“Oh no, buttercup,” I say.
“I could swim out to sea, but I don’t like swimming anymore,” she says. “This is the best way. And I have Shampoo with me.”
She pushes a box beneath the window and climbs onto the sill.
“Don’t go,” I say nonsensically.
Rosemary shakes her head and tears begin to fall. “I have to.”
I start toward her, wanting to hug her one last time, but she is through the opening and out the window in a flash. She stands on the ledge, Shampoo in one hand. “I love you, Carrie,” she calls. “Goodbye and good luck and be good.”
She jumps.
I rush to the window and thrust my head out, looking for her thin little body on the rocks below—but it isn’t there. I look into the sky and she isn’t there, either.
The island is peaceful in the morning sunshine.
Rosemary is gone and all I can do is keep my promises to her.
83.
NOW.
My son Johnny and I sit in the Red Gate kitchen. Between us are cups of cold cocoa and the remains of a blackberry pie Bess made.
One of Penny’s dogs, Grendel, has taken a shine to me this summer and lies at my feet. My sisters are here on the island with us, but they are nestled into bed in other houses, sleeping their agonized sleeps. They do not see ghosts.
Johnny cannot help me, except by listening. And I cannot help him, except by telling this story. But we have had some good last times together.
He is very tired, I can tell. He can’t keep visiting Beechwood Island much longer. His hands shake and his eyes are bloodshot. He moves slowly, as if in pain. It is nearly time for him to leave, and maybe my story has given him what he needs to say goodbye and rest.
I lay my head on the table. A wave of exhaustion runs through me. The clock reads 1:45 a.m.
Johnny stands and runs his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for telling me all that,” he says gently.
“Sure thing,” I say.
“It was kind of a lot.”
“I know.” I sit up to look at him.
“Can’t have been easy.” He picks up a spoon and eats a large bite of pie, straight from the plate. “I’m gonna have to think about it, I guess.”
“Okay,” I say. He drops his spoon back into the pie plate. “You done with that?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just eating for fun. I’m not hungry.” I stand and cover the pie with foil.
Johnny shakes his head. “God, I don’t know what to even think. All of that’s true?”
I look him in the eye. “All of it.”
“I can’t all the way deal.” He comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll bounce for now,” he says. “But I’ll come see you tomorrow. Sound good?”
“Mm-hm.”
“You all right?”
“I think so.”
“I’m gonna go meet the others at Cuddledown, then.”
“It’s so late,” I say.
“We’re up all hours.”
“Okay.”
“You go to sleep. I’m living the nightlife while I can,” he says.
I nod and watch him as he heads to the door. Then I follow and watch some more as he heads through the yard and closes its red gate behind him.
* * *
—
I AM CINDERELLA’S stepsister.
I am the ghost whose crime went unpunished.
I am Mr. Fox.
I am white cotton and sandy feet, old money and lilacs, yes—and yet my insides are made of seawater, warped wood, and rusty nails.
My name is Caroline Lennox Taft Sinclair, and I am the bastard daughter of Tipper Sinclair and Buddy Kopelnick, who loved each other deeply and foolishly.
I am a former athlete. I used to have a different face.
Yes, it’s true I killed a man and threw his body in the ocean, and that may be the primary thing you choose to remember about me. But now that I have told that story, I think I may be able to tell a new story about myself.
Once upon a time, there was a girl whose sisters were loyal to her.
Once upon a time, there was a girl whose father claimed her and protected her, even though she was not his own.
This girl recovered from a narcotics addiction and was stronger for it.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who had children—and though she wronged them in some ways, she was good to them in many others. And they loved her.
Once upon a time, after her divorce, this woman fell in love with a man who would make sacrifices for her. He made her laugh, and life with him was always interesting. And in turn, she fought for him. Though he didn’t know everything about her, he loved her with a joyful heart. He said what he needed from her. And though it was hard for her to give him what he needed, and though she had to anger her father and quarrel with her sisters, she eventually found a way.
Once upon a time, this woman lost her eldest son and thought she might descend into darkness forever. But then her son returned to her as a ghost. He met her with open arms and forgave her worst trespasses, before he had to leave.
And so she began to heal.
Once upon a time, this woman chose to stay loyal to her family. She could have left them. They weren’t easy. But she chose them and accepted the consequences.
Going forward, she did her best to live a
joyful
but conscious
life.
That wasn’t easy, either. But she tried.
* * *
—
PERHAPS I AM Lady Mary after all. After all, she pulls the severed hand from the pocket of her wedding dress, where she has hidden it. Do you remember? She pulls the severed hand and holds it up for everyone to see. She exposes the horrors she has uncovered, the corpse she has hidden beneath white linen. She forces her brothers to bear witness. This, says Lady Mary to her brothers, this is the worst I have seen. I expose it because I do not want such horrors to be my future.
This, I said to my son, this is the worst I have seen and the worst I have done.
Please bear witness.
I do not want such horrors to determine my future.
What does Lady Mary do after that? Well, what would any of us do after pulling a chunk of bloody corpse out of our pocket?
I’m sure she washes her hands. And burns her wedding dress.
I imagine she says some words of sorrow over that poor dead woman’s bloody hand and consigns it to a grave.
And to Mr. Fox, killed by her brothers, she says, “Good riddance.”
Later in the day, perhaps, Lady Mary goes down to her kitchen, where the uneaten wedding breakfast has been shoved into the fridge. She finds some lovely carrot muffins and some special sausages. She brews a large pot of strong tea and heats the sausages in a pan until they fill the kitchen with their meaty smell.
She calls her brothers.
The sun rises and I call my sisters. My remaining son. My nieces and nephew. My father. My love.
They come to my house, or come downstairs with bedhead. Someone makes eggs and someone else puts ketchup and silverware on the table. The dogs get underfoot and Grendel steals a sausage. My younger son asks if he can eat the blackberry pie from yesterday. I say, “Fine, there’s not much left, but do it.”
The breakfast is quiet. Some people read. The little boys eat quickly and run out to the yard. The teenagers make coffee and dose it with sugar and cream.
My sisters and I step onto the Red Gate porch and finish our second cups of tea there. We are very small, next to the ocean, beneath the open sky.
I do not think it will always be this way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS