Hello?

ONE

It is not length of life, but depth of life.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

TRICIA

SOMETIMES I WISH I were a robot. Get a wrench, tighten a bolt. Fix me. Yeah, right. What’s wrong with me?

I move my cheek to a dry spot on my tear-dampened pillow and focus on the dim glow coming from the nightlight in the hallway. My hand slips from Brian’s as my mind drifts from my darkened bedroom to three doors away—my grandma’s room.

In my head, I relive that last night I had with her five months ago today. I climb into her bed and snuggle into her bony body, inhaling the faint smell of her homemade lavender soap and the sour coming from her shallow breaths. She tries to talk, but she’s too weak.

Sitting up, I choke out, I love you so much, Grandma. Her eyes flicker open, then close. I watch her chapped lips move. Love you, they say. With a heavy sigh and a peaceful smile on her face, she slips into death.

For hours or maybe minutes, I cuddle next to her, hold her hand, and try to comprehend how I will live without her. The person who raised me, loved me, cherished me. Gone. My only family. I can’t stop crying. At some point, Brian walks in, the hospice nurse close behind. She must have called him. Sobbing and shaking, I shift away from Grandma. I’m not ready for good-bye. I’m not ready. Brian gathers me into his arms and leads me to my own bed. Dr. Wellington gives me two pills and I sleep and sleep and sleep.

I wish I could sleep now.

I glance over at Brian. His bare, broad shoulders gently rise and fall with each breath as he sleeps on his stomach. His closest arm is stretched toward me, but I remain out of reach. A thousand miles away. So alone. C’mon Tricia. Think about something positive. Think about Brian. One happy memory.

It should be easy.

It’s not.

Breathing deeply, I forget about Brian and begin to play the memory game. Something my grandma and I did when I was little. Because of her rheumy eyes, instead of reading bedtime stories, we’d snuggle in pj’s and she’d tell me about a special moment from my childhood. She’d share. I’d share until I could picture every detail. After years of this, I had a stockpile of memories. Somehow, I think she knew I’d need a stash of them.

Looking around my room, I search for an object that will trigger a happy memory. My gaze lands on my dad’s dog tags, dangling from the bookshelf above my desk. A breeze from my open window causes them to sway. Almost like they’re dancing.

Dancing. Wonderful images fill my mind, and I smile. I’m at the kitchen table eating breakfast with Dad and Grandma. Mom walks in and Dad’s attention shifts from his crossword puzzle to her. His face lights up. He drops his pencil, dances over to her, body swaying, hands posed ready to waltz with her. He takes her into his embrace, twirls her around. Even clad in jeans and T-shirts, they’re as beautiful as any dance partners I’ve seen on TV. Perfect for each other. Dad’s dog tags swing from Mom’s neck. She tucks them into her collar and wraps her arms around Dad’s shoulders. I laugh. Grandma laughs. Without missing a beat, Dad bends over, picks me up. They sandwich me between them, and we slide and spin to the sound of Frank Sinatra, Grandma’s favorite singer, crooning from the old radio sitting on the counter.

After a few more dizzying twirls, Dad sets me down on my chair, grabs Mom around the waist, dips her low, then gives her a noisy kiss. Winking at me, Dad says, I’m the luckiest man in the world to have the three best girls.

Dressed in her usual purple velour housecoat and warm smile, Grandma clears our cereal bowls and says, Enough of the moony-eyes and sweet-talk. Let’s get our girl to school for her first day of kindergarten.

Dad scoops me under his arm like a football, does his Green Bay Packers wide receiver imitation. He sprints, ducks, and dives, dodging invisible players around the kitchen. I giggle as he brings me to the sink to wash my hands and face. He gives me a gentle noogie and says, Pack a lot of knowledge into this brain.

Before we leave, Grandma hugs me close, and I inhale her lavender scent. How is it possible you’ve grown up so fast? she asks.

Little did we know how fast I’d have to grow up.

The memory of Dad’s tear-stained face looms in front of me.

Brian shifts closer, yanking me back to the present. His eyes open. I brush the hair off his scruffy cheek, then quickly drop my hand to my side. Watching me, he skims a palm over my leg. With his free hand, he laces his fingers with mine, holding tightly. The feel of his unbreakable grip takes me back to that dancing day with my parents, that first day of kindergarten, before my life changed forever.

My mind wanders to the moment our teacher Mrs. Ehrlich sat Brian and me next to each other during circle time. To when Brian and I read the Henry and Mudge chapter book. To holding his hand for a game of red rover. Brian whispers, Don’t let go.

I won’t, I say. Never. And I turn to stare down our first opponent.

