Gram found Rita FLOATING facedown in the pool that morning. Rita was wearing her nightgown.
Gram, Mom, Diane and Rita and Great-Grandma were all at home. They’d had dinner the night before—beef stew, had watched some TV and gone to bed. No one heard or saw anything. At some point in the night or early morning, Rita must have gotten out of bed and gone down to the pool. Gram’s screams woke Mom and Diane the next morning. They ran down to see what was the matter. There was Gram with Rita in her arms, pulled from the pool, soaking wet.
I found the death certificate.
Cause of death: ACCIDENTAL DROWNING.
Like it was really that simple.
Like that was really what happened.
I let the papers fall back to the floor as I sank down onto the couch beside my aunt. She held out the joint to me, and I shook my head; potwas the last thing I needed. She took another hit, held the breath, then let it out slowly. “Two weeks ago she seemedfine.”
“How do you think it happened?” I asked. “She was the best swimmer I know. How did she drown? I mean, do you think…”
“That it was a suicide? That she drowned herself on purpose?” Diane’s shoulders hunched. “I guess we’ll never know. Maybe she just did too many laps, got tired, got a cramp, thought she was a fish. We’ll never know. We’ll never know what led Lexie out to the pool that night, or what was going through her head in her final days. Trying to figure it out, guessing… it’s a fool’s errand.”
My sister the whirling dervish, I thought as I looked around the trashed room. The cyclone leaving ruin in her wake. She’d go on massive shopping sprees, start a renovation by sledgehammer, or decide she wanted to delve into her Scottish roots by taking up the bagpipe—then she would decide everything was complete shit. She’d call me sobbing, despondent, and suicidal. I’d spent a good part of my life helping Lexie clean up her messes, coaxing her back on her meds.
I glanced at the floor, saw an old photo of Lexie and me as kids. We were standing in front of the pool she had just drowned in. Lexie looked to be about twelve, which would make me nine. We were wearing bright bikinis, arms around each other, squinting into the camera. Behind us, the dark water shimmered obsidian, our reflections watching to see what we might do next.
Closing my eyes, I sank back into the cushions.
The smell of the pot reminded me of Lexie and, with my eyes closed, I could let myself imagine, for a half a second, that it was her beside me, not Diane.
I could almost hear her:Hey, Jax. Long time no see.
Something brushed against my left calf, a tentative touch at first, then firmer, more sure.
My eyes flew open, and I screamed.
Diane jumped, dropped the joint.
“What the hell was that?” I asked as a small black blur raced across the living room floor.
“Pig,” Diane said. She sounded relieved.
“What? That was so not a pig,” I said. But it occurred to me that at this point, I wouldn’t be too shocked if Lexie did have a pig living in the house.
“It’s Lexie’s cat,” Diane explained.
“Lexie had a cat? Since when?”
“A couple of months now. He was a stray who just kept coming around, and she kept feeding him. They kind of adopted each other, I guess.”
I shook my head in disbelief. A cat. Lexie had a cat.
“She called him Pig,” Diane said.
I stood up, looking for the cat. He had hidden underneath the antique sideboard in the dining room.
“Who names a cat Pig?” I asked, getting down on my knees, peering at the little black cat. His golden eyes glared back at me. I’d clearly scared him as much as he’d scared me—he was up against the wall, flat on his belly, ears back. “Come on out, big guy,” I coaxed.
He hissed.
We were off to a great start.
“We’ll have to catch him and get him to the shelter,” Diane said.
