He never does land ondaughter, but I’m okay with all of thesedescriptors, as long as he sees me as a benevolent and welcome presence. This is more of a relationship than we’ve had in a long time.
He takes a final bite of his apple and concludes: “We’re a good team, you and I.”
Halloween marks the final day of our divination project, and we have worked our way to sciomancy—the interpretation of shadows. With the autumnal equinox now well behind us, the evenings are falling earlier and earlier, and we decide to seek out shadows down by the water. I help my father into one of his thick wool sweaters and I put on a puffer vest, and we make our way to the pond. The flamboyant hues of early fall have mostly given way to a more restrained palette of crimson, brown, and gray. But along the shoreline, a wall of spruces encircles the water, stalwart and evergreen.
At the dock, we arrange our chairs so that we can see both the pond and the long expanse of the boathouse wall, where the late-afternoon light dances over the chipped paint. As is our routine, I read the definition of today’s form of divination to orient my father. It’s clear he is not tracking our project, but that’s my job. His job is simply to participate, and participate he does.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “Sciomancy: a form of divination through shadows, taking into account their size, shape, movement, and appearance.”
My father nods, and we both become pensive as we study the flickers on the boathouse wall, reflections of the lapping water below.
“What do you think, Dad? What do the shadows mean?”
“Well, sometimes a shadow is just a shadow. They come and go. It’s best not to take them too seriously.”
Fair enough. We watch as the flickering slows, and the distinct light-shapes start to coagulate into a more unified blob. One side of the boathouse is now covered by a large shadow that encroaches at a diagonal angle.
My father breaks the silence: “Oh, he’s gone.”
“Who’s that?”
My father points to an area of the wall and traces an outline. “Your friend. The blond kid. He was just here, but he left when he saw you.”
“What do you mean? Where?” My heart thuds, and I can’t take a breath. This is the type of joke my father might have played twenty years ago, but he’s not capable of that kind of deliberate trickery anymore. He doesn’t even know I’m his daughter, so how could he remember Seth well enough to conjure him for fun?
“Right there. At the edge of the dock. He must be in the boathouse now.”
I get up and run around the corner, pulling open the door and half expecting to come face-to-face with a teenager who has been dead for ten years. But there is nothing but the boat in its bay, the open mouth of the boathouse, and the water beyond. I try to catch my breath.
He’s confused, I tell myself. He’s mixing memories, maybe even hallucinating. Perhaps we need to abort this project before it dredges up all kinds of chaos.
I return to the dock shaken, but I try to shrug it off. My father is completely at ease as he looks out over the pond. We sit in silence until the sun dissolves and the dancing shadows on the boathouse solidify into a straightforward, even shade of green.
Later that night, when I am in bed, I look upsciomancyonce more. Shadows, shadows, the reading of shadows. But then there it is—an alternative definition that I had missed during my preliminary research. It’s not only the reading of shadows. Sciomancy can also be a form of divination that leverages the help of ghosts.
Chapter 21
December 2015
My plan didn’t work. I had wanted Seth to pine for me, but instead, I spent that entire fall pining forhim. We spoke a few times and texted occasionally, but his tone had cooled and I could tell that I had shaken his confidence in us, if not sabotaged the relationship entirely. We discussed the possibility of visiting each other, but the logistics were too complicated. Between our busy school and sports schedules, there was not a single weekend that worked, even if we met halfway—somewhere around Poughkeepsie. By the time winter break rolled around, I was convinced I had jeopardized the one thing that meant the most to me.
I spent a quiet Christmas with my parents in the city. The day after, my mother went to visit Nina in Nicaragua, where she was posted for the Peace Corps. It was decided that I would stay home with my father so I could study over the break. I had come close to failing two subjects that fall, and my mother was already convinced I wouldn’t get into any good colleges the next year. We all agreed it was time for me to get serious about my schoolwork. But a few days after my mother’s departure, I received a text from Chloe.
Chloe: NYE plans?
Me: None to speak of. Why?
Chloe: Greg’s having a party in
Locust. Can u find a way up here?
My family didn’t often go to the Adirondacks in winter. In fact, the last time we were there in the snow, I was little enough to be bundled up and pulled around the frozen pond in a plastic sled.
Chloe: Seth will be there
She knew how to motivate me. I began to have a vision of a dramatic reconciliation:Our eyes would meet, and it would be like no time had passed. I would apologize for having broken up with him, and he would forgive me instantly. My fear would dissipate, and we would finally have sex. Everything would be okay again. No—everything would be perfect.
For the next few hours, I turned my plan over and over in my mind, cultivating it like an oyster does its pearl. Finally, I asked my father if we could go to Locust for the remainder of the break.