Linnea Johannson barrels toward us, and Brian tightens his grip. She bounces off us like a Super Ball. Turn after turn, Brian and I stay locked together. The last one up is Hunter Gunnlaugsson, the biggest and strongest in our class, who runs at us full-force. Brian squeezes my hand, and though it hurts, I don’t complain. I grip his as hard as possible. Not even Hunter can break us apart. Prophetically, by the end of the day I know, out of all my friends, Brian will be my best.

Is he still?

His free hand drifts to my inner thigh, and I quiver, but not because it feels good. I tell myself that I should love this. I don’t. My head and heart and everything between are engulfed in a pain-filled, miserable fog.

My stomach aches as he continues to caress my body. He lifts my tank top up and over my head. His lips trail over my breasts to my neck until they reach mine. His fingers tangle in my knotty hair. His tongue teases and entices and I try to respond, to give him a part of me. I should want to. I know I should. I used to love his kisses, his touch. He wraps an arm underneath my waist, presses his hips into me. Firm, hard, wood…

Wood.

Once again, like a kite slipping through my fingers and sailing away, my thoughts leave him. Us. My bedroom. My lighthouse. Boyer’s Bluff.

I’m leaning against the trunk of a barren beach tree at the edge of the Boyer family plot. I watch Grandma’s pine coffin being lowered into the snow-speckled ground. Brian comes over to me, wraps his arm around my waist, and supports me so I won’t collapse. The sea of islanders—some sniffling, some stone-faced—fan around the grave; the smell of freshly turned soil lingers in the winter mist. Hardened earth clunks against her casket. One of the worst sounds in the world.

And at this moment, I am one of the most detestable, morbid, messed-up girlfriends in the world.

Brian stops. He shifts his weight onto his forearms, opens his brown eyes, and stares at me. I look away, ashamed at my rejection and the dejection written across his brow. Without a word, he grabs and puts on the Grateful Dead T-shirt I gave him six months ago for his eighteenth birthday. I cower under my grandma’s patched quilt—too numb to cry, too lost to be found.

Brian stands. I brace myself for an argument.

He hands me my top. I’ll be downstairs, he mumbles and heads for the door.

I’m sorry, I whisper. So sorry.

The day my grandmother died, Brian stayed over. I don’t want you to be alone, he had said. A part of me recognized that he didn’t ask. If he had, I probably would have told him to go home. I needed time to think, to mourn without his vigil. He was here the next night, and the next night, and the next, until his sports equipment filled shelves in the shed, his running shoes were in my closet, and his boxers and T-shirts and jeans were folded neatly in my three bottom dresser drawers. Without ever a formal discussion about him moving into my lighthouse, we were suddenly living together.

I know he worries about me. But this arrangement has strained our relationship. I wish I were strong enough to tell him to leave. I’m consumed by guilt each time I wake and find him asleep on the den couch with the TV on low and an infomercial for an acne product or colon cleanse playing because I’ve asked him to give me space.

There are times when he copes with my worst moods—anger, resentment, despair—by walking away. Because it’s too damn much to handle. But sometimes—okay, most of the time—his reactions fuel my frustration. Especially when he fiddles around with his cell phone when I’m trying to talk to him about how much I miss my grandma. I want to scream, Listen to me! and hurl his phone against a wall and tell him to stop ignoring my pain and deal with it, deal with me.

The few times we did talk about it he said, Tricia, you think for a half-second I could forget your grandma’s gone? I miss her too. What else do you want me to say? Or Whatever I do or say is wrong, so give me a damn manual and maybe I can figure it out. Or, I’m here for you, I love you. Can’t you see that? Maybe if we got married now, it would be easier for you.

I don’t have answers. Or at least not the answers he wants to hear. I don’t want to be married at eighteen. And I definitely don’t want to get married when I’m a mixed-up mess.

I’ve tried to explain, telling him that I need time to cope with the deep, cutting losses, the emptiness inside me. To work things out in my head and figure out what I want for my life. I know I shoulder plenty of blame for the tension between us and I’ve said so. Inevitably, I apologize.

He gets this forlorn, distressed look in his eyes like he doesn’t have a clue what to do with me. He’ll stand there, tightlipped, letting me know he’s being extra patient. Like he knows that I’ll eventually snap out of this funk and return to the person I was before.

I’ve come close to blurting out, I want you to move back home. But I’ve managed to cage and swallow the words. There’s too great a risk it might end us. It’s not what I want—I love him—and I’m terrified that if I push too hard, I’ll lose him too.

Two weeks ago, I thought maybe he had reached his end. Brian was downstairs finishing the laundry while I headed upstairs to bed. Instead, I wandered into Grandma’s bedroom. The need to be close to her, to feel her presence, overwhelmed me. I opened her closet, took her purple velour housecoat, and put it on over my clothes. It smelled like her, but it wasn’t enough. On her dresser, she had a bottle of lavender oil. I dabbed it on my neck, leaned against the wall, hugged her housecoat close, and breathed in her scent.

