The Shadow Sister, page 3
Andrew knocks at the driver’s side window. He steps back as I open the door, then looks around his street like he always does when I come to pick him up, like he’s ashamed.
I hop down, smiling as he watches the hem of my school uniform bounce up with the movement. His eyes are almost the same color blue as my mom’s, but his are deeper, like water under moonlight. They shine for me and me alone. He’s the one thing I never have to share.
I want to drag his lips to mine, then bury my face in his neck and stay there, wrapped up in him. We’ve waited so long for today. I know he didn’t think I could do it, but I did. I’d do anything for him. This is only the beginning.
“You didn’t tell your parents, right?” I ask as I hand him the keys.
“No,” he says as I circle my baby, the bright red Jeep I got for my sweet sixteen. He waits until I climb in on the passenger side before he slides into the driver’s seat and continues, “You told me not to.”
“I don’t want to tell anyone until we know for sure. If it doesn’t work out, I don’t want—”
“I know,” he says, patting my nervous hands.
He pulls out of his driveway slowly, as if the patchy gravel is a hidden minefield. He’s still not used to the backup camera in my car, checking the mirrors before I remind him of it. His cheeks flush a brighter red than the graffiti spray-painted on his neighbor’s fence, but the embarrassment fades as we drive. By the time we merge from the cul-de-sac to the main road, his skin is as porcelain fair as usual.
“Sutton, I want you to know,” he begins as we start to work our way out of Bend’s End, the cheaper area of Willow Bend. “This isn’t why I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you. I—”
“I know,” I say this time, cutting him off. I twist toward him as much as the seat belt will allow. “I know,” I repeat.
“I don’t want you to think I was only in this for your money or what you could offer me—”
“I’ve never thought that,” I interrupt. “Not once.”
“Your parents already don’t like me, and I want to show them I’m worthy of their daughter. I don’t want to be a mooch, okay? I don’t want them to think I’m some deadbeat that’s latched on to you.”
“They definitely don’t think that,” I say. “I promise.”
Andrew rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh, which gets him laughing, which only makes me laugh harder. “Okay,” I concede through giggles. “My mom totally thinks that. But that’s gonna change.”
“When hell freezes over,” Andrew scoffs.
“With climate change, that could happen this fall,” I say. “You never know.”
He laughs again, but this time I don’t join him. I take it in, memorizing the sound. He doesn’t laugh enough. His laugh was how I met him. I heard it at the golf club, while I sat through yet another garden party hosted by Coach McCoy’s wife. Andrew was on the periphery of the outdoor café, lifting the hem of his uniform to shield himself from the ice his coworker was tossing at him. He didn’t see me then, and it was even longer before he laughed because of something I said, but I’ll never forget that first day.
We’re finally back in the thick of Willow Bend, so I know we don’t have much longer together. Quiet overtakes the car. I want to turn on the radio to fill the silence. More than that, I want to talk, but I don’t want to make him any more nervous. He’s already so anxious.
At the next stoplight, he glances over at me. His fingers drum against the steering wheel. “I like your bracelet,” he says. I’m pretty sure he couldn’t care less about jewelry, but he’s always been good at noticing details and complimenting me.
“This?” I lift my wrist as if I’m wearing anything else to show off.
He nods.
“It was my grandma’s.”
“The one who died?” He immediately scoffs at his own tactlessness. “Babe, I’m sorry. I—”
“You’re fine,” I say gently. Ma Remy’s absence still hurts, but even the most careful wording wouldn’t help that. She’s only been gone three months. Every reminder of her cuts like a rock in my shoe, yet I have no choice but to keep going.
I rub the silver of the bracelet again, tracing the grooves of the intersecting chain, avoiding the pendant this time. It hangs toward my palm like a teardrop, a dark green bulb except for where the plants inside it meet the surface. My favorite part is the tiny white flower kissing the center, opening its few petals to the world. That’s the part I claimed as mine when Ma Remy promised it to me.
