Things That Fall Page 4

Before, my father had been alone in his estrangement. But now I know the fight goes deeper. None of the siblings, not one in a family of five, have spoken in years. And I have no idea why.

  “Have you ever questioned anyone about what happened?” Hudson asks.

  I roll my shoulders to keep them from tensing. “No. How could I? What kind of conversation would that be?”

  “One in which you find out the murderous secret of the Hacher Slasher,” Hudson replies in a dramatic tone.

  I’m prepared to argue with him, and it takes a moment for my brain to process what he’s just said. Then I laugh.

  “The only obvious explanation,” I say, my voice as close to deadpan as I’m ever able to make it.

  “If you’re so interested,” Hudson says, his own voice gliding back to its former seriousness, “I’ll ask your dad what happened.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  The exclamation is too quick and sharp for my panic to be mistaken. Hudson fits in well with my family, but he doesn’t have much self-restraint when it comes to mysteries on his mind. If he gets overly curious about what occurred between my relatives ten years ago, there’ll be no stopping him ringing up my dad for an unacceptable chat.

  I’m curious about it all myself, if curious is a strong enough word. But firing blunt questions at Dad isn’t the way to handle the issue. Besides, if the funeral didn’t open him up, my — or my boyfriend’s — prying questions won’t change anything.

  “Fine, I won’t ask,” Hudson says, defeated. “But, Kayla, are you sure you have to go? I mean, it’s our day. Our one day together. You’re going to give that up to clean a friggin’ cottage?”

  My stomach tightens, the hard press like someone trying to squeeze my waist into a corset. I tumble out of the hammock and walk across the backyard, trying to ignore the guilty pang his words bring. Our one day together. And I’m throwing it away to sweep some floors.

  The breeze is cooler now, and it wraps my neck in a shiver of goosebumps. Fall sneaking through summer’s stronghold. I wish it were still August, when Hudson was only five minutes away, ready to appear on my doorstep at the slightest hint I wanted him close. When one day didn’t mean anything because every day was time we shared.

  “I have to go,” I say, voice pinched despite my best effort to make the words sound upbeat. “And I know it sucks. And I know it makes me a terrible girlfriend.”

  “You’re not … it’s just … damn it, Kayla.”

  He sounds slumped, like he’s dropped to the floor and is sitting with his knees pulled into his chest. I can picture him like that, his sandy hair in need of a cut, an old hoodie on over brand new jeans and sneakers he’ll be picking at with his left hand while he grips the phone in his right. I smile, and then sink into the guilt once more.

  “I know,” I mumble, hoping this isn’t messing up something more than one day of seeing each other.

  I’ve had nightmares about our relationship. Horrible dreams I won’t tell anyone about because they’ll all think it’s stupid. Dreams about us drifting apart or being snapped apart by dark forces. I hated Hudson leaving, and I’m still hurt he did. But I never saw him leaving as an end to us, and I don’t believe he did, either. People say it all the time, tell me we’re idiots for sticking together long-distance while he’s off exploring university and I’m at home living the boring life of a high school senior.

  I don’t care about the what-ifs. Except for the what-ifs of Hudson not being in my life anymore.

  But as much as we talk, as much as he smiles over lagging videos or sends me mushy texts throughout each day, I don’t have an honest idea of what’s going on in Hudson’s life now. He’s so far away, much further than the physical distance would suggest. I miss him. I want him. I need him with me.

  And I’m delaying those things even more by giving up our time together this weekend. Delaying it, or worse — maybe throwing it away altogether.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” Hudson says, his words lengthening as I imagine his body is, too. He’s standing, returning to his noisy dorm. I hear the click of the door and the video game sounds resurrected in the background.

  “Hudson —”

  I don’t want this conversation to be over yet. I want to push past this news and end the night on breezy subjects like classes and what’s on TV. But he has other plans. We’re not in sync, and that terrifies me.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” he says.

  This phone call has not lasted nearly long enough. I should say something to keep him on the line. But his tone is definite, and I don’t know how to argue against the suggestion of it.

