t see me. My heart starts to pound and heat creeps into my face. The long coat I’m wearing feels ridiculously heavy all of a sudden, and I wonder why they’ve got the temperature cranked up so high in the breakfast foods aisle.
Sam hasn’t changed much since high school. I bet he still fits into his varsity football jacket. Some men transform dramatically over the decades as their waistlines expand and hair recedes, but I guess the Parsonses are blessed with good genes.
I watch Sam and Danny talk and laugh while waiting for their order at the deli counter, wearing winter parkas and hiking boots. I fight the urge to flee the store, like a skittish teenager seeing her crush from afar.
Sam had not one but two older brothers. It’s hard to imagine three boys growing up in one house without nearly killing each other. And there were more: Sam’s older sisters, Diana and Andi. The five of them lived in a ranch house with their parents down on Ancient County Way. I remember they had two Saint Bernards—huge dogs, the size of ponies. It must have been sheer madness living in that house. Not that I ever heard Sam complain. On the contrary, I got the impression he worshipped his older siblings from the way he talked about them. He was the youngest, the baby of the family.
I take a last glance at Sam. I want to talk to him, and yet I don’t. Not right now.
I catch up to Delilah. “You know what? I’m exhausted. Pick out what you’d like and let’s get going.”
“Yes, Mother,” she teases me. “Sorry, I didn’t know we were in a rush.”
We successfully check out and exit the store without Sam seeing me. It’s a relief, but as Delilah fiddles with the car radio, I still spend a moment daydreaming about him. Sam was the kind of boyfriend any teenage girl would love to have, kind and attentive. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about the prospect of talking to him.
No—I take that back. I have my reasons.
Lost in my reverie, I’ve forgotten to turn on the heat. Delilah reaches to click the knob for the fan up to the highest setting.
“Thanks, Del.”
She smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t let us freeze.”
I turn my thoughts to Donovan as we drive home. I suppose I could call my parents and ask them what to do about him. But I don’t want them to hear the sadness in my voice, which will be inevitable when I confess that Donovan misses his father so much, he’s decided to punish me for it. Although my parents had their own troublemaking kid to deal with—my headstrong, older sister Lisa—they never had a boy who lost his father. I’m in a unique situation here.
Besides, I don’t want to explain to anyone that Peter had a journal, and I never read it. The truth is, I’m afraid to read it. Peter’s gone, so why dig up the past? Why hash over his musings and feelings and longings and grievances now? What disappointments might I find? I don’t feel ready to look at words Peter wrote by hand on lined pages. I may never be ready to read it.
I don’t think Donovan should read it either. Whatever Peter wrote was obviously private. It wasn’t meant for public consumption, and may not be appropriate for a sixteen-year-old kid to read. I don’t think it’s right.
Maybe we could read it together in ten years. But now, so soon after his death? I’m sure it’s wrong. It feels like a violation of Peter’s trust.
Is Donovan ready for whatever he finds there?
Am I?
Peter is gone, and yet he is not.
Peter died in our big, beautiful home overlooking the ocean. It was all on one level, with a huge deck that ran the entire length of the house. We lived in a brilliant world of sun glancing off of rocky cliffs, the sea air tickling our noses and sand shifting underfoot. We lived large, as Peter liked to say, and his quick laugh filled the house with joy. For that home to turn into the place of his death was jarring and changed my view of everything.
Once his body was removed from the house, Peter’s scent remained on everything. I detected him on the couches, the chairs, the bedsheets. He was a vibrant person, and his spirit did not want to go.
In the days that followed, I felt haunted. I heard Peter’s voice in the way Donovan demanded his mother help him with the laundry. I saw his gaze when Delilah raised an eyebrow at a story her brother was telling. Sometimes, I closed my eyes and imagined Peter talking with a few friends in our living room: a man playing guitar, a woman chattering, Peter pouring a drink. But once Peter was gone, the house grew quiet, and rooms that once were inviting became stale and hard to recognize. Strange shapes, odd shadows. Nothing pleased me anymore.
The summer dragged by, blending into a long autumn where I felt numb much of the time. Peter was gone. Gone! And yet he was everywhere, in our thoughts and memories. His black razor remained in the bathroom for weeks. His scuffed-up sneakers sat at the front door for months.
Annika paced around the house feverishly and with no purpose, as if she had lost something she could not find. She often pulled on one of Peter’s old T-shirts and cried. Grabbing a handful of the material and pressing it to her face, she breathed in to try to calm herself, but dissolved and began sobbing again. She could not let go, and neither could I. I began to howl at odd hours, jumping from chair to table to kitchen counter, distressed by Annika’s strange behavior.
I followed Annika around the house like a needy kitten. I tried to provide my humans with comfort while feeling stressed myself. The twins kept up their routine, but they weren’t happy about it. Delilah gave me treats and brushed me every night. I gazed up into her face and let her reassure me that everything would be okay. But I worried about Donovan. He had no desire for companionship, and spent more and more time holed up in his bedroom.
A dark and dreary winter passed, spring emerged again, and Annika packed everything up into boxes. She folded the shirts infused with Peter’s scent. She sorted his underwear and socks, and put away his books. His old typewriter went into a case with some papers, and Donovan took it from his mother, insisting he must keep it. Two men came and inspected Peter’s piano and took it away.
And then we moved to this cottage. I had never been here before, although Annika’s scent is everywhere. We are working on making a new life here.
