The life insurance payout hadn’t been big, but it was enough for Mom to pack my sister and me up and move us out to a tiny one-floor cottage in Glenwood, New York. When she told us about the move, she said that it would be good for. “Certainly nicer than our apartment here,” she had said, gesturing to the gray walls and water-stained ceilings that housed us. She took my hand. “Come on, Claire, think about it. Fresh air, less crime—it’ll be an adventure!”

I just nodded, silent. May ran out and locked herself in our bedroom.

But even in 1997, at the tender age of nine, I knew that it wasn’t Albany we were moving away from; it was the neighbors offering condolences, it was Dad’s picture in the window of the fire department down the block. It was the thick smell of leather and shoe polish that still coated all our furniture, tricking me every morning into thinking that he was still here.

Before we left, Mom told us about our “amazing” new home, barely a wooden hut stuck on the side of a dead-end road. I had seen pictures the gas tank around back, and the “adorable” garden in the front yard. I knew where she was taking us.

I didn’t know about the graveyard.

When we arrived on that bleak December day and I stepped out of the car, a backpack filled with my stuffed animals slung over my shoulder, I couldn’t help but stand on the walkway to our new house and stare.

Our new home sat at the bottom of a hill, almost the entire slope of which was taken up by a sprawling graveyard. A rusted iron fence surrounded acres and acres of dead, brittle trees. Hundreds of graves—some old, some new, some crosses, and some just squares—jutted up from the dirt, looking like spines on a porcupine’s back. From my spot at the bottom, I couldn’t see the top of the hill. Just twisted brown branches and weathered granite slabs, stretching out forever.

My mind jumped immediately to Dad. Had Mom planned this? I didn’t think that she had ever visited the house before we came. Did she even know about the graveyard? How—

May pushed me off the walkway. “Move it,” she said as I stumbled into the grass. She had been wearing the same scowl for the entire five-hour car ride.

I hopped back onto the pavement and pouted. “Jerk.”

May snorted. “Brat.”

“Just shut up, May,” I said, following after her. “Leave me alone.”

“Then how about you stop standing around and actually take in some bags?” May stopped walking, very nearly making me trip over her suitcase. She turned around and squinted across the road. “What the hell are you even looking at? A bunch of trees?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a graveyard, stupid.”

The word seemed to strike her like a gust of wind. She stared at the hill for a moment more before shooting me a glare. “Why are you staring at a friggin’ graveyard? What are you, some kinda weirdo?”

“What?” I shook my head, half-formed words falling from my lips. “No, no, I—I’m just—”

“Maybe that counselor was right,” May said, face screwing up into a smirk. “Maybe you really are crazy.”

My cheeks lit up. “I’m not crazy!” I said, stomping my foot. “I’m just looking at the graveyard!”

“Craaaaazy,” sang May. She tried to walk away, tittering and giggling, but before she could take a step I shrieked and gave her suitcase the heaviest kick I could muster. May bumbled forward a few steps, then spun around and pushed me hard enough that I fell onto my rear. “Don’t touch me, brat.”

“Don’t be mean to me!” I said from the pavement. “Ugly!”

“You like that graveyard so much,” May said, “why don’t you go get buried there?”

Her voice echoing along the empty street, I winced. Even May seemed to gape, shocked by her words.

“May Elizabeth Sullivan!”

Both of us turned to look at the house. Mom stood in the doorway. Bags hung under her eyes, and ragged strands of brown hair struck out in every direction from her messy bun, giving her the look of a middle-aged insomniac. Gripping the doorway, decked out in her worn blue windbreaker, Mom offered us that awful glower of hers: eyes and nose screwed up, neck stretched out as far as it’d go.

In her presence, even May—sixteen years old, thinking she was better than everyone and everything—seemed to shrink to the size of an ant. I just stayed down, frozen.

Mom jabbed a finger at May, making her flinch. “You do not speak to your sister like that.” May spat and sputtered, trying to force out an excuse, but Mom cut her off with an, “Up-bup-bup! I don’t want to hear it! You help your sister up and apologize.”

