Guernsey was the first to hear their footfall on the step at the side door, and she came
“Will!” Her voice was a strangled scream as she flung the screen door wide, shoving the dog aside.
“I’m all right, Mom, I’m-”
Pain tore across his face as she slapped him, hard. Nobody moved.
“How could you do that to me?” she whispered. Tears gathered at the rims of her eyes, pooled, then spilled down onto the slack of her hollow cheeks. She was wearing her ugly flowered nightgown-the one with the collar that buttoned up to her neck-and, over that, a battered yellow terrycloth bathrobe. She looked ancient and tired.
Guernsey sat down, ears back, and stared up at Mrs. Archer, watching her carefully. “Oh, God, Will.” She grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t do that.”
The clock on the wall ticked on, and a shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was Will’s father. He looked from Will to Gretchen, who was still clinging to Will’s arm like a frightened little girl. “Where you kids been?” he asked.
Mrs. Archer seemed to notice Gretchen for the first time. A blush bloomed across her face and she dried her eyes quickly.
Will was still too angry to say anything, but Gretchen spoke up. “I was sleepwalking again. Will saw me. He-” She looked up at Will, gave his hand another squeeze. “I was headed for the bluff. I got all the way to the edge.”
Mrs. Archer gasped and reached for Gretchen’s hand. “Good God, girl.”
“Will saw me from his window. He came after me,” Gretchen said. She shivered.
Mrs. Archer’s eyes lit on her son, and she seemed to take in the bloody scratch on his face.
Mr. Archer nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. Don’t just stand there, Evelyn, get the girl some tea.”
“No, that’s all right,” Gretchen said, but Mrs. Archer had already hurried over to the stove and was filling up the kettle.
Mr. Archer pulled out a chair, and Gretchen sank into it gratefully. Guernsey hobbled over and plopped at Gretchen’s feet. Will continued to stand. He folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware that he was half naked. His chest and arms were lightly muscled and tan from farm work. It was strange how he never felt awkward with his shirt off while he was outside in the summertime, but here, in the closeness of the kitchen with his parents and Gretchen, he felt exposed.
“Has this been happening a lot?” Will asked.
“More lately,” Gretchen admitted.
“You need to take some warm milk before bed,” Mrs. Archer said as she dropped a teabag into a white mug and filled it with steaming water. “Or chamomile. The best tea for calming the mind.” She placed the mug on the table in front of Gretchen.
“I’ve tried,” Gretchen told her. “I’ve tried everything-yoga, meditation, tea, whatever. Nothing works. Not even sleeping pills.” She shook her head, then blew lightly on the tea. But she didn’t pick it up.
“Maybe you should lock yourself in your room,” Will suggested.
Gretchen looked up at him, hurt registering on her face, and Will winced. His words had sounded sarcastic, although he hadn’t meant them to.
“I’m sorry,” Gretchen said weakly.
“I didn’t mean-”
“Will, you’re a godawful mess,” Mr. Archer put in. “Why don’t you go wash that crust off your face and put on something that isn’t covered in dirt?”
Will nodded, happy to have an excuse to disappear for a moment. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”
Mr. Archer retreated to the living room as Will’s footsteps shuffled up the stairs. For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was Guernsey’s gentle snoring. Then a creak and a sigh as Mrs. Archer slid into the chair across from Gretchen. She sipped her tea with a slurp, swallowing loudly.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” Mrs. Archer said into her tea.
“Thanks to Will,” Gretchen said.
Mrs. Archer looked up. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Well.” She frowned, shrugged. “I just don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. I think of you like a daughter, you know.”
Gretchen felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
Mrs. Archer placed her hand over Gretchen’s. Then she leaned so far forward that Gretchen could feel her breath. She smelled the mint of her toothpaste, the sweetness of the chamomile. “I know about Tim,” Mrs. Archer whispered fiercely. “I know how much he-”
Gretchen drew her hand away in shock, but at that moment Will came bounding down the stairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He had washed the blood off his face, revealing only a small scratch on his left cheek. Smaller than the scar on the other side, but symmetrical. Gretchen’s head swam with relief. She didn’t want to discuss Tim. Not now.
Mrs. Archer stood up and crossed to the sink, where she placed her mug carefully. “Will, you should take Gretchen home,” she said, her back turned to her son.
“You ready?” Will asked Gretchen.
“Sure.” She handed the mug to Mrs. Archer, who accepted it like a token. “Thanks for the tea.”
Mrs. Archer nodded, her piercing gaze strangely unmatched to Gretchen’s light words.
Will didn’t notice, though. He just held open the door for Gretchen and let her walk through it.
All the way across the lawn to her dark house, Gretchen couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Archer had been about to say. She knew about Tim. But what exactly had he told her? Not the whole story. That was impossible.
The day Tim died, he had made a confession to Gretchen. She had gone for a walk at the edge of the bay. He had seen her from his bedroom window, and had joined her. He’d looked serious and miserable. And then he told her that he loved her.
“Tim,” she’d started, but he put a finger to her lips.
“I know,” Tim said, staring down at her with his intense brown eyes. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”
She’d felt the tears spill over the rims of her eyes, but she couldn’t answer.
“Does he know?” Tim asked.
Gretchen shook her head.
Tim pulled her into a hug, and he didn’t seem to mind the tears on his shirt, or the fact that Gretchen’s nose was dripping. “You should tell him,” he whispered into her hair.
But she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t risk it. Whether or not he felt the same way, the moment she said something, things between them would never be the same. Gretchen wasn’t ready for that. And then Tim had died, and Gretchen had started to doubt that she’d ever be able to tell Will the truth.
“Do you want me to go inside with you?” Will asked when they reached her door. It was unlocked, as usual. Nobody locked their doors around here.
“I’ll be fine,” Gretchen told him. She wanted to give him a hug but suddenly felt too fragile. “Good night.”
“Sleep well,” Will told her. “Hope the chamomile works.”
Gretchen smiled weakly, then turned and walked into the dark hall. Will started back toward his house. Gretchen looked back to her front door, thinking about her dream, about how Will had fallen over the edge yet landed down the beach… Her mind churned and buzzed with questions that had no answers.