  “Yeah, o-okay,” I mumble instead, my eyes closing tight as I work to keep the tears at bay.

  “Night, Kayla,” Hudson says.

  “Night, Hudson,” I whisper, waiting for the final three words of our conversation, a small token of devotion and normalcy. But they don’t come. He hangs up, leaving me on a dead line.

  I walk up the steps of the deck and make my way to the back entrance of the house. Light shines out from the kitchen, and when I slide open the door, the smell of roast beef reminds me of the dinner we’ll be having in an hour’s time. I was looking forward to it before. Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to stomach the heavy meat.

  Crossing to the counter, I turn on the faucet and fill the kettle so I can make some tea. In the living room, Mom and Dad are watching some home and garden show, and I listen to the overenthusiastic narration of the host as the water hisses and steams. Normally, I would take my tea and join them, admiring the renovation projects and fantasizing about the luxury house I might someday be able to afford. But things have been different since the funeral. Tension has not only coiled around Hudson and me — it’s stretched beyond one relationship to also pry apart the easy rapport I’ve always held with Mom and Dad.

  My parents are resistant to the idea of me joining the others at the cottage. Their displeased reaction to my explanation of what occurred last Saturday was unexpected, and when I pressed to know why they didn’t agree that helping Forrester would be the best thing to do, Dad grew broody and silent. Even when I turned to Mom, I found no ally. She shrugged her shoulders at my pleading look, offering me nothing but a rigid reminder that my cousins are not the children I used to know.

  I assured them my mind was made up, and they haven’t protested since. But I suspect their silence comes less from acceptance than from a place of guilt. My parents didn’t spare Forrester much consideration in the aftermath of Simon’s death. Now his dreary future is weighing on them. But I’m not going to the cottage to ease my conscience, and I wish their lack of objection didn’t arise from some fractured hope I’ll act as an extension of their own lackluster goodwill.

  The kettle boils, drowning the sound of the television. I prepare peppermint tea and grab a box of cookies from the cupboard before sitting at the kitchen table by myself.

  The tea warms my hands as I cup the porcelain mug, while the question of why I am so determined to take part this weekend continues to bubble like the boiling water from the kettle. At the time, it seemed the only logical choice to offer my assistance at the cottage. Forrester needs help, and we all deserve the chance to figure out what’s happened in our lives over the past ten years. Plus, I wanted — want — to see my cousins again. But even as I lift the mug to my lips, I can’t shake Mom’s terse warning.

  My cousins are not the children I used to know.

  The tea is bitter as the uncertainty of this statement sinks in. I don’t actually know if Mom is right, because I have no idea what these people are like anymore. A couple of years ago, I looked up my cousins online. I remember stalking their profiles and trying to guess at their personalities. But I stayed in stealth mode, never commenting on any posts or following them. To do so felt like an imposition I wasn’t prepared to make. After all, it was my dad who broke ties with ev
eryone else. At least, I believed so at the time.

  After the funeral, armed with a new connection and the surprising discovery that everyone was as isolated from the family as me, I searched for them again. Only this time, I wasn’t so successful. Eli and Ali’s accounts are all set to private, and what photos I did find tagged with their names are of people I don’t know. Nolan is everywhere, but his profiles consist of snippets of video footage: artistic pieces that don’t ever showcase him or his brother. I couldn’t even locate the other three. Which means they’re not online, or — more likely — they’re not using their real names.

  I am online, though. Instagram, Snapchat, even Tumblr. I’m present and unhidden, my accounts public and created using my real name. So why hasn’t anyone followed me?

  Hudson doesn’t like the idea of this weekend, and neither do my parents. Maybe that means my choice was wrong. Or maybe it just means I’m willing to put the effort into learning the truth about my family. I wish I knew for certain how my jumbled heart truly swayed. If only my cousins weren’t such foreign concepts to me now. If only I was sure they were indeed the best friends I used to have.