I stare at a photo of Peter and remember. His hair, the color of sand, soft to touch with my paws when I batted him awake in the morning. His expression of amusement when he listened to a story, as he tipped his head until the light hit his cheekbone. His groan when Donovan told him a terrible joke. His arms, strong and sure, when Delilah needed a hug. His sigh, when Annika asked him for the third time to turn off the music and come to bed.
Annika has been suffering, too. When we first moved to this new house, she spent hours curled up on the couch with a blanket, staring at nothing. Her phone rang, and she did not answer it. She grew thin and pale, and for a time I feared I might lose another family member.
But lately, I see signs that give me hope. This cottage is small but comfortable. Annika gets up, showers, and gets dressed in the morning. Anyone seeing her from afar would presume she was happy and healthy. But she does not go to work. Instead, Annika spends her day with her coffee and reads books, speaking to no one.
Despite the new house, I still feel uneasy. My guilt about how Peter died hovers over me like a hawk, causing me to dart under tables and beds for safety and security. I remember that when Peter played the piano, I would run for cover because I didn’t like the noise—but oh! What I would give to have Peter back, to hear him play, to see him smile. I would try to tolerate that piano, if we still had it.
Sometimes when I’m in a bad mood, I stalk Annika, meowing and voicing my protest. Fix this! I yowl at her. But, of course, it is hard to say how things can be fixed at this point. Peter is dead. That’s a fact we cannot change.
But the children are still walking and breathing and growing and learning. For their sake, we need to keep up the motions of a normal family. A happy family.
What I miss the most about Peter is his way of teaching the children about the world. He was a fantastic storyteller. I heard him tell the twins amazing tales over the years, often at bedtime. So I have learned all about the wide world beyond our neighborhood. I know all about gnomes, dragons, giants, witches, hobbits, and every sort of odd creature that exists on this planet. Peter’s recounting of how the world works expanded my view. I like to think of myself as more sophisticated than your average cat, thanks to his teachings. There is so much I have never seen and perhaps I will never see—I have no desire to explore beyond the edge of our woods. But there is so much out there!
Lately, I have seen flickers of movement in dark corners, here and there. I have come to the conclusion that Peter’s spirit has followed us to this house. I wonder if I am the only one who has noticed traces of Peter lingering in strange places. Lately, I sense him every day.
Of course, I heard Peter tell Delilah and Donovan ghost stories many times. So I know what a ghost is. It is when the body of a living creature dies, but the soul remains behind.
I puzzle over it: If Peter is actually here, why has he stayed? Perhaps there is some unfinished business he needs to take care of. I would like to see Peter achieve his goal, whatever it may be.
But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.
Delilah arranges photos on the kitchen counter. She places one down at a time, as if dealing from a deck of cards.
The cottage kitchen is exactly the same as it was when I was in high school, never updated, with a black soapstone countertop and cherry-stained cabinets. My mom left a rack of dried herbs and flowers on the wall: safflower, yarrow, thyme, mint, and lavender. Delilah and I frequently joke that we’re going to actually use some of the herbs while cooking, but just end up admiring them and breathing in the scent, afraid to touch any of it.
“This was a great night,” she says with a smile, pointing to a photo of food and drink on a long, dark table. “Grandmommy and Granddaddy took us out for a beer tasting.”
I instinctively frown, but force myself to relax and open my eyes wider.
“Wow, that sounds like fun.”
I try to mirror her enthusiasm level, but I’m really thinking: That sounds ridiculous. Even scandalous. Should sixteen-year-olds be drinking beer? With their grandparents? Honestly. I’m sure the kids couldn’t tolerate the taste of it, although they probably put up a brave front.
It was terrifying to let the kids go to Germany with Peter’s parents, Judith and Frank. The twins had never been away from me for so long—ten whole days. But I couldn’t say no to the Kuhns, because they miss Peter, too. His death was devastating for them; he was their only child.
Peter fought with his parents and felt a lot of pressure to live up to their expectations, but I understood why they clung to him so fiercely. After we had the twins, they even moved to Connecticut to be closer to their grandchildren. So when Judith and Frank said they wanted to show off the kids to extended family and offered to take them to see where Peter attended school for several years, I had to say, Yes, of course they can go.
“Here we are with Jannik,” Delilah goes on, pointing to another photo. She grins, and I can tell she liked him.
Jannik is their second cousin. I’ve never met him in person. I can see he’s a large, young man and has shaved his hair quite short. For all I know he can chug a pint of beer in ten seconds flat.
Fantastic.
Donovan wanders in and heads straight for the refrigerator. I brace myself for a complaint. He’s unhappy about the fact that we moved here to Massachusetts.
Well, that makes two of us. It’s not helping as much as I hoped it would.
I think about Peter every day, and my future feels empty. He’ll always be in my heart, but I thought the pain might start to fade by now. Sadly, my plan to get a fresh start has backfired, because being in Manchester makes me dwell on Peter more than ever. I don’t know why I’m surprised. After all, this is where our love story began.
At least the house is familiar and comfortable. We vacationed here with my parents for a week every summer since the twins were born. And I loved growing up here. Sure, the cottage is a little cramped, but it’s cozy; it has a fireplace in the back room and a woodstove in the front sitting room. Either spot is perfect for curling up with a blanket.
Yet Donov. . .
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