Sweetly (5 page)
Upstairs has the feel of an attic transformed into a living space—sloped ceilings and oddly placed beams. That said, it’s no less charming than the house below. The main room has a couch and a rocking chair with a crocheted afghan thrown over the arm, and there’s a tiny bathroom with white and black checked tile.
“So, bathroom is there—there are towels in the little closet behind the bathroom door. And Ansel, I assume you want to let your sister have the bedroom?”
“Of course,” Ansel says without a second thought.
Sophia smiles and motions for me to follow her down the hallway. I glance back at Ansel, who looks strangely large and out of place in the tiny room and as if he longs to go after Sophia—but he sits on the couch instead. I catch a hint of jealousy in his eyes as I walk away with her, and I can’t help but be pleased—Ansel is never jealous of me.
“So that’s my room, if you need anything,” Sophia says, pointing to a large bedroom as we pass it—it’s darkened, but there’s just enough light to make out a pale blue coverlet on the bed and a large white wardrobe lurking in the corner. “And this is the spare room. Sorry the bed isn’t bigger,” she says, grimacing. “If it sucks too much, you can have mine. Though that mattress is a little older, so it’s kind of lumpy… God, I’m the worst host ever, aren’t I?” she mutters, blushing a little.
“No, no. Trust me, I’ve been sleeping in motels or the car for the past few nights. This is great,” I answer. Actually, this is beautiful. The room is small and cool, with a steeply pitched ceiling and bead-board walls that have been painted pale yellow. There’s a twin bed with a pink floral quilt on top of it. The room itself is perfectly symmetrical—two open windows, two small alcoves (for desks, I presume), matching walls—the single bed and lavender-painted dresser are strange interruptions to the room’s reflection of itself.
“Good,” Sophia says warmly. “I don’t really have company. No one ever uses this room.”
We stand for a moment, unsure what to say to each other. I’m not sure why
she
looks concerned, but I’m totally unpracticed when it comes to people being this kind to me. I rock back on my heels, wishing I knew a way to thank her enough, wishing I could blatantly ask, “What’s your secret?” and figure out the key to being beautiful, confident, and certain, like she is.
“Well… good night!” Sophia says with a grin and a shrug. I open my mouth to echo the sentiment a moment too late—she’s closed the door and I hear her moving down the hall, talking to Ansel about finding extra blankets and pillows for the couch.
I turn to see the the white eyelet curtains stir; a sharp, warm breeze cuts through the room. I thought it was cool in here, but really it’s only in comparison to the sweltering heat outside. I step toward a window to tug it shut, pausing for a moment.
The woods are thick and deep, and in the darkness they seem to sway like a single beast, back and forth, hiding, waiting.
There it is—the fear, crawling up through me from somewhere deep in my chest. It’s darkly comforting and familiar, a friend I despise. I’ve never known myself without the fear—as much as I want it gone, I’m not even sure who I’d be if I woke up without it.
I stare into the trees. They’re different from the forests in Washington: thinner trees packed tightly together, pine needles that make tinkling sounds as they fall onto the forest floor below. It has the same eeriness, though, the same depth that all forests have. It looks as if it could
swallow
me.
The parade of pastors, policemen, and volunteers who came to the house used that phrase. They said the forest
swallowed
my sister up. They had a million questions, but the only answer I could give was that a yellow-eyed witch had stolen her, and that was never the answer they wanted. Ansel was more useful to them.
“I don’t remember,” Ansel said, crying, which I’d seen him do only once or twice before. “I had both their hands, but we had to let go to run faster. I let go of whomever was on my left first, and then whomever was on my right, but I don’t know who was where or when she was gone…”
One of us made it out of the forest, but even Ansel didn’t know who was truly missing for a heartbeat. He just knew one of his sisters was inside and one wasn’t.
Half of me was there, and half wasn’t.
Which means, how do I know I’m really the one who survived? What if I’m the one who disappeared? We were the same girl, perfectly identical: the same hair, same eyes, same hands. Yet one of us is gone. A stupid name was our only difference—is that why I survived? Because I’m Gretchen, and she’s a girl who doesn’t even have a name anymore?