May hung, legs tensed like she was ready to run away. But then she just whispered a few curses, leaned down, and offered me a hand. I wasn’t sure at first whether to accept the help—I was way too old to be getting help from my sister, after all, and I still wanted to be mad at her—but with Mom’s eyes still on us, I feared it was either this, or someone walking away in tears.

I took May’s hand and let her help me to my feet. Once I was up, she let out a quick, “Sorry,” then skulked away, head down. Mom stepped aside to let her through the doorway, but kept her eyes locked on May’s back the entire time.

Once she was gone, Mom walked outside and went to tousle my hair. Her warm palm was a welcome reprieve from the biting air. I leaned into her touch and let her press my head against her chest.

“Don’t worry about May,” she said, stroking my back. “She’s just being a teenager. Hormones, y’know?”

“Uh-huh.” I looked up at her, and in the sweetest voice I could muster, asked, “Do I need to bring in any more bags?”

Mom laughed. “Just one or two more, sweetie. But make sure to check out your room—it’s so much better than that hole we called an apartment.”

She gave me one last hug, holding me tight and kissing my scalp. I stared back out at the graveyard. The wind rolled through the dead trees, singing a song of winter. Mom’s jacket smelled of shoe polish.

Mom and May spent the rest of the day unpacking, while I used the time to inspect my new room. For the first time, I had a closet! Even if I knew that it would become May’s exclusive property by the week’s end, it still got a giggle out of me. But the feeling didn’t last; laying on either bed felt like laying on sheets of broken ice: cold and hard and bumpy. The bathroom smelled kinda like a mouse had died in the ceiling. The brown shag carpeting matched the walls.

Laying on the softer of the two beds and staring at the ceiling, I wondered what was going on back in our apartment—our old apartment. Had anyone else moved in? Was my bed still there? I imagined some strange girl burying herself in my sheets, jumping on my mattress. They’d never know who once lived there. They’d never know about the Sullivans. The thought made me feel twisted up inside.

Later that night, I picked and prodded at my stir fry, wondering why the beef tasted like it was still frozen, and wondering why the corn looked like it had been hit by a shrink ray. When I asked Mom, she said that they were baby corns—I didn’t even know that corn could have babies. The Chinese food places out in Glenwood were weird.

The house had no dining room, so we ate in the living room. The light of the TV flickered across our darkened home, throwing dull colors in every direction. Mom sat in her chair on one side, while May and I shared the couch. Well, “shared.” May lay across the entire length, head on one armrest and feet on the other; her legs ran over my lap. She kept the box of noodles balanced between her breasts and gazed up at a random spot on the ceiling, faint beats and melodies crackling from her headphones. Even with every seat filled, the room still felt horrendously empty.

Aside from the TV, silence ruled over us. Not a single word had been uttered since the Chinese food was open. I didn’t mind. No talking meant no fighting, and no fighting meant no screaming. Fine by me.

“So,” Mom said, as if a mind reader. She slurped up the rest of her noodles, leaned forward in her chair, and gave me a toothy grin. “How do you like your room?”

I thought about my cold bed, and the shag carpeting that I was sure housed the corpses of a million spiders. I thought about the rotting stench of the toilet, and how there were no windows.

“It’s nice,” I said, digging through my food.

“Nice?” Mom asked, digging through my words.

“Yeah,” I said. All my thoughts danced on the back of my tongue. I had so much to say, so much to complain about—but looking into Mom’s baggy eyes, I found myself with that familiar twisty feeling, like my stomach was spinning in circles. I shrugged. “Y’know. Nice.”

“And May?” asked Mom, shifting her smile to the coma patient laying on top of me. “See anything you liked?”

May didn’t answer, but just kept staring up at the ceiling. I thought that maybe she couldn’t hear anything over her music, but from my spot I watched her turn up the volume on her Walkman. Already I could feel the thunderclouds rolling in. I focused on my stir fry.

“May?” Mom asked again, louder. No answer. Her smile faded. She grabbed one of May’s feet and thrashed it about. “May!”

May cringed at her touch, retracting a leg and nearly kneeing me in the face. “What?” she asked, scowling. “What do you want?”

“It would be lovely,” Mom intoned, “if you would think about joining us in the real world for once.” May just looked confused. “Put away the music.”

