In nightfall, p.2
In Nightfall, page 2
“It’s good to be back,” my father says. “Almost twenty years and this place is still a revelation. Can’t you feel it? Just…peaceful.”
Marco scrunches up his nose and glances back at me. I think we’d both rather be home, washing red Jell-O out of the pool pump.
But when I look over at my dad again, he’s smiling—the kind of smile that shines in his eyes. There’s a ping in my heart, a moment of gratefulness. I’ve missed seeing him happy. Maybe this is exactly what he needs.
Our Forester crests the next hill and the downtown comes into view. The main strip is lined with small, candy-colored shops teeming with groups of people—most of them young. The ocean is at the end of the street, off a promenade, and sand drifts across the road to pile along the curb. Although the sky is covered in clouds, the vibe is entirely beachy: seashells hanging in shop windows, flags for sale that say I’d rather be surfing posted outside.
On one of the buildings, there’s a large mural of a dark-haired mermaid on a rock jutting out of the sea, a masted ship heading in her direction. I admire it as we drive by, although I notice that the otherwise serene picture is depicting the mermaid luring those sailors to their deaths.
We pass a group of girls wearing sunglasses with matching flannels tied around their waists, and one of them points to Marco. They all turn and wave. Awkwardly, my brother holds up his hand in return before looking at our dad.
“Seems this really is an amazing tourist destination,” Marco says. “You’ve been holding out on us, Dad.”
“This time of year there are more tourists than locals,” our father responds. “The special weekend is coming up.”
“ ‘Special weekend’?” I ask, leaning forward. “What does that mean?”
He points to a massive white-stone building on our right. At first I assume it’s a courthouse, but I’m pleased to discover it’s the town library. Along the front is a large banner that reads It’s time for the Midnight Dive!
“Midnight Dive?” I ask, confused.
“It’s a week from today,” my dad replies. “Next Saturday. A tradition to honor the town’s history. Locals throw a giant block party with food, music, costumes—and then at midnight on Saturday, a parade marches all the way to the beach. Everyone walks straight into the ocean, clothes and all.”
“Night swimming?” I ask, exchanging an amused look with my brother. “Weird, but that actually sounds fun.”
“Oh, it is,” our father says. “The whole town looks forward to it every year. Then again, I haven’t been to a Midnight Dive since…” He pauses to think about it. “Since I was here with your mom. She decided not to join, so I left early,” he adds quietly. “God, I barely remember that night.”
“Is that why you really wanted to come back here?” Marco asks, seeming impressed with Nightfall now that we know they do at least one fun thing. “To relive your glory days?”
My father doesn’t answer right away. The mood in the car seems to change abruptly as he takes a turn off the main street and into the residential area. The rows of trees return, blocking out some of the light. But they’re trimmed back to showcase the oversized houses with manicured lawns and large front porches.
“No, Marco,” our father replies finally. He turns onto Primrose Lane. “I came home because I didn’t know what else to do.”
CHAPTER TWO
My father’s sadness didn’t start with the divorce; that’s too simple an explanation. But it’s true that since my mom left, his fog of depression has never quite lifted. His admission now is a reminder of that. So although I’ve been dreading this trip, part of me is glad that my brother and I are here with him. We want to support him in getting his life back together.
About halfway up the block, I hear the rhythmic click of the car blinker. I glance outside as we pull into the driveway of a dark green craftsman bungalow surrounded by shrubs and relatively private.
“Here we are,” our father announces, emotion thick in his voice. His eyes shine with tears as he stares at his childhood home. He shifts into park next to a pale blue minivan, which I assume is our grandmother’s.
I look around, instantly charmed by the place. The house has a large front porch, rows of flowers that are slightly overgrown, and a gorgeous tree with branches that twist and turn, hanging over the property. It’s straight out of a storybook. It’s hard to picture my father growing up here, especially since our stucco house is surrounded by pure desert landscaping with muted browns and tans. This is lush and enchanting.
