I shrug in answer. “I have to go, if I want to get there before dark.” At least I hoped it wouldn’t get dark before eight in Jackson Hole. It was the end of May.
Cytha’s dark brown eyes well with tears. “Text me?”
“Of course,” I say, my own eyes filling.
“Everyday.” She points a finger at me.
I wrap my arms around her small frame and she clings to me as well. Cytha is the sister I never had and I’m the same for her. We hold each other close until I can feel her shuddering cries slow. I kiss at her temple and pull away. “See you, Thelma.”
“So long, Louise.” She smiles at our nicknames. “Remember—you get what you settle for.”
I nod, climb into the driver’s seat of my Chevy, and pull away. “So long, Reno,” I say to myself—it’s a goodbye to my aunt, my best friend, and the only life I’ve ever known.
2
Uncle Rodrick gathers me into a hug as if we’re great friends, and this isn’t the second time I’ve met him. He looks like Dad with his blue eyes and brown hair. Rodrick is eighteen years younger than my dad. He is younger this minute than my dad was the day he died. We never saw him—with Dad’s family not approving of Mom—and then I lived with Aunt Lisa, who is Mom’s aunt. After my parents died, I didn’t see Dad’s family—ever.
“Esther,” he says, a smile on his pale face. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
I feel discombobulated. I understand a little better why Smitty behaves the way he does. “Thanks,” I murmur.
Rodrick’s wife is as pale as he is—so are their three children, Angelo, Harmony, and baby Brayden. Either they’ve all lived in this cold place too long, or I just have too much of my mother in me. The five of them stand there, staring at me as if I’m about to perform for them.
“Gosh, you’re lovely, Esther.” Rodrick puts a hand on the side of my head, smashing my tight curls. “You look just like Sara.” He blows out a puff of air. “But I see some Ryan in those eyes.”
I clear my throat, but I don’t know what to say. Dad’s eyes were blue, like a like a clear sky on a spring day. I remember being mesmerized by them. JoJo and I took after Mom. We both had her dominant dark brown eyes—they were nothing like Dad’s. But then, he and Rodrick never even lived together. He’s right about one thing—I do look like my mother.
“Let’s give Esther some space.” Summer lifts the baby cradled in her arms, handing him to Rodrick. “I’ll show you to your room.”
My uncle swallows, his throat bobbing, he waves to the other two children and they follow him out of the entryway. Peeking back at us, he offers a nervous, closed lip grin.
“Let me give you a tour.” Summer takes one of the two bags I brought in from the car.
“Oh, I can—”
“I’ve got it,” she says, brushing a long blonde strand from her shoulder. “The family room,” she waves at the large room to the left of us, where Rodrick left with the kids. “Kitchen,” she says, as we walk through the large, clean, uncluttered space. “Dinner is at six every night. Friday is take out for the kids—Rod and I have date night.” We reach the landing of a large, curved staircase with dark wooden steps and rails. “You don’t have to babysit—we have someone for that.”
She watches me, so I give a quick nod.
We start up the stairway, Summer’s hand sliding along the rail. “Your room’s up here. We’ve put Brayden in with Angelo, so you’ll have your own space.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine on a couch.” Or back home with quiet Smitty and Cytha.
Summer laughs like I’ve made a joke. “Of course you’re not staying on the couch. You’re family, Esther.” We stop in front of a white door that feels too clean to touch. “I know we haven’t really been a part of your life—I mean, you’ve never even met me or the kids until today, but Rod loved his brother. He always hated how the family treated Sara. Rod says she was really wonderful.”
I instantly like my uncle a little more in that moment.
“He regrets not doing more when they both passed away.” Summer’s jaw shifts—people are never sure they should bring up the dead. “We’re both glad to have you.” Summer opens the door and sets my bag inside. “I’ll leave you to settle. Rod can bring in the rest of your things.”
“I can get them.”
She nods and heads back out the way we came.
It isn’t a large room, but it’s clean, and the bed is comfortable. An hour later my things are mostly put away, and Rodrick and Summer are bidding goodnight to their children. I’m the third room down the hall, but they both stop by and wish me sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams. I shift on my feet with their words. I know what’s coming—at least I think I do—and though it isn’t a gruesome dream, it scares me just the same.
I lay in this foreign bed—too comfortable and too big—tired, but not willing to let my eyes close. I pull out my phone and send Cytha a text.
I made it.
Her respond takes seconds to come through.
I miss you already. How’s the uncle?
Me: Nice. I guess.
Cytha: So, what’s up?
Me: Just laying here… not sleeping.
Cyth sends me a GIF of a grizzly bear snoring.
Cytha: I knew you had that dream again.
Me: Yeah… Well…
Cytha: You need a good cry, Es.
Me: I need a melatonin. ‘Night, Thelma.
Cytha: Goodnight, Louise.
I snuggle down in bed, pulling up the quilt that Lisa made me for my tenth birthday, the one Summer made this bed with is bunched down at my feet. I look at the ceiling and wonder if I’m seeing things when little dots begin to glow. Constellations above me radiate a yellow glimmer that seem to lull me to sleep.
I trace my finger along the row of classic novels, written by women from the 1800s, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Mary Shelley, and more. This library smells sweet—like fresh paper or aged ink. There’s a statue taller than me, made of gray stone, at the end of the aisle. It’s a mother, breastfeeding one child and holding another at her side. She’s reading to them. For some reason, it intrigues me. The stone is carved with so many details, from their bare hands and feet, to the cloth that covers her head. I reach out to touch her when the ground starts to shake. Books fall from their shelves in disarray and block the path behind me. I look up at the mother, clutching her children—unwilling to let them go—they are one. She wobbles on her pedestal. She seems to look down on me. More books crash to the ground behind me. And then the mother is tipping… tipping... falling—right onto me.
I pant and throw myself upward—awake. Sweat pools at my forehead, a drop falling from my brow, to my nose, to the blanket covering me up. I wipe my face with my palms, reaching back into my kinky, black hair. The curls are too tight to run my fingers through, and I end up just pulling the lot of my thick hair back with my hands. Sighing, I examine my surroundings in the dark. My familiar things all lie about, but they’re not fooling me—this room is foreign.