When My Sister Started Kissing Read online

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  Dedicated to these lakes I have loved

  Lake Kabekona

  Spec Pond

  Lake Ossipee

  Loch Mannoch

  xx

  and to Chad

  xx

  You Make Me Happy

  Heartstone Lake remembers

  The baby, Claire, in a sunsuit and

  yellow hat, sat on her father’s shoulders, the

  great wide world spread out before them. Two

  egrets flew home to their nest as thunder

  rumbled, far off in the distance.

  The mother, Cari, lifted Abigail—

  You are my sunshine, they sang together,

  gently rocking. Cari waded in up to her ankles.

  Everyone was smiling then, held close by the

  rhythm of the song: You make me happy.

  Blue sky, one cloud, an open beach

  umbrella shading their red blanket. Did the

  raindrops fall from the sun itself? I remember

  no cold wind, no whitecaps, just a few small

  indentations on my glassy surface,

  not enough to make them pack up and

  go home. Cari smiled at her husband, Andrew, and at

  Baby Claire, who whimpered. I did not know why. Did she

  realize, before the others did, what was coming, what it meant?

  It seemed to happen all at once: Claire cried out, the sky

  grew dark, lightning sent its dazzle through me. Cari

  held Abigail tight in her arms for a split second,

  then fell, her face in mine.

  TEN YEARS LATER

  Wishing

  Claire

  Dad glances in the rearview mirror. Get ready, he says,

  to make your wish. We’re about to cross the railroad track.

  We’ve turned off the highway onto the gravel road

  that circles Heartstone Lake. Abigail smiles back

  at Dad, lifts her feet. We always do this, she explains

  to Pam, who says, That’s a nice family tradition.

  Dad doesn’t even have to think about his wish.

  He says what he says every year: Good fishing!

  He winks. Abigail and I exchange a look. We love

  Dad, but when we’re at the lake, fishing is all

  he ever thinks about. Pam has something else

  on her mind: I wish we could decide what to call

  the baby. She looks at Dad, then out the window.

  If she’s thinking up a nature name like Buck,

  she doesn’t tell him—or us. Abigail’s distracted,

  trying to get a signal on her phone. No luck.

  Tell me again how long we’ll be here, Dad? she says.

  About a month, he says. We always have the landline.

  She tries again, gives up, turns to me. What’s your

  wish? she asks. I shrug and peer into the trees, trying

  to see the lake. Every year when I was little, I’d lift

  my feet and wish for the same thing: To see Mom again.

  Last year, I closed my eyes and thought: I wish Dad would

  not get married. I knew it was impossible. And mean.

  I hated Pam already. Her makeup and nail polish,

  all those different-colored shoes and fancy jewelry.

  I wished we could keep our cabin for the three of us,

  like it had always been—just Dad and Abigail and me.

  It halfway worked. Pam didn’t come to the lake

  with us last year. So that wish came true. Sort

  of—in September, they got married as they’d planned.

  And this morning we all got in the car, heading north.

  This year, I’ve decided to change my wishing strategy

  to something more realistic: I know Pam is here to stay,

  but I wish she’d quit trying so hard to be our mom.

  The cabin’s small. It won’t be easy to stay out of her way.

  I look across the backseat at Abigail. Sun shines

  through her brown curls. Whatever she’s wishing

  sends color to her cheeks, and her half smile says

  she has a secret. I bet her wish is about kissing.

  Memories

  Abigail

  Claire was just a baby. She can’t remember

  the day Mom died. And I can’t forget—even

  if I wanted to. I have a lightning-shaped scar

  on my arm, reminding me of that rain and thunder

  and lightning. All of us crying except Mom, who

  did not cry. Or talk. Or move. We had to leave

  her on our blanket on the beach. Dad

  carried Claire, and I walked in front of them

  up the path to the cabin. We got in the car,

  and Dad drove down the road to the Johnsons’.

  TJ was three years old, like I was. He gave me

  Benjamin Bunny, his stuffed rabbit, so I wouldn’t cry.

  Dad promised him we’d give it back, but I

  refused to let that bunny go. Each year, I’d think,

  This summer, I’ll give him back to TJ. And then

  I somehow wouldn’t. By now, it would seem

  so childish to give him back. Especially after

  what happened the night before we left last summer.

  Puzzle Pieces

  Claire

  We’re almost there. I love the pine-tree

  smell as we get close. It makes me feel like

  I belong here. Just one of many things I love:

  Sunsets reflected on the water. Riding my bike

  over gravel roads. A light breeze blowing

  through my hair when I’m out in the kayak.

