back.”
“Peter, I have to—”
“Tell me you’ll write me back.”
He was looking at her straight through the screen, his scared eyes digging into her, begging her. She would have to write as Michelle, but then again, she didn’t know if he would ever get it. She didn’t know if he would even make it through the next half hour.
“I’ll write you back,” she said.
He swallowed, taking her in for one last second, and smiled. More shouts echoed behind him, and the rumble of an engine. The call ended.
For a moment, Kelsey didn’t quite know where she was.
Panic seized her. She rubbed her face with her palms. Her identical face. Michelle’s cheeks. Michelle’s eyes. Michelle’s nose. What would she do? Michelle would protect him, at least until she could find a way to let him down gently. This wasn’t a text message breakup situation. Michelle had loved him. Peter had one of those smiles that could transform everything else about his face, his eyes, even the air around him. Kelsey didn’t know how, but she wasn’t going to take that away from him. Not now.
She was left alone in her sister’s room with the sound of absolutely nothing, which was different than silence. It was the sound of being covered with a blanket, of falling with no end, of being very deep inside something, so deep you can’t see a way out.
CHAPTER NINE
Kelsey woke up to a naked ceiling, her covers gone, feeling like she had been kicked by a horse. She struggled to hold what she knew to be true and so very, very false. Peter saw Michelle when he looked at Kelsey. In Peter’s mind, he had talked to Michelle. But Michelle was nowhere.
A noise at her door made her jump.
Her father’s face poked in, beard first. “City Market day,” he said, a little hoarse.
“What?” They hadn’t made their monthly roadtrip to the Kansas City farmers’ market since the summertime. They used to buy oddly shaped produce their mother sliced and put in salads, useless trinkets the girls collected and eventually gave away at garage sales, cuts of meat her father used on burger specials.
“City Market day,” her father repeated the phrase louder, as he did lately, instead of giving an explanation. He closed the door.
When they were very little, his grizzly-bear body was their playground. He’d stand in the middle of the living room, feet apart, knees bent, hands on hips, and she and Michelle would put their feet on his knees and become mountaineers from either side, racing to get to his shoulders.
They used to pretend to go to bed, but wait until he got off work from the restaurant late at night, and surprise him when he got home by sneaking into the kitchen and leaping up from behind the counter.
“Who are these girls?” he used to say, pretending to be shocked.
“Michelle! Kelsey!” they would scream.
“Who?” His eyes would go wide, trying not to smile.
It was fun to tell him the story of who they were, what they meant to him. “I’m Kelsey and that’s Michelle! I’m your daughter, silly! You love me and all that! Remember?”
Then the moment when he remembered, even though they knew it was coming, ended in glorious hugs and kisses, as if he were remembering them after such a long time. As if eight hours away from someone you loved was such a long time.
And it was, when she was a kid.
But every time she and her father tried to comfort each other now, they ended up just forcing words into a thick silence. Because they reminded each other of Michelle, she guessed.
Kelsey, especially, was a reminder to him. She was a reminder to everybody. She had no choice. People in the hallways, people on the sidewalk, people in the grocery store. Their eyes widened and they drew in breath. Their mouths tightened in pity and they looked away, as if it were too hard to look at her. Try looking in the mirror every morning, Kelsey wanted to tell them. She was used to being mistaken for Michelle, but Michelle used to make people smile, not
“Peter, I have to—”
“Tell me you’ll write me back.”
He was looking at her straight through the screen, his scared eyes digging into her, begging her. She would have to write as Michelle, but then again, she didn’t know if he would ever get it. She didn’t know if he would even make it through the next half hour.
“I’ll write you back,” she said.
He swallowed, taking her in for one last second, and smiled. More shouts echoed behind him, and the rumble of an engine. The call ended.
For a moment, Kelsey didn’t quite know where she was.
Panic seized her. She rubbed her face with her palms. Her identical face. Michelle’s cheeks. Michelle’s eyes. Michelle’s nose. What would she do? Michelle would protect him, at least until she could find a way to let him down gently. This wasn’t a text message breakup situation. Michelle had loved him. Peter had one of those smiles that could transform everything else about his face, his eyes, even the air around him. Kelsey didn’t know how, but she wasn’t going to take that away from him. Not now.
She was left alone in her sister’s room with the sound of absolutely nothing, which was different than silence. It was the sound of being covered with a blanket, of falling with no end, of being very deep inside something, so deep you can’t see a way out.
CHAPTER NINE
Kelsey woke up to a naked ceiling, her covers gone, feeling like she had been kicked by a horse. She struggled to hold what she knew to be true and so very, very false. Peter saw Michelle when he looked at Kelsey. In Peter’s mind, he had talked to Michelle. But Michelle was nowhere.
A noise at her door made her jump.
Her father’s face poked in, beard first. “City Market day,” he said, a little hoarse.
“What?” They hadn’t made their monthly roadtrip to the Kansas City farmers’ market since the summertime. They used to buy oddly shaped produce their mother sliced and put in salads, useless trinkets the girls collected and eventually gave away at garage sales, cuts of meat her father used on burger specials.
“City Market day,” her father repeated the phrase louder, as he did lately, instead of giving an explanation. He closed the door.
When they were very little, his grizzly-bear body was their playground. He’d stand in the middle of the living room, feet apart, knees bent, hands on hips, and she and Michelle would put their feet on his knees and become mountaineers from either side, racing to get to his shoulders.
They used to pretend to go to bed, but wait until he got off work from the restaurant late at night, and surprise him when he got home by sneaking into the kitchen and leaping up from behind the counter.
“Who are these girls?” he used to say, pretending to be shocked.
“Michelle! Kelsey!” they would scream.
“Who?” His eyes would go wide, trying not to smile.
It was fun to tell him the story of who they were, what they meant to him. “I’m Kelsey and that’s Michelle! I’m your daughter, silly! You love me and all that! Remember?”
Then the moment when he remembered, even though they knew it was coming, ended in glorious hugs and kisses, as if he were remembering them after such a long time. As if eight hours away from someone you loved was such a long time.
And it was, when she was a kid.
But every time she and her father tried to comfort each other now, they ended up just forcing words into a thick silence. Because they reminded each other of Michelle, she guessed.
Kelsey, especially, was a reminder to him. She was a reminder to everybody. She had no choice. People in the hallways, people on the sidewalk, people in the grocery store. Their eyes widened and they drew in breath. Their mouths tightened in pity and they looked away, as if it were too hard to look at her. Try looking in the mirror every morning, Kelsey wanted to tell them. She was used to being mistaken for Michelle, but Michelle used to make people smile, not
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