Brian walked in, scrunched his nose, and said, What are you doing? He eyed Grandma’s threadbare housecoat, dotted with bacon grease stains from one of the last breakfasts she cooked. Disgust was written all over his face.

I just…needed to be close to her.

"By wearing that?"

I clung to the sleeves. Yes. What difference does it make? I wear my dad’s Army sweatshirt all the time.

Yeah, but you wash it. He let out an exasperated breath. It’s clean if you want me to go get it.

I shook my head, frustrated my explanation wasn’t enough. Frustrated he didn’t understand that Grandma’s lavender scent comforted me. How that ratty housecoat was more valuable than gold. I sat on Grandma’s bed and started to cry.

Tricia— The inflection he added to my name included the unspoken words of Oh great, not again.

I cut him off. Don’t.

He turned his attention to the window overlooking the front of the house and stared out for a long time. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and refocused on me. I heard the clack of his car keys as he fingered them, followed by more silence, then mournful resignation. I’m going to sleep.

Okay. I dried my eyes on Grandma’s soft sleeve. I’ll be there in a minute.

He turned, hesitated, then said, Do me a favor, please? Take a shower before you do. It’s kinda creepy having you smell like your grandma, ya know?

Embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed, I nodded, then removed her housecoat and returned it to her closet. I took one of the longest showers of my life. I even stayed after the water turned cold.

I wish I were better for him. I wish I knew how to fix me, fix us. It’s bad enough that for the past five months Brian has seen the worst of me, that I don’t know how to love him the way he needs anymore. That I can’t.

Under the circumstances, I do what I can to insulate myself from others. Not easy in a community where almost everyone is in everybody’s business. There are plenty of islanders who like to be in mine. No point fighting it. It’s the way it is here. So, I try to avoid the places I’ll see people and choose off-peak times to buy supplies at Mann’s Grocery Store. Occasionally, when I can’t cope with another well-meaning person checking up on me, I won’t answer the doorbell.

I think about my friends, especially Linnea, Jeremiah’s daughter and a fellow senior. She doesn’t get on my case or invite herself over. She gives me the space I need. On occasion, she’ll text and I’ll text back. It’s enough.

I haven’t walked into school for months. All my courses are online, and being a part of the smallest school district in the state of Wisconsin allows Principal Schuster to be flexible. We have an agreement. As long as I do the work and keep my grades at As and Bs, studying from home isn’t a problem. Brian hates that Principal Schuster caved in. But I calmly explained that I wanted and needed to be away from all the normal, non-grieving students. I couldn’t handle the constant reminders that I’m different from everyone else. Everyone else has at least one brother or sister or cousin attending the school. Family permeates our community and is the center of everyone’s activities. Birthdays, holidays, baseball, trips off island, church, community center. Every business is family. It’s too much.

Principal Schuster understands. Brian doesn’t. I’m your family, he argued. "My parents, my sister, this community is your family." No matter how many times I try to explain, he just doesn’t get it. We have two different definitions for family.

MONDAY, 2:21 A.M.

THE DIP OF the mattress wakes me up. I open my eyes to Brian, who’s sitting close to the edge, not touching me. Dim light from the hallway casts a halo around his head and shoulders. His face remains shadowed and I can’t decipher his expression. I’m not even sure he’s looking at me.

To see him better, I shift onto my side, fold and shove my pillow under my head. It doesn’t make much of a difference other than to let Brian know I’m now awake.

A long, heavy sigh escapes from his mouth, weighing me down with dread. It hangs in the air like a question I’m supposed to answer. What am I to do with you? it asks.

I don’t know.

He slips one of my hands into his and absently traces my fingers and palm. I hug my legs into my chest. He flinches at my retreat and I’m instantly sorry. I release my grip, scoot closer to him, and rest a hand on his knee to prove I’m making an effort. I’m trying. Of course, it’s not enough. We both know it. But I don’t have anything more than this to give. He deserves someone who’s happy, carefree, unburdened from loss. I can’t be that Tricia Boyer. What was left of her disappeared five months ago.

Brian stands, leans down, and gives me a brotherly kiss on the cheek. He rests his forehead against mine. His warm breath shudders over my closed eyelids. Tension radiates from his body as the muscles I know so well stiffen against my torso.

I can’t do this anymore, he says.

My eyes fly open.

You need help, Tricia. Concern spreads across his face as he waits for a reaction, any reaction from me. My heartbeat picks up as I dig my fingertips into the bottom sheet and brace myself. Brian has said this before, and every time we’ve argued about it. I don’t want to fight. I’m worn to the bone from fighting with him.

"I’m done, Tricia. We’re done."