There’s only one other car in the school’s parking lot when he pulls into the school parking lot, but I know he can’t stay much longer if he wants to make his appointment on time. And if he notices whose car it is, he won’t leave. He’ll insist on staying until the lot fills and the bell rings. He may even cancel his trip entirely.
I don’t know if anyone is in the van waiting for me. But I can’t let Andrew suspect anything. He has to leave now.
I unbuckle my seat belt and reach down for my backpack. Andrew catches my arm. “I love you,” he says. It comes out watery the first time he says it. He tries again. It’s no better.
If he cries, I’ll start crying. I didn’t wear waterproof mascara today.
I silence him with my lips. It can’t be a deep kiss, not with the center console separating us, but I put everything I have into it. I want him to understand that we’re tied together forever, that I’ll never leave him. I want him to know that I trust him. That I believe in him, in us. No matter what happens today.
“I love you too,” I say when we break apart, my face still so close to his, he practically inhales my words. “It’s gonna be okay.”
He lets out a sigh as he leans back in his seat, nodding.
“Remember though, you can’t tell anyone that I loaned you the car.”
“Of course,” he promises. “But are you sure you’re going to be okay walking back? It’s a long walk.”
I shake my backpack. “I brought my running shoes. I’ll be fine.”
He still looks uncertain, but another car pulls in across the parking lot. I open the door and slip out before bouncing on my toes. I twirl to face the rolled-down window and blow him a kiss. He has to go. He needs to leave before he starts to worry about anything else.
“The Garden at four, okay? You’ll be there?”
I give him a bright smile. “Rain or shine, baby.”
“Rain or shine,” he repeats.
I watch him drive away, waiting until he’s out of sight. Then I walk to the forest-green van parked in the reserved section of the parking lot. He’s replaced the left taillight since I broke it, but the paint is still scratched around it. I guess insurance didn’t want to shell out for detailing.
My hand tightens around my phone in my pocket. I remind myself there’s nothing he can do to hurt me now. I have the upper hand. It’s too late.
It doesn’t matter anyway. The van is empty.
I’m safe.
THREE
No one looks at one another on the drive back home. My parents aren’t touching, not to hold hands across the center console or squeeze the other’s thigh. They always touch. They always find a way to connect that’s gross, awkward, and embarrasses me but also reminds me—promises me—that they are solid. Unbreakable.
What if this destroys them?
I’ve always had my family. When my classmates talked about split holidays and custody arrangements, I was smug. That’s never gonna be me, I told myself. Even on our worst days, I knew I’d never be separated from Sutton in some Parent Trap arrangement (even if I wished otherwise). Dad would never move back south without us. I’d never have to help one of my parents figure out online dating. I’ve prided myself on the fact they both first thought Tinder was a camping app.
I don’t know how to be the child of a shattered relationship. I want life to go back to normal. I want Sutton to come home and fix this.
Why would Sutton go jogging after the last day of school? It doesn’t make any sense. She should have been celebrating. She should have been happy junior year was over, with all the college prep pressures. The only time she ever went for a run in the afternoon was when she was angry or stressed. I should know. Many of our fights ended with her grabbing her keys and running shoes.
I know she was mad at me that day, but…
I lean back against my seat and watch the storm outside. Rain pelts the windows like a thousand anxious knocks. Is Sutton out in this weather? Is she cold? Is she feeling anything at all? The windshield wipers only amplify the silence within the car.
Dad turns onto the private road that leads to our gated community. Mom doesn’t react until we pull into the driveway, and then it’s as if nothing has happened at all. “Casey, don’t forget to take your shoes off when you get inside,” she reminds me as she steps out of the car. “I don’t want you tracking mud through the house.”
I don’t have time to respond before she’s walking away, her own boots slapping against the rain-soaked stone path cutting through her garden. Dad waits for me to climb out the back and shuts the door after I hop out of the black SUV. He doesn’t say anything.