“Fine,” May said, tearing off her headphones. “Why don’t you just say that?”

“I shouldn’t have to say it.” Mom’s words were sharp and shot out like darts. “You know that there’s no music at the dinner table.”

“We’re not at a table.”

“You know what I mean.”

May rolled her eyes as hard as she could. “Whatever.”

“No, it’s not ‘whatever,’” Mom said. “We eat as a family, we always eat as a family, and you’re ruining that.”

“Jesus Christ, will you leave me alone for once?” May said. “I just wanna listen to music, and you keep yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling!” yelled Mom. When her face went red, her wrinkles looked all the deeper. “It’s music. Can’t you just listen to it after dinner?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the batteries are gonna die!” May said, voice cracking.

“There’s batteries in one of the boxes,” I said, shrunken against the couch cushion.

May affixed me with a wretched glare. “Shut the fuck up, Claire.”

Mom stomped a bare foot. “May Elizabeth!” she cried, spittle flying from her lips. “Do not—”

“Shut up, shut up!” May jumped off the couch, letting her box of noodles fall to the ground. Sauce and soup dribbled out onto the floor. She snatched up her Walkman and stormed out of the room. “I wish you had left me in Albany!” A second later we heard the slam of the bedroom door.

Silence took back control of the room. I stared into my box of stir fry, watching the soup run between the baby corn and trying to ignore the look of nausea and sickness stretched across Mom’s face. Eventually she walked out, leaving her greasy, half-eaten chicken behind.

Caught in the flicker of the TV, I wrung the edges of my skirt and tried to sort out my newest regrets. What could I have said, what could I have done to make things better? To make Mom and May stop screaming at each other for one measly day? I couldn’t think of anything—I was never able to think of anything—but I knew deep down that all of this was my fault. It was up to me to fix things, and once again I had failed.

In those days, but three months removed from the fire, I still thought things could go back to normal. I still thought that if everyone just stopped shouting, stopped fighting, we could go back to where we left off—before Dad got that call in the middle of the night, before he grabbed his gear and ran out the door. Before the police came the next morning, hats over their hearts, beards twitching, and asked if Mom was home. Before May turned white, and before Mom ran out to throw up—

I ripped my skirt and brought myself back to reality. After months of being pressed and pulled between my fingers, the pink fabric had finally torn.

I got up and threw out my stir fry. I wasn’t sure I could eat any more, what with my stomach as twisted up as it was.

When the time finally came to go to bed, I seriously considered just sleeping on the couch. I had sat in the living room alone for hours now, watching the clock and praying that my bedtime would never come. But my prayers went unanswered, and with fatigue coating my bones, I edged open the door to the bedroom and dragged myself inside.

The light from the hallway slipped through the doorway, revealing the heaving mass of flesh on the bed opposite mine. May, still wearing all her clothes, had buried her head into the pillows. Screechy rock music blared from her headphones. I imagined that she couldn’t hear much—not that it mattered, as the dirty carpeting absorbed any sound I could have made. Nevertheless, I kept my eyes on her the entire time.

My foot collided with something hard and pain jolted through my leg. I let out a shrill yip and tumbled over May’s suitcase, falling to my knees.

May snapped up. Bloodshot veins coursed through her pupils.

“Sorry,” I said, hopping to my feet. I couldn’t look at her.

“Mhm.” May went back to her pillows. “Whatever.”

Keeping as quiet as possible, barely breathing, I pulled my pajamas out of my suitcase and got dressed. When I finally crawled onto my rocky mattress, though, I couldn’t close my eyes until May stopped sniffling. Not even the stuffed bears and tigers that walled my blanket could block out the sound.

I spent the time thinking about how long it would take to unpack all the boxes, and where I would put my things. I had brought as much of my stuff from Albany as would fit in a suitcase and two bags, but a lot of it was probably useless now. After all, what good were ice skates out here? Now that Dad was gone, I didn’t have anyone to skate with.

After what I figured must have been hours, May finally stopped hiccupping, and I closed my eyes—only for them to fly open once more as I heard a similar sound through the thin walls.