Marco is the first out of the car, stretching and groaning from the nearly two-day, twelve-hour drive. My father leaves his bags behind, heading straight for the house, while I grab my backpack and climb out. The air is cold. I wrap my arms around myself.
I hear footsteps in the distance and when I turn toward the street, there’s a cute guy jogging by the house. He flashes me a smile.
Mortified, I offer a subdued smile in return. I’m currently wearing a pair of tie-dye shorts, knee socks with slip-on sandals, and a gray ASU hoodie with a ketchup stain on the pocket. My dark hair is in a bun held together with a scrunchie.
Next to me, my brother laughs. “Bet you wish you showered now,” Marco says, grabbing his duffel bag from the floor of the front seat.
“I hate you,” I mutter, and push him toward the house.
When we left the hotel this morning, there was only time for one of us to shower. Since it was five a.m., I told him to have at it. And he’s right. I definitely wish I’d called dibs.
As Marco heads to the front porch, I pause and look around again. It feels so isolated out here, even with all the tourists downtown. I’m reminded of the mermaid on the mural, luring us in. Waiting for us to crash against the rocks and die.
“Theo,” Marco calls, annoyed. “Let’s go. I don’t want to walk in without you.”
“I’m not your human shield,” I tell him. “Besides, maybe Grandma will like you better.”
He scrunches up his nose as if he doesn’t like the word either. It’s too…familiar? We’ve barely talked about this woman, our father’s mother. Up until now, she’s been the person in the photo wearing a mint-green dress standing rigidly next to an old-fashioned car, our father a toddler in a suit next to her. There isn’t a single recent photo of her. She didn’t even go to our parents’ wedding. I turn to Marco.
“What if she’s awful?” I ask him. My worry is spiking and I might be panicking a little. Marco seems to consider the question a moment before shrugging.
“Then I guess it’ll be a long four weeks,” he replies. “Now let’s go, because the anticipation is killing me.”
He’s right about that. I hike my backpack onto my shoulders and join him on the porch. A windchime made of little bells jingles softly from the side of the house. The noise sounds kind of creepy and haunting as it echoes through the trees.
Our grandmother’s door is wide open, but Marco hangs back as I cross the threshold into the house first. I’m caught off guard when I find a small old woman hugging my father in the foyer.
Our grandmother is tiny, barely five feet tall, with gray hair. She’s wearing thick-soled black shoes and a blue tracksuit with a fairly large crucifix dangling around her neck. She’s significantly older than in any of the photos I’ve seen, which shouldn’t surprise me but does. She’s just a little old lady—adorable and pocket-sized. My father looks like a giant in comparison, but she holds him tightly as she comforts him.
As my brother and I wait to be acknowledged, I look around. The inside of our grandmother’s house is like a cluttered antiques store. Then again, she’s lived here nearly her entire life, so it makes sense she would have collected things. It smells like a combination of old paper and menthol.
Marco bumps my shoulder and points to a photo on the wall. It’s of me from eighth grade when I dressed up as a bumblebee and had too-short bangs. Next to it is another gem—a shot of me at a dance recital dressed as Minnie Mouse. I’m both surprised and heartened to find my pictures on the wall, as embarrassing as they are. She must have thought about us over the years. That’s kind of nice.
“Do you think she purposely picked your worst photos?” my brother whispers. I elbow him in the gut, making him cough out a laugh.
My grandmother straightens and pats our father’s arm. “You’re all right now,” she tells him. “You’re going to be all right, Joey.” Dad wipes his eyes and nods. My grandmother is the first person I’ve ever heard call my father Joey. But the tone of her voice is tender and loving—motherly. I smile, feeling tears prick my eyes. My father needed this.
My grandmother turns toward me abruptly, making me jump. She’s weirdly fast. We stand in silence for a moment. When I can’t take the quiet any longer, I smile.
