He’d taken the last thirteen days off work—vacation time to try to put his family back together—but he’d had to return today, as his landscaping business didn’t make money unless he finished projects. Which meant Ramona had been with Olive all day, the normally docile six-month-old now inconsolable, a tiny, wailing litmus test measuring the stress in the house.
Go, Dad had said after they had dinner. Ramona had made boxed mac and cheese again and ate very little of it, as though her appetite had left with her mother. When Olive started crying in her highchair and slung her tiny bowl of mashed carrots onto the floor, splattering orange all over the hardwoods and nearby wall, Ramona had made a mistake—she’d shoved her hands into her own hair, fingers closing tightly and pulling at her scalp.
And her dad had seen it.
Go, he’d said.
Ramona had shaken her head. At thirteen, she didn’t think she’d evergoanywhere ever again.
But her dad had reached across the table and taken her hand, his brown eyes red from lack of sleep.Baby, go. Go find some fun.
And so she had, thoughfunwasn’t really on her agenda. She knew exactly where she was heading the moment she stepped out of her house. She knew her friends would be at the main beach, grilling hot dogs and getting ready for fireworks, but April was on a trip with her parents in Maine—they took one every July—and Ramona couldn’t handle everyone else’s sad glances and whispers.
Her mom just left.
Can you believe it?
Do you think they saw it coming?
No, Ramona was just fine being alone tonight. Quiet, that’s what she really wanted. Space to cry, maybe even scream a little.
She speed walked down the sidewalk toward downtown, but right when the lights started to glow in front of her, she veered left, through the Abernathys’ yard and into the woods. She used a tiny flashlight on her keys to guide her way, though she could’ve navigated Moon Lovers Trail with her eyes closed.
Soon, she headed off the trail and into an unmarked section of the woods, dodging bushes and fallen limbs, the earth sloping downward now until it spilled her out onto a tiny slice of beach.
A cove, surrounded by trees.
Mirror Cove, the locals called it, as the water here was usually very still and clear, reflecting the sky. Hardly anyone ever came here to swim or hang out, because the lake floor was rocky, and the beach wasn’t the easiest to get to. Ramona wasn’t surprised to find she was the only one here.
She tumbled onto the beach, her limbs immediately relieved of stress and purpose. She plopped onto the sand, tucked her knees to her chest, and waited for the tears to release. They took a while to come out of hiding, her body slow to realize it was safe. But they finally flowed, warm and salty, almost a comfort, as though her heart was setting down a burden.
After a few minutes of this, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a piece of notebook paper, crudely torn from one of her school spirals. She’d been carrying it around for weeks now, so the paper was soft as a blanket, creased and wrinkled from how many times she’d folded and unfolded it, eyes scanning the few words inside for anything new.
Anything that made sense.
I’m sorry, Ramona. Take care of them for me.
That was it. That was all her own mother had written to her, set on her daughter’s neatly made bed the day she’d left. She’d packed everything—her entire closet, her jewelry, even some kitchenware she liked, a few candles from the living room—then taken off during the day while Ramona was at school and Steven was at work. She’d asked their neighbor Sally Ryerson, who worked from home as an editor, to watch Olive.
She had an emergency, she’d said to Sally.
She’d left behind every single framed family photo.
More tears spilled over as Ramona remembered coming homefrom school to an empty house, a few odd things missing, then finding this note on her bed. She’d rushed to her parents’ bedroom, some part of her already knowing what she’d find when she flung open their closet door.
One side empty, nothing but swaying hangers where all her mother’s beautiful clothes used to be, drifting like fashionable ghosts.
She folded up the letter now, put it back in her pocket, only to fish it out five minutes later, starting the whole process again. She wondered, not for the first time, if her dad had gotten a letter. If she’d left one for Olive. Ramona didn’t dare ask him—she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer either way.
She stuffed the letter into her pocket for the fourth time, hugged her knees tighter to her chest, and looked up at the sky. It was a clear night, the moon not quite full, the stars bright and hopeful. Fireworks would be starting soon, she knew, shot off from a boat near the main beach’s shoreline. She’d have a good view here, not that she was really in the mood for—
“Oh wow, this place is pretty.”
A voice.
Another person.
Ramona looked to the right, dread filling her chest, and spotted a shadow emerging from the path that circled the lake toward the main beach.