  Hanging on the kitchen’s far wall is a familiar picture, a print of a painting we’ve had as long as I can remember. I take a cookie from the box and study the painted rocks and waters of Georgian Bay as I ruminate over the possibilities and consequences this weekend will bring. A tree juts from pink-gray stone, its limbs and leaves drifting sideways through a gust of wind, while a yellow-clouded sky presides over a wavy shoreline of brown rock and further green trees.

  I stare at the artwork, chewing and swallowing as my thoughts slowly return to the afternoon of the funeral. An image of me and my six cousins seated around a picnic table is mentally superimposed over the rough terrain of the painting. My smile is sad as I remember the struggle of that day, the joy of seeing the others and the fight to forget why it was we were finally back together.

  Shifting in my seat, the memory clears as I’m startled back into giving my undivided attention to the painting. A sudden shock strikes through me, bringing with it a new curiosity about the way our family used to be and the mystery of why we fell apart.

  For the first time in my life, I understand the significance — or at least the irony — of the picture hanging on my kitchen wall. Its title is Stormy Weather, Georgian Bay, and it was painted by Frederick H. Varley, one of the original members of the Group of Seven.

  Allison

  Friday, October 7th, 2016

  59°F, partly cloudy, 4 MPH winds — NNE

  Last night I dreamed I was in a casket. I woke in darkness, and when I opened the casket’s lid, I was in the middle of a lake. I knew the lake. I’d been there before. I looked to my left, and there was the cottage. My cousins were standing on the docks next to the water, watching me float. I couldn’t see their expressions. I couldn’t figure out if they were trying to help me or if they were happy to see me floating away.

  Wow. My subconscious is, like, so subtle.

  We’re going to the cottage tomorrow. I’m supposed to be landscaping the gardens at the museum, but I called in a favor and got the shift switched, so my weekend’s clear. Eli doesn’t want to go, but he’s my ride, so he doesn’t have a choice — the ass. I know we haven’t seen them in a while, but our cousins are family. And Forrester needs help.

  So, we’re going. And I don’t care if Eli wants to complain the whole weekend or not. It’s a long drive and an uncomfortable situation, but at least he gets out of the house for a while. Away from Dad. Which is always a good idea.

  I’ve been watching the weather reports. A storm is on its way. Bad omen, maybe. Or, more likely, a cold front sweeping in to make October feel less like August. The crisp air will be a relief from the stuffy heat. An early dusting of snow would be brilliant, too, though I doubt the temperature drop will be quite so severe.

  Maybe this weekend is a mistake. Storm or no, the forecast is cloudy, even if I can’t pinpoint why I’m so certain the clouds will be covering us.

  At least I’m making the effort. For Forrester’s sake. And for Dad’s — for the days when he was the family historian, sitting us in his study and showing us old photographs of people long dead. Back in the golden time when he readily declared that family is the root of everything.

  Those days are gone now, and his sentiments have rotted into bullshit. But I’m curious to see if there was ever any truth to it. Curious, and a bit terrified.

  I don’t know what’s happened to make me afraid of spending two days with the people I used to call my friends.

  Nolan

  “NOLAN, ARE YOU GOING to text the entire drive up to the cottage?”

  My brother gives me an annoyed half-glance as he snaps his seat-belt into place and switches on the car’s ignition.

  “If I watch you drive, I might have an anxiety attack,” I mutter. He punches my arm and adjusts the rear-view mirror. “Ow!” I rub the spot, a laugh breaking through the groan. Thomas grins, putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the driveway.

  This afternoon the black interior of the car will be sticky and hot, but this early in the morning an unmistakable fall chill breezes through the sky. Thomas hates it. He already misses summer, when 6:00 a.m. is warm enough to keep the sunroof open and the seats of his Volkswagen GTI always smell like the beach. I’m not so attached to the season, although I do miss not having the weekly obligation of school.