Mom is still unlacing her boots when we get inside. “The police said we can’t be sure it was Sutton’s shoe until the blood tests come back,” she says without looking up. “We’ll have to wait.”
Dad clears his throat, looking at me. We know this already. We were with her when the police tried to talk us down from panicking over the obvious truth. “Then we’ll wait,” Dad agrees. “We can do that, right, Casey?”
Mom looks up at me, so I have no choice but to nod. I’m saved from any further response by Romeo, our corgi, who slides into the tiled entryway on his stubby orange legs. He jumps up, his little paws sliding down my jeans, falling seriously close to my muddy boots.
“Cas—” Mom starts, the beginning of a scolding on her lips. It’s almost normal, her getting upset about the house getting messy. I bite back a smile.
“I’ve got him,” I promise. I bend to pick him up. “Hey, buddy, how are you?” He kisses my neck and chin in response, squirming like a furry worm in my arms. He presses his front paws against my chest, angling himself for a better view of the front door. He’s focused, searching for something. Someone.
I stroke his back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Sutton’s not with us.” Romeo deflates in my arms, burrowing his head against my breast like a pillow. He doesn’t whine—he’s too proud for that—but I feel a disappointed exhale tickle my clammy skin. I set him back down on the floor, and he treads over to the door anyway and sits there expectantly.
“I—um,” Mom starts too loudly. “I have some work emails to address. I’ll be in my office if you need me, Isaiah.”
Dad nods, “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s fine. I was about to let Romeo outside anyway. He probably wants to go out.” He scoops him up again and heads the opposite direction, toward the back of the house. Mom turns for the stairs. Neither of them acknowledges me.
I take my time unlacing my boots. Mom left hers on the tile, so I don’t feel any obligation to find somewhere else to put mine. I leave my wet socks on top of them for her to launder or Romeo to chew. I don’t really care either way.
The hardwood is cold under my bare feet.
As I pad down the hallway, my fingers ghost over the framed newspaper clipping of the first time Dad hit a bestseller list, a memento older than I am. There are so many items in this house that have existed long before I came along. Even more that will outlast me, like they outlasted those who first created them.
I pause before one of the many framed pictures that hang alongside our parents’ professional achievements. A younger Sutton smiles from behind a distracted toddler me on Halloween. In another we’re wearing matching flamingo floats by the pool. I’m older than in the last photo and almost as tall as Sutton, as she hadn’t yet hit her first growth spurt. The camera immortalized the comical horror on my face as I slipped on the edge of the pool, falling backward into the water. Sutton is halfway to the water herself, the float falling to her feet as she reaches for me.
She’s not laughing at me like she would if this happened today, like my parents or anyone seeing this on the wall would now. Her face, still soft with baby fat, is focused on me. I barely remember hitting the water because she dove in and pulled me to the surface before Dad could even set down the camera.
I rub at my bare wrist as I enter the living room.
Dad is back inside, sitting on the couch. I glance at the glass doors to our deck, but Romeo is nowhere in sight. He must be looking for Sutton somewhere in the house. Dad wouldn’t have left him alone in the backyard, not with the pool uncovered for summer.
“Hey, Daddy.” I announce myself. He seems deep in a serious bout of brooding. “Are you hungry? I could make us something.” Admittedly, I don’t know what I would make. Sutton has always been his kitchen protégé. I inherited Mom’s ability to burn water. I can’t remember the last time someone went grocery shopping.
“I’m fine,” he says. He pats the empty spot next to him.
I join him on the couch, sliding into the dip in the leather that his weight creates. He smells like rainwater, even though none of us were outside long enough to get soaked.
He doesn’t speak for a while, so I join him in a silent study of the coffee table. It’s relatively new. Sutton and I are old enough now that Mom and Dad don’t worry about us shattering something so fragile. Not accidentally, at least.