  Loons and swans and water lilies. Dad met Mom

  when they worked at a camp across the lake, back

  when they were teenagers. They fell in love,

  got married, and came here for a month each year.

  They planned their lives around it—Dad became

  an English teacher so they could be here

  every summer. He tells us how much Mom loved this

  cabin, and we’ve kept things like they were. Our book-

  shelves are full of her poetry and art books—some

  with corners still turned back so we can look

  for the pages she was reading. Her easel stands

  by the window, holding her watercolor of a birch

  tree with a bluebird in it. That tree was half as tall

  back then, compared to now. Bluebirds still perch

  on the branches—do great-grandchildren

  of the one Mom painted fly past our trees?

  When we’re at the cabin, I like to think:

  Mom picked up this exact same puzzle piece

  and fit it in its place. Or: She got out of jail free

  with t
his Monopoly card—and now so can I.

  Her parents built the cabin the year she turned

  eleven—the age I’ll be by the time we leave. I try

  to picture her and Dad building the new addition

  the year I was a baby—the year Mom died.

  I’ve heard about that all my life: how Dad

  set me down and ran into the water. He tried

  to save Mom, but he couldn’t. He could only save Abigail

  and me. All three of us must have been so scared.

  Now we’re almost to the cabin. I won’t say this out loud,

  but being here with Pam is going to be a little weird.

  Almost the Same, Except

  Claire

  The minute Dad unlocks the door, and we

  go in, I’m like— Whoa! What happened here?

  Everything is almost the same, except—

  I don’t know—I shake my head to clear

  my thoughts. When Dad and Pam drove up last

  weekend, Abigail and I would have come, too,

  but our cousin invited us to a roller-skating

  party, and we stayed home so we could go.

  When they got back, Dad said, We changed

  some things around, and we were like, Sure. That

  sounds good. (I didn’t mind missing out on sweeping

  up the mouse poop.) But this is way more than what

  he prepared us for: Everything straightened up. Puzzles

  and games moved to a top shelf, leaving the game shelf

  empty—except for a flower vase. My throat tightens.

  That vase—I bet it’s Pam’s. I make myself

  stay quiet. Dad says, Girls, let’s get the car unpacked.

  Pam shouldn’t carry anything too heavy. Claire,

  can you get the fishing poles and tackle box?

  Abigail, you can set the cooler over there.

  He points toward an empty space

  under the window—where Mom’s easel

  used to be. Where did they put it?

  And where’s her chair? Deep and cozy,

  my favorite place to sit and read the books I love

  (where are the books?) or watch a storm roll across

  the water—I felt like that chair could hug me.

  Abigail looks like she did when she lost

  her sketchbook one day last summer

  after we’d spent all day at the beach,

  and then she found it a week later,

  off a trail where she had to reach

  into poison ivy to retrieve it. Dad,

  I manage, where’s Mom’s … chair?

  I catch a look between him and Pam.

  Dad says, Remember? The back of it had a tear

  in the cloth. And, he adds, we’ll need that space

  pretty soon now, for the baby. That word—we—

  slides by so easily, erasing my word—Mom.

  I wonder—does it erase Abigail and me?

  All Mom’s Art

  Claire

  I get it. I do. All the stuff from our old life together

  would make Pam feel like she does not belong.

  This rearrangement says: Pam is here to stay. And

  make room for the baby. Don’t get me wrong,

  I know it’s not the baby’s fault. He’s not even born yet.

  But—over there? I nudge Abigail and nod to where all

  our framed pictures—even that cheesy one of the four

  of us in bright green shirts—aren’t hanging on the wall.

  Plus … Look, I whisper. Abigail sucks air through her nose.

  All Mom’s art—and ours—has disappeared. Dad’s gone

  back to the car. Pam stares out the window, blocking the light,

  resting her hands on her stomach as she stands there, alone.

  Cough, Sputter, Blink

  Claire

  Dad has this little thing he does—

  half cough, half sputter, a little blink,

  before he answers one of our tough

  questions. But really? I wouldn’t think

  something like this would throw him off.

  This morning, Abigail, standing with her back

  to me as she got dressed, said in a quiet voice,

  Claire, I think I need a bra. News flash—

  she’s thirteen. I said, Tell Dad, and she said, I will.

