Chapter 2
Two
My exit from Elkins was five o’clock sharp, right when an aide came to escort Annie to dinner.
I walked to the dining hall with them, holding my grandmother’s hand, but then I gracefully fled.
It was a strategic decision; Annie never liked when I left, especially when she knew I was her granddaughter.
“Why don’t you stay and eat with me?” she’d ask.
“The food is probably better than whatever that woman is making…”
I smiled weakly, too tired to defend Erica’s cooking skills. And honestly, what was the point? “I can’t tonight,” I said. “But I’ll be back soon.”
“When?”
It was a good question, one that almost brought tears to my eyes.
Technically, I’d be back on Friday—only the day after tomorrow—but would Annie hug me then?
Tell me how happy she was to see me? Or would she politely greet me, as if I were a new face at Elkins?
I tried not to allow myself to dread the possibility of her being in a bad mood.
“I love you, Annie,” was all I said as I gave her a goodbye hug, one that would hopefully last until she saw me again. “I love you very much.”
“I love you too.” She raised a slightly shaking hand to my cheek. Ridges of blue veins ran across her pale skin. “My dearest Olivia.”
And with that, an aide distracted her so I could slip away, steeling myself to not look back.
Thankfully, the storm had calmed; it lightly drizzled as I crossed the parking lot toward my car.
Elkins Village—“the Ritz-Carlton of retirement communities,” per my dad—was safe, so I never locked the Jeep.
But after I hopped up into the driver’s seat, I couldn’t help but feel like something was strange.
It seemed like the car was higher off the ground than usual, and why was my seat farther away from the steering wheel?
It was only when I noticed the backpack and lacrosse stick riding shotgun that I realized I was sitting in someone else’s car. Oh my god, I thought, stomach dropping. What the fuck, Olivia?
My mind was always a little scrambled after leaving Annie, but seriously?
I slid out of the Jeep, hoping to flee the scene as fast as possible. Funny story, I didn’t want to explain to its owner. I also drive an Anvil blue Jeep Wrangler, and just like you, I don’t lock it while I’m here…
It luckily took less than a minute to find my actual Jeep, two rows over with its New Jersey license plate.
I’d grown up in Pennsylvania—just up the road, actually—but Erica had convinced my dad to move to Haddonfield after Pops died and once Annie was transferred to assisted living.
I’d been a sophomore and went with the flow, knowing that my time had passed.
Life in the Lupo family was about prioritizing the twins.
The house my dad and Erica ended up buying?
It had five bedrooms, the smallest of which was gifted to me.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Erica had asked, pseudo-earnestly.
“I just think it makes sense that Maisie and Bryce have bigger rooms, since they’ll be living here longer… ”
By the time I pulled into our driveway, the cloudy sky had darkened and the front lights flickered on to show Bryce waiting for me. His light brown hair was extra curly from the humidity. “Hey, Olivia!” he called whilst launching himself into a big puddle. Erica would be thrilled. “Guess what?”
“Your kickball team finally beat Maisie’s at recess?”
My ten-year-old brother pointedly ignored my guess. “We got your favorite mac and cheese for dinner.”
“The Hot ‘n’ Honey Pork?” I asked, stomach rumbling with hope. A gourmet mac and cheese restaurant had recently opened in town.
“No, the pepperoni pizza mac.”
“Bryce, that’s your favorite.” I said, then wrinkled my nose. Not to mention disgusting!
He giggled. “Well, my mom said we all had to agree…”
“…so you lied,” I finished for him as we walked into the house together.
The kitchen smelled like pepperoni and cheese and Swede bounded over to us, nearly knocking over Erica’s tall Nikon tripod.
“Hello, hello, my dude!” I cooed, crouching to give the golden retriever a hug.
“Bryce, do you know if Swede’s been fed? ”
My brother shook his head, and our dog corroborated by barking.
“Swede…” a voice warned, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Erica walking into the kitchen. She wore black leggings and a white T-shirt that read JERSEY GIRLS DON’T PUMP GAS, but her caramel-colored beach waves and flawless makeup made her look camera ready.
“Did you shoot some content today?” I casually asked, gesturing to the tripod.
She nodded. “Tuckernuck sent a couple dresses, and I made a charcuterie board.”
“Cool.” Erica was a lifestyle influencer on Instagram; her almost 250,000 followers watched her do stuff like model preppy clothes, whip up hors d’oeuvres, mix cocktails, review books, and go on weekend getaways.
Maisie and Bryce also made regular cameos, usually in coordinating outfits. “Where’s the charcuterie board?”
“I brought it over to Hilary’s house. She’s hosting book club tonight.”
My stomach sighed in disappointment, but if my stepmother heard it, she didn’t let on. Instead, she opened the fridge and started taking out salad supplies—a sign that she also planned to pass on eating Bryce’s favorite mac and cheese.