My sister and I—we were born together. I thought we’d die together. I didn’t expect her to just… not die. And not live. To just not
be
. We were the same—if I could run fast enough to escape the witch, so could she. But she didn’t, and now everything about my life is wrong, wrong, wrong, because of her—
I slam the window shut; it creaks against stale paint and old grime, but I feel the familiar fear and fury subsiding. We’ll go to the ocean tomorrow. Calm down. I breathe slowly, like Ansel does, until another fear strikes me—one I had forgotten about until I climb into bed and pull the crisp sheets up over my body.
Stay away from her. Stay as far away from her as you can
.
He spoke as if he was afraid of her. He spoke of Sophia the way I used to speak of the witch.
But what about Sophia Kelly would warrant such a dire warning?
L
oud, sharp clanks of a hammer on nails wake me up the next morning. When I peer through the curtains, I see Ansel on the roof of the shed out back, forest looming behind him. I’m not surprised he’s good at this handyman role—he kept our home from physically falling apart after Dad died, even if he couldn’t repair my family’s heart.
In my bedroom, the sun cuts through the white curtains so easily that they might as well not exist. I rummage under my suitcase of novels for a sundress—the last of my clean clothes—and quietly open the door. I’ve got no idea if Sophia is awake yet. Her door is open; I pause for a moment to look inside.
It’s still dark, even in the daylight—I can see the silhouette of one of the large oaks swaying just outside a window and reason it must be blocking most of the sun. There’s a small bookshelf packed with philosophy books, and another with classics—
Little Women, Moby-Dick
, the Narnia books, all old and worn down, begging me to flip through their pages. On Sophia’s tiny wicker nightstand is a small lamp and, beside that, a Nietzsche book.
A bark startles me; I whip my head toward the staircase and see Luxe panting happily at the open doorway, a tennis ball at his feet. I smile and walk toward him; he sits obediently while I rustle the fur on his head and then descend the stairs.
I’m relieved when the scent of the chocolatier strikes me; something about it makes me relax, makes me forget about the thick forest just outside. Sophia is making something with coconut—she must be, because it smells like islands and sunshine in the storefront. Coming down the stairs, my eyes find a piece of wood nailed above the chocolatier’s front door.
The wood is polished smooth, and painted in pale blue are the words “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”
Odd quote for a chocolatier,
I think as I walk around the glass display cases and look over the saloon doors, to the kitchen.
I was right—Sophia is standing over a half dozen split coconut shells. She’s gazing out the window, at my brother, I realize, with a sad sort of look on her face. I pause, watching her. It’s as if she’s remembering something, or wishing for something, something she can’t have—
I step through the saloon doors; they creak and Sophia whirls around, smile on her face, any semblance of melancholy gone.
“You’re up! Are you hungry? Because I’m not so good at making breakfast—actually, I’m not good at making much of anything except candies… but I have a toaster that makes awesome toast, and about a hundred different kinds of preserves,” Sophia says, pointing to a cabinet behind me. “My mom, she could make anything. Grits, biscuits, pancakes in the shape of hearts, you name it…” The tangerine-colored radio behind her plays music quietly, and she begins pouring milk from the remaining coconut shells into a yellow mixing bowl.
“Do you want help?” I ask on my way to the toaster.
“With this?”
“I mean, since we’re waiting on Ansel, if you want… I don’t know how to cook, but I can learn.” I’ve always wanted to learn, honestly—our mom was a great cook. My sister and I practically survived off her homemade macaroni and cheese. I drop two slices of bread into the toaster and pick out a jar of grape preserves.
“I’d love help. I’m kind of obsessive about the way the mixing is done, but can you do the filling? I hate filling.” Sophia grins and a look similar to relief washes over her, as though she’s truly touched by my offer. “Dad used to pay me a nickel per mold I filled, because he hated it as much as I do.” After I finish my toast, I walk to the other side of the counter, where Sophia is standing.