For the next month or so, things stayed quiet. Mom and May did everything they could do avoid each other, until family dinners became a thing of the past and the nightly arguments became weekly ones.

Of course, it wasn’t like they really even had the chance to be around one another. As soon as we went back to school, May did everything she could to find friends that could save her from the wasteland that was Glenwood.

Soon she began spending her days sauntering through the halls of Orchard Park Central School, just one in a gang of choker-wearing grunge music aficionados. They picked her up in the morning to go to school, and they stayed together long after sundown. I rode with them once, and within half an hour I smelled like I had smoked three crates of cigarettes. Also, Kurt Cobain was apparently “overrated trash.” Who knew?

Mom joined the local church, and I have to admit, I hadn’t seen her that happy since the fire. The parishioners of St. Martin’s were more than accepting of the new widow, and invited her to whatever church gatherings they could get her to. Her newfound faith didn’t seem to trickle down to May and I, however. Mom only brought us once, and halfway through the service May told her we were going to the bathroom; we spent the rest of the mass in the parking lot, listening to May’s Walkman. That had been the source of that week’s argument.

Mrs. Larson, the pastor’s wife, stopped by every once in a while to have tea with Mom. She was nice enough, I guess, although her glasses made her eyes look too big for her head. She would give me bags of strawberry candy, and always called me “Clairy the Fairy.” She just called May the “other daughter.”

And me? I went to school, and I came home. I went to school, and I came home. I went to school, found out Mom had to work late, and hung around in the back of the afterschool classes before going home.

I had never been the outgoing sort, and being thrust into a new school halfway through the year was like being thrown into a pool full of wasps. I slinked along the walls, weaved between groups of giggling children. On the schoolyard I just sat near the teachers, eavesdropping on their conversations and trying to join in whenever I had something to say. Teachers had to be nice to you, after all. It was their job. At least I didn’t have to see a counselor anymore.

But at night, I would fall asleep thinking of our old home, and the friends I had known since childhood. I would think of Dad picking me up from school on the days he had off, and going to Washington Park to see the flowers.

And things stayed the same, day in and night out—at least, for a few weeks.

It had been four months, but I still recognized the thud of Dad’s boots against the steel steps outside. Still I recognized the way he slammed the front door, the shuffle of fabric as he threw his jacket over a chair. For a moment I became one of Pavlov’s dogs, curling deeper into my sheets and waiting for the brush of his hand against my hair, the smell of his kiss on my cheek.

My eyes flew open.

I jumped up in bed. I threw my gaze across the room, but in the darkness, everything seemed to shift and melt around me. I couldn’t keep any wind in my lungs. May was still asleep, and I was still in bed, and we were both still in Glenwood, but I could hear Dad’s voice just outside, trailing under the bedroom door. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but it was his voice. I knew it.

I buttoned up my nightgown and jumped out of bed. The carpet hid my scurrying steps as I hurried into the living room. I ran through the living room, the kitchen, the foyer, but it was all empty. Dad was nowhere to be found, but I could still hear his voice coming from somewhere, somewhere—

I peeked out the front door. Through the whipping wind, I found my eyes and ears drawn to the graveyard.

I hesitated for a moment. Then, as quiet as I could, I grabbed my coat, put on my gloves and boots, and headed out.

The January air slipped up my gown and chewed on my skin. Murmuring the worst curse words I knew, I scampered through the front yard, across the road, and up to the edge of the graveyard. A rusted lock barely held the gate closed, so I just slipped through the crack and headed inside.

The full moonlight barely guided me through the dirt and roots. The branches and graves cast scattered, imposing shadows in every direction. With every new step I expected a shadowy hand to leap from the brush, to grab my arms and tear me in two. I expected decaying zombies to rise from the mud and drag their rotten claws across my chest. I couldn’t even hear Dad’s voice anymore. My nine-year-old mind ranted and raved, every instinct telling me to run and bury myself under my sheets.

But I kept moving, forcing myself along the weathered path. “Just five more steps,” I said. “Then I’ll go back.” Five steps. “Just four more.” Four steps. “Just three more.” Three steps.