I waited for her to ask about my visit with Annie.
She didn’t. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all; instead, she admired the invitation posted on the fridge for the thousandth time.
It had arrived last month. WELCOME TO CAMP CARMICHAEL!
the letterpress heading read, and below that were all the details for Erica’s family reunion on Martha’s Vineyard this summer.
Her parents were celebrating their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary, and we’d been invited up for a three-week-long celebration.
To say I didn’t want to go was an understatement. Erica’s family was not my family, and three weeks was almost a month.
That was a long time to leave Annie.
The oven timer jolted Erica back to the moment. “Bryce, will you go get Maisie?” she asked as I rolled my eyes. Still no inquiry about Annie. It was amazing how wrapped up my stepmother could be in her own life.
“I can’t,” my brother answered. “I’m making sure Swede doesn’t eat too fast. Olivia said the vet said his stomach could twist, remember?”
(Swede had a tendency to wolf down his Purina Pro Plan.)
“I’ll call her,” I offered, then took approximately three steps across the tile floor before dramatically shouting, “MAISIE! DINNER!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Erica flinch.
“COMING!” my sister called back, along with, “WILL YOU DO MY NAILS TONIGHT?”
Bryce groaned. “You guys are so loud.”
Five minutes later, we took our unofficially assigned seats at the kitchen table.
Swede followed suit and stretched out beneath us, resting his blocky head on my feet.
The twins raved about their mac and cheese, and I thanked their mom for tossing a salad big enough for two.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and after letting Maisie fill me in on first grade gossip—Violet P.
thought her fish sticks tasted weird at lunch and then later threw up all over their science experiment—Erica spoke up again.
“Olivia, how are Quincy and Gwen doing?”
“Good,” I said. Quincy and Gwen were my best friends, but unlike me, a gap year hadn’t been in their plans.
With freshman year now in the books, they both had internships in New York for the summer.
I’d helped them move into their apartment over Memorial Day Weekend last week.
“They’re taking the train to Ocean City for the Fourth. Gwen’s parents rented a house.”
“Oh, right.” Erica took a sip of water. “I knew that. Chris ran into Gwen’s mom at Acme.”
I inwardly sighed. It was always Chris, not your dad. It sounded like I wasn’t his daughter; instead, I was just some adult who lived with them. An au pair, perhaps.
Maisie hiccupped, a much-too-fast eater like Swede. “So where did we land on the whole painting-my-nails thing?”
I mustered up a smile. “What color?”
* * *
After letting Maisie dig through my stash and painting her tiny fingernails an Essie shade of hot pink called “blushin’ she was eighteen at her high school formal, wearing a Grace Kelly–esque white dress.
It was a total glamour shot, and after a quick glance at my own prom photo, I admit it was a little eerie how much I resembled Annie.
While my eyes were hazel and hers deep blue, we had the same wavy blond hair, our lips were shaped the same (a “Cupid’s bow,” my grandfather had loved to say), and our eyebrows had the same intrigued arch.
Despite my room being tiny, I had two walk-in cedar closets—one was for my wardrobe while the other now stored some of Annie’s stuff.
Most of her belongings were in a storage unit near Elkins, since she’d downsized to a single room.
We didn’t have space in our house for all her furniture, but Erica suggested we keep everything for now; some pieces were family heirlooms and others could furnish an apartment someday.
“Whose apartment?” I’d deadpanned, because how often did she fantasize about me moving out?
Was it secretly marked on her calendar? I knew she was being pragmatic, but it just rubbed me the wrong way.
I switched on the light in the second closet, then sat crisscross-applesauce on the needlepointed rug that used to sit in front of Annie’s town house fireplace.
She’d stitched it herself, white with intricate springtime flowers and a green border.
“Needlepointing is cheaper than therapy!” she often said, though I never understood what she needed therapy for. She’d lived a wondrous life.
Lives, I corrected myself. She’s still living life.
It just wasn’t so wondrous anymore.
I usually hid in the closet after my Elkins visits, looking through Annie’s old record collection—she loved opera, especially La traviata—or admiring her jewelry and precious little trinkets.
Once I’d put on one of her favorite winter coats and found a grocery list in a pocket.
Dark chocolate had been the first item, written in her elegant penmanship.
My eyes had stung; Annie couldn’t write anymore.
Thanks to her dementia, she could barely spell her name.
Maybe it was a little embarrassing, but the closet comforted me. It felt like Annie was comforting me, the grandmother who had helped raise me and who I so fiercely loved and wasn’t ready to lose. I only saw glimmers of that woman at Elkins, and they were becoming few and far between.
She’s still here, I half-lied to myself. She’s still around.