1
SUMMONED HOME
MARY KATE
My mattress is a raft in a sea of textbooks. I sit cross-legged in the dim lamplight, thumb tracing the conjugations of Italian verbs while the damp corners of a dog-eared Rick Steves guide jab my thigh. From the living room, someone’s shriek of laughter careens down the hall, ricocheting off the cheap drywall—Stella, or maybe Kayleigh. Even with my door closed, the apartment’s baked-in aroma seeps through: jasmine incense, stringy cheese from last week’s pizza, something older, sour and sweet, that clings to thrifted carpet like a ghost of college parties past.
I roll my neck side to side, trying to unknot the muscles there, and page deeper into the textbook, searching for a phrase I could actually use if I ever made it to Italy:Mi scusi. Per favore. Vorrei un caffè doppio. The fantasy of Rome is the only thing with a pulse in this cave of a room, and even that is on life support.
My phone vibrates, a little shudder in the pile of sheets beside me. The screen is upside down, but I don’t need to look to know it’s my mother. She never texts, only calls, as if typedwords aren’t real unless they’re spoken aloud and clamped into existence with her sharp vowels.
I thumb the phone over, squinting at the blue-lit display. Jeannine Ashton, my last name appended by habit or warning, as if I might have confused her with another Jeannine.
I answer on the third ring, out of spite or submission. The voice on the other end is low and deliberate, each sentence opening with a breathy inhale like a talk show host stalling for drama.
“Mary Kate, sweetheart. You have a minute?”
I pull the guidebook free and drop it onto the pillow, smothering the picture of the Colosseum with my palm. “Sure, Mom. What’s up?”
A long, practiced pause. “I need your help.”
I pause myself.
“Yeah of course. What’s up, Mom?”
Jeannine lets out a dramatic sigh. “It’s about Kent. Your stepfather. He’s not doing so well right now. I—” She breathes in. “He needs someone around the house for a while.”
I pick at a scab of sticker residue on the spine of the textbook, refusing to let my voice betray the heat I feel along the back of my neck. “What do you mean, he’s not well?”
Jeannine sighs theatrically again. “He’s not dying, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s just compromised. Forgetful, sometimes a little confused. The doctors think it’ll stabilize, but until then, someone should keep an eye on him. The house is too big to be alone in.”
My heart races because my stepdad’s a successful physician himself. If other doctors are saying it’s bad, then it must be bad.
“But what does he have?” I ask. “What’s so serious?”
“It’s long and complicated, baby,” my mom says in a hurry. “I’ll explain in detail when you get here.”
Okay, that sounds fishy, but I take a breath because what’s more important is that I figure out the contours of this assignment stat.
“So for how long do you need me? You know I’m sharing an apartment with Kayleigh and Stella right now, and rent’s not cheap. Andie moved out, so we’re only splitting the rent three ways now.”
Another beat. Then: “I don’t know how long, but I need you to move back home asap. It’s only temporary, so I’m sure you can keep your apartment in the meantime.”
A warmth blooms in my chest, something equal parts dread and forbidden thrill. I press the heel of my hand hard into the guidebook, letting the edge bite into my skin.
I say, “But aren’t you there? Why does he need me too?”
Jeannine’s tone is airy.
“Oh yes, I’ll be around, but he needs more than one person.” Another pause, longer now, as if she expects me to fill it. “And Kent—he listens to you. He always did. You’re the only one who can talk sense into your stepfather.”
I laugh, a brittle sound. “He’s not exactly the ‘listen to reason’ type. He’s a successful, experienced physician, Jeannine. He’sdefinitely not listening to a college co-ed who’s never even had a full-time job.”
But my mom’s not dissuaded.
“Come home, Mary Kate.” Her tone is a closed door. “Please. I need to know he’s not going to burn the house down.”
I picture the mansion: the endless, echoing staircases, the kitchen where everything is polished steel and nobody ever eats, the patio dripping with wisteria. Kent’s kingdom, bought in full after he and my mother married, my own old room preserved like a specimen. My high school posters, the stack ofSweet Valley Highs, the pink desk lamp collecting dust.
