33. Summer
Summer
After a successful morning trip to the garden center and another day spent in the soil planting a mixture of seeds, bulbs and established flowers, I settle onto the porch with my acoustic guitar.
My fingers find the strings as the wind lifts strands of hair around my face, carrying the scent of freshly planted roses and camellias with it.
I look out and admire the fresh pink and red blooms speckled around the front yard. The workmen have gone for the day, which means I can focus on music without the sound of power tools distracting me in the background. It’s its own reward.
The house still smells strongly of fresh paint, but it’s coming together beautifully. Every room feels lighter than it did. Cleaner. Nothing like the house I grew up in, which is exactly how I want it.
I’ve been perched here for over an hour, working on the song I started writing a few days ago—the song Addie heard me sing.
Every time I think I’ve caught the next thread, it disappears.
I strum a few dissonant notes, then try again.
It’s worse.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tipping my head back.
The late-afternoon sun is warm on my cheeks. If I close my eyes, I can hear the crashing of ocean waves. It reminds me why this spot used to bring me a slice of joy.
It is peaceful here.
I no longer have to anticipate my father coming home drunk. Having to sit through cruel words and even crueler lashings.
It’s just me and the music.
Write what you feel, Addie said.
That was three days ago, and the only thing I hear on a loop in my mind is Don’t go.
Why? It’s not like he gave a shit whether we were there. Anytime he looks at me, he looks like he’s in pain. His eyebrows slant together and his jaw tenses. I’m not sure why he has such a big stick up his ass. I’m the one who had to skip town. Not him.
I return to my strumming, my fingers gliding up and down the neck of the guitar as I play around with chords, humming along to the sound. I’m halfway through a progression that might actually be going somewhere when I hear a wail.
Then a loud bang.
My fingers pause as I listen.
The sound came from the Whitmores’.
I scan the driveway and notice Mr. Whitmore’s car isn’t in its usual spot, and Chase’s truck isn’t there either.
Then I hear another sound, like a muffled moan. Like someone’s trying to form words but can’t.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I don’t hesitate. I’m off the porch before I realize I’m barefoot, running across the yard. I wince when I step on something spiky but keep going.
“Hello?” I call out, stepping up to their door. I cup my hands around my eyes and press my face to the front glass panel. “Is someone—”
My pulse stops dead.
Felicity lies on the floor at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled heap, trying to lift her head but failing.
“Oh God.” I burst through the door and am at her side in seconds. I drop to my knees. “Felicity. Felicity, can you hear me?”
Her eyes flutter open but are unfocused. “Honey?”
“It’s me, Summer. Don’t move, okay? You’ve had a fall.”
“The stairs …” She tries to move but collapses onto her back again. “My legs gave out.”
My throat constricts at the sight of her so small and weak. Frail.
I try not to retch when thick globs of blood ooze from her hairline, drawing wonky trails down her temple and cheek.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, already pulling out my phone. My fingers tremble as I dial nine-one-one. “I’m calling for help.”
The operator answers on the second ring. I give them the address, describe what’s happened, and try to keep my voice steady even though my whole body is shaking.
“They’re on their way,” I tell Felicity, ending the call.
“Chase,” she says, her voice cracking.
Shit. I don’t have his number.
I ditched my cell and got a new number as soon as I left town.
“I don’t have his number,” I croak, looking around. I spot a phone on the hallway table.
I’m up in a flash, grabbing the phone and fumbling through the call log.
The air whooshes from my lungs when I see Chase’s name, hitting the dial button.
“Hey, Ma.” His voice is soft and full of tenderness when he answers—like the old him.
My words catch in my throat, and a broken noise tumbles out.
“Mom?”
“It’s not—” I grind out, my heart thrashing against my ribs. “Chase, it’s Summer.”
“What’s wrong?” His voice is sharp and commanding.
“She fell. Down the stairs. I heard it from outside and I came over and—”
“I’m on my way.” I hear a loud clang sound through the speaker, like something landing on the ground.
“I don’t know what to do. There’s blood.” A sob tears from me. “On her head. I called the ambulance but—”
“Summer.”
I suck in air. “Uh-huh?”
“Is she conscious?” I hear the click of a seat belt before his truck engine roars to life.
“She’s talking. Her eyes are opening and closing … but her head—there’s so much blood, Chase.”
“Head wounds bleed a lot. Wait … where’s my dad?”
“I don’t know. His car’s not here.”
“Fuck. Okay. I’m only a few minutes away. Stay with her, try to keep her talking.”
“Okay,” I rasp, sniffling.
“Summer?”
“Mmm?”
His words crack as they leave him. “Thank you.”
The line goes dead.
I rush to Felicity’s side, placing my hand over hers. “Chase is coming. He’ll be here soon.”
“He’s a … good boy.” She breathes unevenly. “Always has been.”
“He is.” I run my thumb over her knuckles.
Her grip tightens on my fingers, and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to erase the image of my own mother from my mind.
The memory slams into me without warning.
Lying limp in that hospital bed, attached to wires and tubes and beeping machines. The sterile scent of antibacterial agents. How weak and small and helpless she looked, dragging in uneven gasps.
A wet, gurgling breath rattles out of her chest. The whistling sound that followed. My body is weighed down. I try to blink into focus, but I’m overcome with a shocking wave of ice.
Sirens sound in the distance, their wails getting closer.
No. Not now. Stay present. Remember where you are.
My eyelids start to close but I force them open, trying to hold myself upright. My vision blurs, and the edges of the room go soft. My grip on Felicity’s hand loosens, feeling like lead.
“Summer,” Felicity whispers, jiggling her hand as if to rouse me. “Summer, honey. It’s okay.”
I’m not here anymore.
I’m fourteen, watching my mother take her last breath.
I’m fourteen, surrounded by a sea of people dressed in black as the priest recites words my mother never believed in.
Then, I’m eighteen. Sitting on the floor in my bedroom, staring into green eyes, promising me I’m going to be okay when I knew I was about to lose everything.
It’s too much.
I hear a screech of tires out front before heavy footsteps clomp onto the porch. The door bangs open to reveal two paramedics who rush toward Felicity. They’re speaking, but I can’t make out their words.
She’s still holding on to me.
“Felicity. My name’s Sally,” a strange voice says. “We’re here to help, okay? We just need to do some checks. Can you follow my finger for me? … Good. That’s great.”
Then a shadow falls over me. Broad shoulders. Sandy hair. A voice I’d recognize anywhere.
“Summer.”
I feel my head loll, my body folding forward. Something catches me.
“Hey.” A large hand engulfs my face, thumb brushing gently over my cheek. It’s warm and rough. “Hayes, you with me?”
I want to respond, but my lips won’t cooperate.
“No,” he says. “I think she’s gone into shock. Can I get some help—”
The voice fades in and out.
I feel myself being lifted, then cradled against something solid, the smell of grease infiltrating my senses.
“Just listen to my voice, okay? Keep your eyes open, Hayes. You’re all right. You’re safe.”
I try, but I’m sinking. Sinking.
The last thing I hear before everything goes black is his voice wobbling on my name. His hand trembles in my hair, his hold on me so strong.
He whispers the three words that puncture my chest. The three words he uttered so many times when we were kids.
“I’ve got you.”
Then, darkness drags me under.