His words slam into me. The room spins and I grip the sheet tighter. What? He’s what? Every coherent thought vanishes in a puff of exhaled air.

When he reaches the door, he glances back at me. Hesitates. Call me if— But he doesn’t finish. As reality rushes in, I open my mouth to speak, then close it. The protestation is trapped behind my ribcage in my hollowed-out heart. Brian shakes his head. Misery I’m responsible for distorts his features.

His footsteps plod against the wood stairs. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and am forced to close my eyes to regain equilibrium. Before I stand, the front door creaks open, then bangs shut.

I dash to the window facing the driveway. Under the stark moonlight, Brian halts in front of his pickup truck. A small voice yells at me to go after him. But I’m temporarily paralyzed.

He sinks onto his knees and cradles his head against his knuckles. Seeing him like this jumpstarts my legs and I race through the hallway and down the stairs. My mind is jumbled with confusion and panic. Just as I open the front door, I’m greeted with the roar of the truck engine and the putrid smell of exhaust and burning rubber. By the time my bare feet hit gravel, Brian’s gone.

Numbly, I stare past the lawn to the dirt road cutting through Boyer’s Bluff’s forest and wait for Brian to return.

He doesn’t.

I’m done, Tricia. We’re done. Over and over I hear him say it, not quite believing it’s true. Through a silent flow of tears, I wait and watch, watch and wait until all that’s left is cold.

I turn to go inside. The dark, empty place that used to be home. I can’t bring myself to take one more step toward it.

Without much thought, I walk to the cliffs behind the lighthouse. The limestone reflects into the mirrored surface of Lake Michigan. Layer by layer by layer of jagged edges and jutting embankments. From where I stand, the drop is breathtaking. The roots of towering white cedars dig into stone crevices, wrapping around them like desperate children clinging to their mothers’ legs. I stretch my arms between two trees and grab hold of their spindly branches. The limbs flex like a slingshot ready to fling me back as I peer into the abyss. I imagine catapulting myself off, banging and bouncing along nature’s balconies until my body smashes into Lake Michigan’s freezing water.

Horrified, I jump back. Something soft caresses my calf. I shriek. It’s only the arcing leaves of a maidenhair fern. Boyer’s Bluff’s flora and fauna have never spooked me…until now. I look around. The forest’s silhouette, the cliffs are as foreign as Mars.

I can’t stay out here a second longer. My joints creak and ache from the cold as I hustle toward the lighthouse. A sharp pain shoots into my left foot, but I don’t slow down.

Limping through the foyer, I leave a smudged trail of blood that follows me to the den. My heartbeat harmonizes with the tick of the antique grandfather clock standing proud and oblivious against the wall near the parlor entrance. It’ll outlive the Boyers, I think.

I turn on a floor lamp in the den, walk to the TV cabinet, and run my fingers along the trim until they connect with the key for my father’s gun cabinet.

An image of Brian’s frowning face fills my head. For a moment, all I want to do is call him. But if I did, would he come back? What would I say? I know I’m wretched, but I need you?

It’s hard to believe we planned to marry someday in the Stavkirke here on the island. It’s hard to believe he ever loved me. How many times did he walk away and come back? But not this time. Deep inside, I know it.

It’s my fault.

Looking around, I take in the room and the view of Boyer’s Bluff through the window. What I see is a shell of miserable memories.

I want to go home to my mother and father and grandmother. How naïve I was to think Boyer’s Bluff was heaven. It’s only meaningless space. Meaningless earth.

I unlock my father’s gun cabinet and take out the Remington 12-gauge shotgun he used for deer hunting, load a shell, and carry the rifle to my bedroom. Carefully, I set it down on my bed. Shuffling to the desk, I open up a new document file on my laptop. I’ll leave a note to be found after I’m gone, most likely by our chief of police, Jeremiah Johannson.

For a few breaths, I allow myself to imagine Jeremiah searching the lighthouse for me and finding my brains sprayed across the shower wall. His mouth will purse, his brow will deepen the craggy, hard lines that never disappear. Maybe his eyes will tear up as he reports my death over the police radio. At least the clean-up will be minimal, simple.

Unsure what to write, I stare at the blank screen. The last thing I want is for Brian to feel guilty. How can I absolve him? NO. I can’t think about Brian. It’s my turn to do something just for me. I need to be with family.

I adjust the font size and center the cursor. I believe…Brian will understand.

I’VE GONE HOME.

I pick up the shotgun, walk into the bathroom, and prop it against the tub. Without looking in the mirror, I remove the gold heart necklace Brian gave me for our year anniversary, twelve years as best friends, and set it on the chipped counter. Sitting on the toilet seat, I eye the shotgun. I’m not afraid. But I want and need to get it right. One shell, and it has to count.