I’d never lost a parent to unspecified reasons before, but I was pretty sure most moms didn’t decide to share their lives with a new guy soon after their husband’s funeral.
I rubbed my thumbnail over my lower lip. “A death blow is a life blow, for some. For some. For you, maybe . . .” I pushed my hand down and pressed my lips together.
Too late. The weird had gotten out.
Blythe pretended not to notice. Or maybe she was oblivious by now. Since my dad had died, I’d been poeting more than usual.
I’d always had a little habit of reciting poetry. Poeting. Not on purpose. I wasn’t winning poetry slams or anything. This was more inadvertent. It happened before I knew it, and it seemed to strike at random. Like the time I was supposed to be giving an oral report on the great state of Delaware (home of the Punkin Chunkin pumpkin-throwing contest), and ended up reciting half of e. e. cummings’s “in Just-.” Or the time Blythe and I saw our first horror film in the theater (The Babadook), and she said I ruined its scare-ability by whispering, “I took the road not taken, taken, taken.” Or when we were saying goodbye to our dad in the hospital, and I couldn’t stop saying “neverstops.”
But now it was becoming a thing. A noticeable thing.
Charlie cleared his throat and looked at my mom. She smiled as if I were a prodigy rather than a teen suffering from a potentially undiagnosed literary medical condition, which would make her a for-real negligent parent, and not just inattentive.
“I don’t think we were properly introduced,” he said. Blythe looked up from her phone. Our eyes met across the room. That drawl and those Southern manners. So much like Dad’s. It was disconcerting.
“I’m Charlie Parker.”
My mom gathered my hair behind my shoulders, about to go into the ritual of who was born first, but Charlie held up a hand and pointed to me. “You’re Sabine.”
I stepped back. No one tried to tell us apart right away. Seriously. NO one.
He gestured to today’s tan boots. I’d chosen them because Vivienne Westwood calls them Pirate Boots, and I needed pirate-level courage today. And I’d chosen them because tan was noncommittal, which was exactly how I was feeling about my life. “I knew your father for many years. You’ve had a boot fetish since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Your first pair was white with rainbow unicorns. Am I right?”
I blinked. I loved those boots. The rainbow part was iridescent. How did he know about that? I glanced at my mom, but she looked confused. Only Blythe’s mouth twitched with a knowing smile. “Remember when you wouldn’t take them off for circle time?” she said. “And you screamed so loud Dad had to pick us up from school?”
No. I shot her a glare, and she buried her head in her phone.
“That makes you Blythe.” Charlie smiled again, flashing perfectly straight white teeth. He shook his head, glancing between us. “With your father’s green eyes and your mother’s pretty curls, you’ve grown up beautifully.” Gross. I frowned at my mom’s boy-short “curls.” Did Blythe feel as creeped out as I did?
“Do you have everything you need?” he asked.
Blythe and I answered at the same time.
“Wi-Fi password?” (Blythe).
“Where’s the bathroom?” (Me).
Mom laughed nervously. “Sixteen-year-olds are impossible to please. But deep down, I’m sure they love their room.”
“I know it’s a mess. I’m sorry,” Charlie said apologetically. “Most of the house is as useful as a screen door on a submarine, but this room was completely refurbished.” He placed a hand against the wall. “New drywall. Eco-paint. Recycled oak floors. And speaking of bathrooms, it has one you wouldn’t believe.”
He raised his eyebrows to me, clearly thinking I was the easier twin to please. So wrong. When I glared back, he gave Blythe the Wi-Fi password.
“I’ll be driving you girls to school and making some dinners,” he said. “You’ll have to tell me what you like. But for now, we’ll let you settle in.” I looked to my mom. What was he? Our manny?
“Just one more thing.” His smile faded. “If a woman named Mrs. McMichaels stops by, don’t speak to her. Come get me right away. I’ll be staying in the garage apartment for the time being.”
“Thank you, Charlie.” Maryann Interiors gave him a gentle arm pat. “For everything. While they settle, let’s talk about scheduling and other . . . issues.”
Uh-oh. I knew that tone. Mom sounded like she was about to send back an unacceptable piece of furniture. Either he didn’t know that tone or he wore the same poker face that my dad had. Had. Had. Had. Had. Had. They walked out of our room, their footsteps echoing down the wide hallway.
I flopped onto Blythe’s bed. “Did that seem creepy to you?”
Death blow/life blow. Life blown away. Life blown apart.
“Not creepy.” Her fingers flew over the screen, pulling up all the games and apps she had been separated from on our long, Wi-Fi-free ride. “Odd.”
“Off?” I asked.
“Odd,” she repeated.
I stared out the window at the sky. It was still bright blue. Just a streak of pink reminded me that the end of the day was coming.
“What’s with the cooking dinner?” I asked. “And driving us to school? Are we toddlers? We’ve never met him before in our lives. We’d never even heard his name. Not until—”
“I guess he’s Dad 2.0.”
“That’s not funny,” I said.
“At least he’s not moving in here with us.”
“Close enough.”
Blythe put on her headphones and sank into her social media world. So I got up and claimed the closet. She could have the armoire. Almost nothing in her wardrobe needed to be hung anyhow. I hung up my dresses, pushing the folds out with my hands, then lined up my boots by height beneath the shelf under the closet window.
On the shelf I set out Emily Dickinson’s Final Harvest because I was reading that one a lot. Then I stacked her letters, her critical essays, and a bunch of other poetry collections. I arranged them around my prized Emily possession: a handbag silk-screened with the text of one of Emily’s love letters to Susan Gilbert.
I heard the skitter of gravel and straightened to peer out the open window. My mom and Charlie were walking below, their shadows long.
“You should have consulted me.” She was shaking her head. “What’s the rush?”
“I’ve been waiting for years. How much longer would you have me—”