Below the glass is a recessed display area, with several family heirlooms artfully laid out. It’s a showcase of what Dad has dedicated his career to: proof of the ties that bind us, artifacts of the people who met and loved and persevered to bring our family to today. He’s been curating the display in his downtime between grading papers and consulting with the Familiar Roots ancestry app.
I’ve seen most of his efforts already, but a trip down memory lane seems like a far better alternative to our present. I lean forward to get a better look.
In the far corner is the first deed of property ownership our ancestors claimed after slavery, circled by photos of that same land changing through the decades. Closer to the center is a faded dollar and some rusted nails that sit next to a black-and-white photo of my great-grandfather balancing Grandma Remy on his shoulders. They’re in front of the first iteration of Cureton Construction, which is still a prosperous company back in the Carolinas.
Right in front of us rests a new addition: a small cloth bag with pressed flowers and plants peeking from the rim. It sits carefully atop a sketch of a middle-aged woman in a simple work dress. Her head is shaved, and she has a scar on the left side of her forehead. She’s not looking at us or whoever drew her portrait. She is stone-faced, her attention directed toward some unknown horizon. But the artist loved her. You can see it in every line.
“That’s your great-great-great-great grandmother,” Dad says, pointing at the sketch. He makes a joke of the mouthful of greats, taking an exaggerated breath after finishing the sentence.
“Grandma Remy’s great-great-grandma,” I confirm.
Dad smiles at me with pride. “Yes, exactly. Her daughter had a son, that son had Ma Remy’s father, who then had her.” He scoots forward to the edge of the couch for a better view of the bag, and I follow him, eager for a history lesson instead of whatever awkward conversation could follow. “The plantation records named her Hanna, but family records say she went by Henny in private.”
“Then that’s what we’ll call her,” I say. Dad has taught me that it wasn’t uncommon for a person to have multiple names in the slavery era. If a plantation owner bothered to call the people they enslaved by names, they weren’t usually the ones they were born with. Slaves were considered nameless until they were purchased from the auction block. Their new given names could be mocking or condescending or simply meant to prevent the owner from having to remember unique or difficult-to-pronounce names when barking orders.
“Her daughter, Mima, drew this picture of her,” he says. “She drew it two weeks before her mother ran away from their plantation. It was Mima’s most prized possession. It was all she had left of her mother after Henny disappeared.”
“Oh,” I say. My heart sinks. This isn’t the direction I wanted our conversation to go tonight. “I thought…” I can’t really claim to have imagined a happy ending for my enslaved ancestors, but I didn’t want this. I know my purpose right now is to be a rock for my parents to lean on, to keep steady through this storm until something finally gives way. But I don’t know how to push past my own doubts and fears to assure him everything will be okay when generations of proof otherwise is right in front of us. I fight the urge to stand, to leave Dad to revisit this alone.
“It’s all right, Casey,” he says. He takes my hand in his. “Henny came back.”
“She did?”
“She did.” He squeezes my hand. “It’s a good story. Do you want to hear it?”
I squeeze back in response.
He points to another document, an old map, under the glass. “They lived here, on the Cureton plantation. That’s where we got our name. Henny, Mima, and Mima’s husband all came from the same plantation, though only Mima and her mama were related. Many freedmen chose to change their names after emancipation or escape, but your grandma always taught me that—”
“Too much has been taken from us not to reclaim ourselves,” I finish. Ma Remy was so proud of our family history. Her passion became Dad’s, which fed and nourished his career ambitions. She would have loved this heirloom display. She would have lectured Dad on leaving himself out, reminding him that we are living history and as important to our legacy as our ancestors. I almost wish she were here to tell this story with him, but maybe it’s better that she’s been spared everything that’s happened since Sutton disappeared.
Dad is quiet for a long moment but then continues, “Our family lineage nearly stopped here. After she was emancipated, Mima was almost executed for murdering her former master.”