Without warning, the hill plateaued off, and suddenly I found myself at the edge of a wide, frozen pond. A break in the treeline allowed pure moonlight to glimmer off the icy surface, and for a moment I believed the moon itself had fallen into the dirt.  Withered black leaves skittered across the frost and knocked against my legs.

I stared into that moonlight, trying to swallow the sudden silence and trying to beat back the memories welling up in my mind.

I saw Dad holding my hand as we stepped into the ice rink at Washington Park. I saw my ice skates in a plastic shopping bag, bouncing against his leg. I heard the way he whistled while he tied up my skates—Oh, Susanna flowed as freely from his lips as birdsong from a robin. He said that he had learned it from his dad, who learned it from his dad… in the weeks after the funeral, I found myself tapping it out with my pencil without even thinking about it.

Wind cut through the trees and slammed against me. At once, the warmth of my memories disappeared, replaced by a crushing sadness. What was I doing? Was I really so desperate to see Dad again that I would come out here in the middle of the night, would trudge through the mud and dirt just to hear him one more time?

Even at that young age, I felt pathetic. May was right: I was crazy.

Eyes burning, chin quivering, I knelt low to the dirt and stared at the ice’s edge—only for a flicker to catch my eye.

My head flew up. I flicked my eyes across the pond, my gaze darting from crack to pebble to dead leaf, but whatever had caught my eye was gone.

Another gust rushed past, but this one—I didn’t feel this one. I heard it. Wind whistled through the trees, and the memories roared back into the front of my mind. As the branches rustled and shook, I heard Susanna coming down the hill. I heard that shrill tweet, so familiar, squeaking in my ear.

Dad.

A chill sweat coated my neck. With hands shaking, legs trembling, I ran away.

As soon as I left the moonlit pond, Dad’s whistling faded. I tripped over roots and rocks trying to get away, stumbling down the hill until I reached the gate. The rusted iron burned against my face when I squirmed through the suddenly too-small gap. I ran into the road and down the street. Everything had gone blurry. My lungs screamed at me to stop.

But I kept running. I ran until I reached our front yard, until my tiny hands scrabbled against the knob on the front door.

I jumped into the foyer and slammed the door—only to freeze when I noticed a figure in front of me.

Just a few feet away stood May, one arm in her jacket. She wore her thickest jeans, her biggest boots, and her deepest scowl.

I took a step back, but the door blocked my retreat. “Hey,” I breathed.

May threw her jacket back onto its hook. “You little shit.”

“May?” came Mom’s frantic voice from the kitchen. “Is that Claire?”

“Yeah,” May called. She sighed. “It’s her.”

The house shook with every footfall as Mom sprinted into the room. She tackled me so hard that I would have gone flying if it weren’t for her long arms locking me into a hug. Nails digging into my neck, she crushed me against her chest, pressing my head into her heaving breast.

“Oh, Christ,” she blubbered. Tears soaked her reddened cheeks. “Oh, Christ—I went you’re your room, and you were gone, and I couldn’t find you anywhere—I was going to call the police—where were you?! Where did you go?”

May’s eyes burned into my skin. My words remained in my throat.

“I thought—I thought someone had taken you away!” Mom said. She pulled at my hair, dug her nose into my shoulder. “Or, or that you had run away… Christ Almighty, never do that again!” She wrapped her hands around my scalp and looked me in the eye. “Do you hear me? Never!”

I forced myself to nod. “Okay,” I said. Behind Mom, May snorted.

Mom kept her gaze locked with mine for a few seconds more before kissing my forehead, pulling me into one more hug, then letting me go. I stumbled back a few steps. My face still tingled from crying in the graveyard.

Mom dragged a hand through her hair and stood up. “Lord above,” she whispered, pulling her bathrobe tighter around her. She glanced between her two daughters, looking at us for a moment like we were aliens invading her home. Then, shaking her head, she said, “Girls, please—it’s time for bed. Please.”

The image of the moonlit pond echoed in my head. I wanted to tell Mom about what I had seen—I wanted her to hold me tight and tell me that I wasn’t crazy, wasn’t pathetic. I wanted to sit on her lap, just like we used to.

May grabbed my arm and pulled me away. Mom watched us go. I stayed silent as May led me out of the foyer, into the hallway, and into our room. She slammed the door behind us, bathing us both in darkness.