“Just a half spoonful should do it. Don’t worry too much if it overflows a bit—we can just snap those edges off once it hardens,” Sophia says, passing the bowl to me. “And I’ve got a bunch more of those trays and am not ashamed of convincing someone else to fill them. Live Oak throws a big Fourth of July party in the square, and I’m way behind.”
Sophia turns the radio up a little bit—all oldies, but she tells me it’s the only station she can get decent reception for. As Ansel’s hammering falls into even patterns, I slowly fill the tiny circles while Sophia pops already-cooled candies from the plastic and puts them into cellophane bags. Luxe settles at my feet and snores softly. There’s a consistency to it all, a rhythm that makes me forget time is passing. I don’t bother to check the clock till it’s almost noon, and I’m shocked that so many hours have passed. It’s the same feeling I get after finding out how long I’ve been absorbed in a book.
I’m about to comment on how quickly the morning has gone when Luxe leaps up and barks happily; he runs out the kitchen’s screen door, almost bowling Ansel over, just as I hear a quiet tinkling of bells out front. I glance up to see two girls my age, one blond and one brunette, walking in. Luxe follows at their heels, as if he just strolled in with them instead of racing around the entire house to meet them. Ansel makes it into the kitchen and gives Luxe a weary look.
“Hey!” Sophia calls to the customers as she sweeps through the saloon doors.
“What’s up?” the blond girl asks brightly. I peer through the doorway at them. They look unpolished standing next to Sophia Kelly, as though they’re made of paint and makeup.
“Nothing too serious. Just about to put out some coconut cordials. Interested?” Sophia asks.
“Hmm, maybe,” the brunette says. “Anything new?”
“Not lately,” Sophia admits, leaning over the glass counter. “I’ve got some chocolate and peanut butter bark, though, and I haven’t had that in a while.”
“Ooh, that sounds yummy,” the blonde says, nodding emphatically. I watch her breathe deeply—does the scent of this place make everyone feel carefree, or is that just me?
“It’s right over there.” Sophia points to a shelf near the saloon doors. She catches my eyes. “Oh hey, wait—Gretchen, Ansel, come up front and meet Jessie and Violet!”
My brother and I make eye contact briefly, and he looks surprised when I’m the first to step toward the saloon doors. I smile as he follows behind me—normally it’s me following him, wary to lead.
“Hi, I’m Jessie,” the blonde says, and her voice is warm enough that I relax a little as I walk toward them. “You’re… working here?” She gives Violet a confused glance that screams:
But they’re strangers!
Violet, however, seems focused on Ansel and only gives a faint nod.
“They’re just helping me out for a little bit. Broke down crossing through,” Sophia explains, handing Jessie a crinkly bag filled with peanut butter bark. The explanation doesn’t seem to lessen Jessie’s surprise.
“That’s cool… Where are you from?” Violet asks Ansel after a moment, glossed lips curling into a flirty smile.
“Um…” He looks at Sophia, as if she can explain Violet’s heavy gaze. Sophia stifles a laugh and shrugs, so Ansel continues. “Just Washington State.”
“You guys drove here all the way from Washington?” Violet sounds amazed. I nod. “That means you crossed through practically every state!”
“Not quite, but a few. Lots of fields,” I say, reminiscing about the Midwest. “And then once we hit Kentucky, things weren’t so different from here.”
“Ugh. At least they have an Applebee’s in Kentucky. Live Oak just has eight churches and a grocery store, basically. But anyways, how old are you?” Violet asks Ansel hungrily.
“Nineteen. Um, Sophia?” Ansel turns to her, ears bright red. “Do you have a smaller Phillips-head screwdriver?”
“Yep. If you look behind the shed door, there’s a whole other set sitting on a box to the left,” Sophia answers, waving her eyebrows to tease him. He gives Violet and Jessie an obligatory nod and leaves—I wonder if he’d have been embarrassed if Sophia weren’t right here?