“Hello, Grandma,” I say awkwardly.
She runs her dark eyes over my outfit, appraising me from sandals to scrunchie. She hums out an annoyed sound. “Is this how you dress?” she asks, her tone judgmental. Marco puts his hand over his mouth to cover his laugh.
I scratch at my hair. “Sometimes,” I tell her. “The boys seem to like it.”
She fights back a smile. “Well then,” she replies, “if you’re so popular, I guess I should go to you for fashion advice.”
Good. She has a sense of humor.
“And call me Nonna,” she adds. “It’s more respectful.”
I exchange a glance with my brother and he shrugs as if telling me to do it.
“Okay, Nonna,” I say, deciding immediately that I like it better. It suits her.
She holds her arms open for a hug. “If you want one,” she offers, as if she doesn’t care either way.
I walk over and bend down to give her a quick hug, feeling how tiny she is in my arms, even though her grip around my shoulders is tight. There is a sudden rush of sadness in my chest. I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me. Maybe I needed it too.
When I pull back, Nonna is already looking over at Marco. My brother holds his duffel bag in front of himself like armor. He smiles tentatively.
“Hi, Nonna,” he says.
“Well, come on,” she says, motioning for a hug.
My brother grins, and as he walks over to her, I look around again. It’s like one of those house museums, everything kept exactly as the deceased left it. The thought creeps me out, and I shiver and wrap my arms around myself.
After she separates from Marco, Nonna walks over to take my dad’s arm. She glances at us. “Now go get the rest of the bags from the car,” she says, shooing us toward the door. “Your father and I need to talk.”
She turns away and gently leads my father toward the kitchen, murmuring sweet words of encouragement. Funny how nice she is to him while also being a bit prickly toward us. She reminds me of a fuzzy cactus.
And that’s my grandmother—a gray-haired enigma in orthopedic shoes.
* * *
—
NONNA WASN’T PREPARED TO have us all in her house at once. She only has three bedrooms. While she and my father get the two rooms on the left, I’m relegated to the small “doll room” on the other side of the second floor. Marco has been shoved somewhere in the attic.
When I walk into the room, I stop short and drop my bags at my feet. I’d hoped Nonna was kidding. But, no. There are a dozen or so porcelain dolls on a shelf near the ceiling staring directly at me. A few are old, really old, with one blinking eye, while others look like they’re from the last decade. She sent me a porcelain doll for my birthday once when I was a kid, but I ended up donating it to Goodwill because it scared the shit out of me. I don’t know how or if she found out, but she has given me a blank card with money ever since.
“Awesome,” I mutter, planning to stuff the dolls into the closet for the duration of my stay. No way I’ll sleep with them staring at me all night.
I abandon my bags in the room and head down the hall to the attic. I’m secretly hoping it’s a refuge for rejected dolls, because honestly, my brother deserves to be haunted, too.
The door to the attic has a long, old-fashioned key sticking out of the lock. It strikes me as odd that Nonna would lock her attic door, but I make a mental note to lock Marco in there at least once during our stay to mess with him.
Behind the attic door is a steep staircase leading up. As I begin the climb, one of the steps creaks and I hear Marco laugh.
“You’re going to love this, Theo,” he calls down to me.
I get to the top of the stairs and look around. To be honest, I’d been expecting an inflatable mattress and a doll graveyard, but instead the attic space has been converted into a finished bedroom. There’s a large metal-frame bed with a quilted blanket, a nightstand, and a dresser pushed against one wall.
The space is huge, a little cold and a lot dusty. The walls are decorated with gold-framed pictures of landscapes and a mirror with a sheet covering the glass. There is a circular window that lets in some light, which shines directly on the bed. Across the room is an old oversized trunk, big enough to store a body. Although the attic is less cluttered than the downstairs, something about the space feels creepy. A forgotten room in a haunted mansion.
“Who the hell has Nonna been keeping up here?” I ask, looking at my brother.