I had only just turned on the lamp before May snatched me by my hair and threw me onto my bed. I tried to scream, but she clasped a palm over my lips and twisted my arm. “Shut up!”

“Let go!” I flailed my arms. “Mom—!”

“I was about to go out looking for you!” May hissed. “You know that? Mom ran in here screaming and crying. You wanna give her a heart attack or something? You wanna be a fucking orphan, you—aaugh!”

I bit down on May’s finger until she pulled away. “Why, why do you care?!” I asked as she gripped her hand. “You hate Mom!”

May sneered. “I love her more than you, nutjob!”

“No you don’t! You hate her!” I said, beating my hands against the mattress. “You hate everything. I bet you hated Dad, too!”

I barely saw May’s hand coming. Pain cracked through my face and I fell back into the sheets.

May looked like she had just run over a dog. Arm still outstretched, she backed up until her knees collided with the edge of her bed. I got up and touched a finger to my cheek.

“Claire,” said May. She sat down and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

I curled up against the wall. “Yeah.”

“I just… shit.” May rubbed at her eyes. “You friggin’ scared me, too. There’s this girl at school—there was this girl at school. She was in every club, and on every team or whatever. But then, like, her Mom died of cancer or something.” May shrugged. “And then she killed herself. Just like that.”

She looked up at me, as if I had some sort of answer for a question she never asked. A few words lurked in the back of my mind, but—but I couldn’t say them. All I could do was stare back with bleary eyes.

“I dunno.” May shook her head. “I’m just tired.”

“I heard Dad,” I said quickly.

May stared. “What?”

“I heard Dad,” I said again, sitting up straighter. “And I think I saw him, too. In the graveyard, on the pond.”

“You—you were in the graveyard? And you saw someone?” May went pale. “Jesus Christ, Claire—”

“No, I didn’t see someone. I saw Dad!”

“What the fuck do you mean you saw Dad? What, like a picture of him or something?”

“No, I saw—” I felt myself going crosseyed in frustration, trying to search my exhausted mind for the words I needed. “I saw his… his spirit, I think. And I heard his voice.”

A silent moment passed between us.

May narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Mom’s church friends.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that there’s no such thing as spirits, idiot. This isn’t a friggin’ movie.” May snorted. “And even if they did exist, why would Dad be in that graveyard? He’s not buried there. He’s not buried anywhere. You know that.”

“I know it was him!” I squeaked. “I know it!”

I panted for breath, while May just leered at me. For the slightest of moments I saw her glare soften, her eyebrows furrow, almost like she was actually considering the possibility. I begged silently for her to nod and tell me that she believed me. Anything to heal the twisting in my gut. When she finally opened her mouth again, I leaned forward, waiting for it—

“Maybe we really should put you on suicide watch,” May growled. “Because you’re fucking mental.”

I could have thrown up. “May!” I whined as she got undressed again. “I’m not lying!”

“I didn’t say you were lying,” May said, throwing her shirt across the room. “I said you were crazy. Just ‘cuz the voices aren’t real doesn’t mean that schizos don’t really hear them.”

“I’m not a… a scizzo,” I said. The lights went off. “You are!”

May crawled into bed. “Go to sleep. Kim’s picking me up early to go to the mall, and I don’t need you keeping me up.”

And with that, the conversation was over. I sat in the dark for a few minutes, just staring at my toes. Then, with a sigh, I took off my coat and boots, and slipped back under the covers.

Frenzied thoughts kept me awake. It was only once I forced my eyes closed and thought of the whistle in the trees that my smile returned. I let Dad serenade me to sleep.

For the next two months, I visited the pond whenever I could. I memorized Mom and May’s schedule, making sure that I knew any and all times they would both be out of the house at once.

It wasn’t easy—especially as time went on, and the two of them started spending more and more time at home. Mom joined the church book club, and at least twice a week she would go manic, cleaning all the furniture as to not disgust her friends. Around Valentine’s Day, May bleached her brown hair to a ghostly white, which only called attention to the pounds and pounds of eyeliner she would smother herself with every morning.