  Still, Thomas is happy this morning. He’s missed the cottage. I don’t remember much about it. Despite Thomas’s belief that the place is so freaking amazing it should be a permanent fixture in my memory, I was only six the last time we went there. Anyway, I’m sure Thomas remembers enough for both of us.

  “Summer was glorious on the bay,” he told me last night as we packed our weekend bags. “And no matter the time of year, it was a haven away from the incessant noise of the world.”

  He grinned, and then the grin faded into a sadder moment of recollection.

  “Bad things didn’t happen at the cottage,” he admitted. “I never imagined I could go there for a reason like this, to pack it up because my uncle’s dead and my cousin has no parents … or home.”

  Now, Thomas presses the gas and rushes through a yellow light before making a hard turn into the Tim Hortons parking lot.

  “What the hell, Thomas? Let’s try to make it to the cottage in one piece, okay?” I say, gripping the passenger door. I can’t wait until I get my full driver’s license. I’m not letting my reckless brother drive me anywhere once I’ve graduated from my pointless G1.

  Thomas swerves quickly into the drive-thru to bug me, and I let out a long breath, hunching into my seat to read an incoming message on my phone.

  B: Morning, babe. Are you alone? Something crazy happened last night. We need to talk.

  I stare at the screen in surprise, angling it toward the door so Thomas won’t be able to glimpse the latest text.

  Me: In the car with Thomas on our way to the cottage. Can’t talk, but can text. What’s up?

  B: Shit, was hoping I’d get you before you left. Okay, text it is. You ready? Because I certainly wasn’t.

  Me: I’m all eyes. Text away.

  “What do you want?” Thomas asks, dropping some trash into the bin as he pulls forward and waits for the voice over the speaker to give him the go-ahead to order.

  “What?” I blink in surprise, turning off the screen as I realize what he’s asking me. “Oh. Coffee, please. Double-double.”

  Thomas relates my order to the metal box, getting himself the same thing plus a pack of Timbits. Mom insisted we bring a box of Danishes she bought from the bakery with us, but neither one of us can wait three hours to eat anything. Thomas likes ordering food while he’s driving, anyway. In his mind, trips worthy of provisions are always the best.

  When we pull up to the window, Th
omas flirts with the drive-thru attendant while I check my phone. No message has come through yet, which means this text is going to be a long one.

  My knee is bouncing, and I force it to stop so Thomas won’t catch on to the telltale sign of my nerves. Not that it matters. When he’s paid for our order and has finished his obnoxious flirtation with the shy girl I’m pretty sure is terrified of his hungry eyes, he hands me my coffee and glances at the phone clutched too-tight in my fist.

  “What’s Brandon up to this weekend?” he asks as we peel away from the window.

  The question is casual but nevertheless prying, and I slide the phone under my leg so I can open the lid of my drink.

  “Hanging out with Bea, I think,” I say as we turn back onto the road. “She’s back in town for the holiday.”

  Thomas quirks an eyebrow, but I pretend not to notice. The fact that my brother spent the summer messing around with my boyfriend’s sister is still weird, and her moving out of town last month to live with some guy she liked better than Thomas was a relief for Brandon and me. But as much as Thomas plays it off like his trysts with Bea were nothing more than two buddies reaping the full benefits of their friendship, I know her sudden departure is a sore spot for him.

  The phone buzzes, but I grip my coffee tight to stop from checking it right away.

  “By the way, you have weird taste in women,” I say instead, changing the course of the conversation.

  “Lauren has her charms,” Thomas says, referring to the drive-thru girl.

  He switches lanes and turns onto the highway ramp as I open my coffee and take an initial, cautious sip. I try not to cringe at the bitter taste I’m not sure I’ll ever be quite used to. A hot chocolate would have been a nicer beverage, but I started pretending to like coffee six months ago, and I don’t have any intention of stopping the charade now — even if everyone important is well aware I don’t like the stuff.

  “That’s not what I mean,” I say, licking my lips and thinking I should at least up the sugar count next time I order. “You make no sense. The girls you like. They’re so different. That girl back there. She’s the total opposite of Asha.”