“Right?” he says. “Maybe this was Dad’s bedroom?”
“Yikes,” I reply. “In the attic? I hope not. How depressing.”
“I like it,” Marco says, looking around. He tosses his duffel bag onto the bed. “It’s cozy.”
“I’m sure the ghosts think so,” I tell him.
Marco walks over to sit on the old trunk, a puff of dust rising up around him when he does. “So what do you think of her?” he asks. “Nonna.” He grimaces, but I can tell that my brother likes her too.
“Not what I expected,” I admit. “She’s definitely older and smaller than I thought she’d be. And she speaks her mind, which I can appreciate, even if she’s a little mean.” I pause. “She’s really sweet to Dad, though.”
“Yeah,” Marco agrees. “That was cool to see.” We’re quiet for a moment. “Our entire summer,” he adds. “Can you believe we have to spend the entire summer in this place?”
We stare at each other before the despair starts to feel like too much. We’re displaced, alone. And I’ll admit that I’m struggling with my mother’s abandonment. No, not struggling. Furious. But I quickly swallow the emotion down because I don’t want to feel it right now.
Marco sighs loudly and cracks his neck. “Well, I’m already bored,” he announces as if changing the subject. “What should we do? Search through all this old shit and uncover some family secrets?”
“Let’s do that tomorrow,” I tell him. “I need to adjust to Nonna’s spooky aesthetic first. I’m not convinced we won’t stumble on some cursed object and have to deal with that all summer.” I smile. “Did I mention there’s a bunch of porcelain dolls in my room?”
Marco laughs. “Damn, that sucks.”
“Sure does,” I agree. I glance out the window, surprised that outside the sky is still bright, even though it feels like evening. “Wait,” I say, confused. “What time is it?”
“Just after eight,” Marco replies, checking his phone. “My weather app says it doesn’t get dark until ten around here. I’m going to check out downtown. Want to go?”
“Uh, I’m not staying here alone,” I say. “But who’s telling Nonna and Dad that we’re leaving?”
Marco smiles. “Not the one who let his friends fill the pool with red Jell-O.”
“You’re the worst brother,” I say, and start for the stairs. To be fair, he does have a point. Our father definitely trusts me more than him, especially now.
I head downstairs to brush my teeth and change into a cleaner hoodie and a pair of jeans. I even rewrap my bun and slick down my baby hairs with water, figuring I should put in a little effort. My cocaptain, Willa, is always trying to give me a makeover, but after an unfortunate incident with an eyelash curler, I stick to the basics. I do slide on some clear lip gloss, though.
Once I’m done, I meet Marco at the bottom of the stairs. I’m startled to find Nonna already standing in the living room entrance as if she’s been waiting for us. She eyes us suspiciously as we pause in front of her, my brother courageously standing behind me.
“Hi,” I say innocently. “So…um. We wanted to go out for a while. That okay?”
She looks past my shoulder at Marco. “You going to cause trouble?” she asks him. “Throw a party and get arrested?”
“I didn’t get arrested,” Marco says. “And it was a great party. You would have liked it. There were Jell-O shots.” He flashes her a smile.
Nonna purses her lips, but I think she’s trying not to laugh. Despite her sharp edges, she likes us. I’m sure of it.
My father walks out of the kitchen and crosses the living room, wiping his hands on a red dish towel. “Where are you heading?” he asks. “I was just making us something to eat.”
“We wanted to go downtown,” I say. “I’m not really hungry, and it’s still early—only eight. So we thought we could grab some hot chocolates, check out the beach. Wild stuff, you know?”
My father waits, thinking it over for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, all right,” he says. “Although I don’t think you should take the Forester. The air in the front tires is really low.” He turns to his mother. “Can the kids borrow your car?” he asks. Nonna breathes heavily out of her nose and gives a curt nod.
“But Nonna drives a minivan,” Marco points out.