  Now the two of them are doing the supper dishes,

  and she tells him. I expect him to go, Blah, blah, blah,

  my little girl is growing up. But Dad actually blushes

  and looks down at the dishwater. I’m not sure I’m

  the one to help with that, he says, with a glance across

  the room at Pam, who jumps right in like she

  knows Abigail better than Dad does, and of course

  she is now our family expert on girls’ clothes.

  I’d be happy to take you shopping. Let’s go soon,

  before the baby is born, she says. Abigail glances

  at me. Pam says, How about tomorrow afternoon?

  I’m sure Abigail will hate this, but the look

  she gives me seems to mean, How can I say no?

  Before I know it, Pam has the whole thing

  planned, and Abigail has agreed to go.

  Just the two of them. I’m not jealous. I don’t

  like the mall. But seriously, Dad? Please.

  Finding new underwear for Abigail is harder

  than patching up a couple hundred skinned knees?

  Splinting my broken ankle, halfway up that mountain?

  Harder than selling Girl Scout cookies in a blizzard?

  Taking your daughter shopping is suddenly harder

  than burying Stokie, our three-year-old pet lizard?

  Harder

  than burying

  Mom?

  I don’t want to start crying.

  I’m going out in the kayak, I say.

  Dad knows I won’t be gone too long.

  But Pam butts in and tries to tell me

  what time I should come home.

  Sunset

  Claire, in the kayak

  Out in the kayak at sunset,

  water bugs walk across

  orange light on the water.

  What if Pam offers me

  a trip to town? Shopping time

  has always meant Dad-time to

  me. Pam doesn’t have to be

  our mom! I like being alone

  with Dad—and with myself.

  Welcome Back

  The lake

  She stood on the shore looking

  out. Now, in the kayak, she moves across

  my surface through the water lilies, observing

  every water bug, each jumping fish, following the

  birds through air and water. Two loons call to each

  other—or do they call to Claire? She watches them

  dive, tries to guess where they’ll come up. Every

  year when the family arrives, she greets me

  like a good friend, wearing a pair of

  old jeans, a faded sweatshirt under her life

  vest. Sometimes a baseball cap, tilted sideways.

  Everything well worn, comfortable. She always

  seems to need a haircut—her shaggy bangs

  (uncut for how long?) hang over her eyes

  so she has to keep pushing them back

  all the time. She started out taking

  long, hard strokes. Now she

  leans back to rest.

  Come On In

  Claire

  Let’s go swimming, Abigail suggests.

  It’s our second morning here; the lake is clear

  and cool. A school of minnows skims across

  the rocky bottom. Come on, Claire, over here!

  she says as she dives off the dock. Out on the lake,

  two ducks glide in for a landing. Abigail turns

  to me, laughing
. It’s not so cold, she calls out,

  once you get used to it. My stomach churns

  as I go in slowly, step-by-tiny-step,

  dipping my toes, my knees, into the shallow

  part, until I’m in up to my waist. Abigail,

  already past the drop-off, dares me to follow.

  She swims straight out to where the current

  carries her toward Anna’s Island. Water flows

  from one end of the lake to the other, and near

  the island the current helps a swimmer who knows

  how to catch it. That’s fun—you can swim faster

  than you thought you could. Of course,

  if you try to swim against that current, instead of

  being a better swimmer than usual, you’re worse.

  Once at the end of last summer, Abigail and I swam

  out to the island, and Dad rowed his boat beside me

  to give me a ride back. This year, will I be able

  to swim all the way out and back? We’ll see.

  Splashing It with Color

  Abigail

  I’ve been told I was a happy baby,

  a cheerful little girl. I’d wake up,

  jump out of bed, and Mom would say,

  Good morning, sweet Abigail. According to Dad,

  she and I lit up the room together. Every morning,

  like the crack of dawn, he says, she was the lake—

  dark, still, and quiet. You were the sun

  splashing it with color. How does that

  make Claire feel? I don’t know. Was she

  fast asleep those early mornings

  when all that Mom-and-me joy

  opened the day? We’ve shared

  a room since Claire was born, so I know she must

  have been there. Has she always liked to let the sun

  begin its climb into the sky before she opens up her eyes?

  Would You Be Okay?

  Claire

  I’m taking the boat to the marina this morning, Dad says.

  Who wants to come? I love being on the lake with Dad. I do!

  I say. And when we get back, I want to go over to the Johnsons’.

  Abigail, if you’re back from the mall by then, you should come, too.

  TJ and the little kids will want to see you. Before Abigail

  says yes or no, Pam says, We might not be back from town