Firefly Beach

Firefly Beach by Luanne Rice Page A

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Authors: Luanne Rice
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around Skye, they were in the rapids. The white water hissed in their ears. She spit out mouthfuls of cold water. Blinded by icy spray, she caught nightmare glimpses of snakes sunning themselves on the flat rocks they passed. Bumping into logs, tearing their clothes on sticks, Caroline clutched Skye with one arm and tried to grab branches and vines with the other.
    Crashing down the river, Caroline felt the stones underwater. The force would drive the sisters into deep, swirling pockets, and they would be sucked under and spit out. Craggy boulders blocked their way, too slippery to grasp. The river pulled them forward. Caroline wondered how high the falls would be; she knew they were going over. She wondered if they would die.
    But then the river evened out. The rapids gave way to a wide, peaceful stream. The roar faded away to silence and birds singing. Overwhelmed with her own life, the sense of safety, Caroline began to laugh with joy. She hugged Skye. But Skye didn’t hug back. Her lips were blue. Weighed down by her jacket and boots, she felt like a sack of grain. Caroline pulled her to the riverbank. Skye was alive, and her eyes were open. But they wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t meet Caroline’s.
    “Skye, we’re safe,” Caroline said, rubbing her small hands.
    “Did you see?” Skye asked, her voice small and frozen. “All those snakes on the rocks back there?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “I want to go home, Caroline,” Skye said, the feelings breaking out. She began to cry hard. “Take me home. Please take me home.”
    But Caroline couldn’t. She couldn’t talk her father out of what he thought was best. Falling in the icy river was part of learning how to be tough. Seeing snakes on the rocks was how you learned to keep from getting bitten. The lesson Caroline learned that day was slightly more disturbing: Just because she felt thrilled to be alive, overcome with rapture and gratitude, didn’t necessarily mean her sister felt the same way. It didn’t mean that at all.
    Hugh had been so wrong. Caroline knew that now. Her father was dead, officially of cancer, but he had died years before, of a broken heart. Unable to bear what had finally happened to Skye, his baby, their beautiful girl, he had drunk himself to death, turning away from his family in the process. That more than the hunts themselves had filled Caroline with the bitterness she now felt. Because Skye was doing the same thing.
     
March 14, 1973
Dear the only Joe,
I have two sisters. Clea and Skye. Clea is better than a best friend, and Skye is our beautiful baby sister. I wish we were all in the same grade together. Sometimes we want to talk so no one else can understand, and we do. It’s hard to explain, but I know what they’re thinking and they know what I’m thinking. It’s like magic, only it’s not. It’s having sisters.
Your friend,
Caroline
     
June 19, 1973
Dear Caroline,
Well, he’s definitely not magic, but he’s pretty cute. Sam. Good old Sam, my baby brother. Only he’s a real baby—as in just born. Squawks like a seagull all night long. I took him out in my boat the other day, and my mother called the Coast Guard. She was really worried. Something about him not knowing how to swim (he’s about the size of a flounder), but she missed the point. The kid loves water. Loves boats too. I swear, he wanted to row.
See you later,
Joe
     
     

     
     
     
    “M OM ADMITS S KYE MUST HAVE HAD A LITTLE TOO much to drink,” Clea said, raising her eyebrow. The night before, while Caroline had maintained watch at the hospital, Clea had stayed home with her family, in touch only by telephone. She felt guilty, and it came through in the too-bright tone of her voice.
    “Like a fifth of vodka?” Caroline asked.
    The day was new, and they were on their way to Firefly Hill, to pick up Augusta and drive her to the hospital. Clea was at the wheel of her Volvo, and as they rounded the headland, Caroline caught sight of the big white ships on the

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