Nevertheless, I made the time. I would sit at the water’s edge, drawing shapes in the dirt with my finger. I would tell Dad about my day—I would complain about my teachers giving too much math homework, or about how Max wouldn’t stop chasing Kelly around the schoolyard, even when she told him to stop. Before I left, I would touch the ice and say, “Love you, Dad.”

And every single time I heard that same whistle in the trees, sending me off, back to the world of the living.

Mom didn’t mention my midnight excursion again, but she always hugged me a bit tighter before bed. And for a while, it seemed like May had forgotten all about it too. For a while.

One day in March, I woke from a nap to a familiar sound. I stumbled into the living room just in time to hear Mom tell May to stop wearing “all that dark clothing,” because apparently it made her “look like a whore.” May responded by bursting into tears—her mascara broke off in solid chunks—and tearing off her fishnet stockings to throw in Mom’s face. She pushed past me and ran into our room, just like always.

And just like always, Mom cast me a tired glance and walked off to make herself a cup of tea.

That night, just as my dream about opening up my own theme park was reaching its climax, I was torn out of sleep and thrust back into the real world. “Hey,” May whispered, jostling me awake. “Claire, c’mon. Wake up.”

I blinked and pawed at her face a few times. “Mah—May?” I stammered, barely conscious. “What? What’s going on?”

She shushed me and threw a glance at the door. For the first time, I noticed that she was fully dressed. “Just get up,” she said. “Quick.”

“Why?”

She clicked her tongue. “I wanna see Dad.”

She threw me my coat, and as quietly as we could, we snuck out the front door. She kept close to me as we crossed the road and entered the graveyard—although it took her a few minutes to pry open the gate wide enough to fit herself through. I led her through the knee-high snow up the hill. The moon was full again, just like that first night two months ago.

“This is fucking creepy,” May said, swerving to avoid a broken, moss-covered tombstone. “I can’t believe you came out here by yourself. You’re gonna get a knife in your neck one day, you know that?”

I tittered. “You can go back if you’re scared.”

May scoffed and gave me a playful slap on the shoulder. “Says the girl who still sleeps with a teddy bear.”

“Five teddy bears,” I corrected, turning up my nose. “And doesn’t Kim have a tattoo of a bat on her butt? Don’t you guys love creepy stuff like this?”

“A tramp stamp ain’t the same as sneaking into a graveyard.” May ducked underneath a jagged branch. She smiled. “You better just pray that you’re not crazy, and Dad actually shows up. ‘Cuz if he doesn’t, we’re selling you to the circus.” I could tell that despite her words, she wanted nothing more than for me to be right. It was a good thing that I was right, then.

The light on the pond hadn’t dimmed at all. The snow and ice glistened back at us, sparkling like a pool of diamonds. I took my spot at the edge of the ice and stared into the light.

May put her hands on her hips. “Okay. Where is he?”

“Just wait,” I said, glancing around. A moment passed and nothing happened. I couldn’t even hear Dad whistling. “He’ll be here soon. Really.” May grumbled a bit, but smoothed out the bottom of her coat and sat down on an old wooden bench nearby.

The stars passed above in silence. But for the vapor from my mouth and May digging the tip of her foot into the snow, all was still. Seconds melted into minutes. The wind bit at my ears, and the snowy ground bit at my rear. Even turned the other way, I could feel May growing more impatient, and could feel myself growing more anxious.

Eventually, May stood up and started pacing behind me. “Are you seriously insane?” she asked. “Like, seriously flipped?”

I had no idea what to do. I had trusted Dad to reveal himself to his older daughter, to show her the same care he showed me. Why wouldn’t he? Where was he?

“Come on,” May said, touching my shoulder. “Let’s go back. If Mom checks on us, she’s gonna have a conniption—”

“Dad!” I yelled. My voice echoed between the graves. “Come out, please! May’s here, and she wants to talk, just like we talk. Please.” We stared out across the pond and waited, waited, waited… until a new sound shot out from the middle of the lake.

My heart leaped. Next to me, I felt May’s legs tense. The sound grew louder, sharper. A sort of chittering, light and scratchy, floating from the snow—

A squirrel popped out from a clump of snow in the middle of the lake, a rotten acorn in its mouth. It spared us a single glance, then scurried off.

“This is stupid,” May said. Her cheeks glowed crimson. “I can’t believe you talked me into coming out here. You’re such a nutcase.”

“May, please, I wasn’t lying! I’m not crazy, either!” I leapt up and grabbed her arm. “Dad was supposed to be here, I dunno where he is, but—”

“He’s dead, Claire.” May shook me off and pushed me away. Her voice quaked. “He’s in the basement of some burned down building back in Albany. Get over it.” And with that knife stuck firmly in my spine, she turned and walked away.

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness. “Girls? Girls, are you out here?”

“Oh, fuck.” May groaned and returned to my side. “Crap, crap, crap…” I stood stiff as a corpse.

Mom’s ragged hairline poked into view, followed by her gaunt face, scraggly bathrobe. She pointed our emergency flashlight every which way, throwing it from grave to grave until she noticed the shining pond—and noticed us.

She crossed herself and came running. “Girls!” she cried. She grabbed me and wrapped me in an embrace, just like that night in January, only tighter. I could barely breathe in her arms. “I saw your footsteps in the snow, and… Jesus, is this where you’ve been running off to? A graveyard?” Her voice went low. “Did May make you come out here?”

May scowled. “Calm down, Mom. We were about to come home.”

“Why would you bring your little sister out here?” Mom asked May, shooting off that awful glower of hers. “I knew that Kimberly girl was a bad influence—”

“It wasn’t my idea to come here,” May spat. She slapped my petrified shoulder. “Claire’s the one who convinced me. She’s a fucking schizo!”

“Don’t touch her, and don’t say that about her,” Mom warned.

“It’s true! She’s almost as crazy as you and your church buddies.”

Mom stood up and tried to tower over May. She was barely an inch taller than her oldest daughter. “Don’t make me angry, May Elizabeth.”

“Or what?” May asked. She was shivering. “What are you gonna do? Hit me with your stupid rosary beads?”

The two shot insults back and forth. Months and months of anger and arguments were coming to a head, louder and louder until the air itself seemed to shake with every scream. I wrung the edges of my jacket and tried to retreat, but I was already at the edge of the pond. Thoughts and images swirled through my head. I needed to do something, needed to stop this—but I was useless. I was the one who came here first. I was the one who caused this. And for what? A hallucination.

I let out a shrieking sob and at once the argument ended.

My wail cut through the night, taking Mom and May aback. The weight of all my sadness, all my anger came crashing down in one massive wave, pushing its way through my eyes and down my cheeks.

“Oh, baby,” Mom said, hand over her heart. She swept me off my feet and carried me over to the bench nearby. I buried my face into her robe, just barely catching May’s wide-eyed stare. Mom sat down with me and rubbed my back, whispered into my ear, but not even the warmth of her fingers could stem the flow. Months and months of tears trickled onto her.

I leaned into her, just in time to feel a new body on my other side. “C’mon,” May said, pressing herself into me. “Claire, stop. We’re sorry for yelling.”

“You’re just tired,” Mom murmured. “We’re going to head home, and you can go back to bed. It’ll be okay.”

But I knew it wasn’t gonna be okay. It would never be okay. Not again.

I took in a gasping breath. “I miss Dad.”

Mom shook under me. “I know,” she said, tightening her grip. “I do too.” May just whimpered a bit and leaned against Mom’s other shoulder.

We sat like that, in the middle of that dead hill, holding each other in the cold. The moonlight shone down on us like a spotlight from God, presenting our mourning mass to any animal who cared to watch. I balled up my tiny fists and pressed them into my eyes, as if trying to push the tears back in.

I heard a whistle.

We all went silent, as if on instinct. My head shot up and I saw Mom’s and May’s startled faces. We stared up at the singing trees, barely breathing as Oh, Susanna surrounded us.

A choking sound floated from Mom’s throat. May gripped my arm. Through my quivering, through my tears, I smiled.

And for the first time in months, the Sullivan family sat together, not a single member missing.

Next Chapter: Limestone/Maud Estimated time remaining: 8 Minutes