“Are you okay?” he asked, leaning slightly toward her. She suddenly remembered that night at Char’s party, when Thayer had asked her the same question.
Don’t I look okay? she had teased.
And Thayer had said, You look perfect, as always. I asked how you felt.
Thayer, always so perceptive. She sighed. He seemed to see right through her, just the way he’d always seen through Sutton.
“I keep telling everyone I’m okay. But the truth is, I’m not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay.” Her voice broke for a moment, and she paused. “I’m just glad it’s all over. Until now I was so scared I couldn’t really grieve for her.”
Thayer reached out and hugged her close.
“Thank you, for what you did for her,” he whispered.
“Thayer,” I whispered, close to his ear. For a moment I imagined I could feel the heat from his body, the softness of his skin. “I will always love you. But we both have to move on. I want you to be happy. I want you to live.”
Tears glistened in his eyes. He rested his head on Emma’s scalp. “Good-bye,” he whispered. Emma didn’t have to ask who he was talking to.
37
GOOD-BYE
The next afternoon, Emma stood at the mirror of Sutton and Laurel’s shared bathroom with a tube of lip gloss in one hand, staring into her own marine-blue eyes. It was still surreal, to look in the mirror and see herself. She’d been someone else for so long. And after everything she’d been through, she wasn’t quite sure who her real self was anymore.
Earlier that morning they’d all gone to the farmers’ market to pick out a Christmas tree together. Now she could hear Mrs. Mercer and Grandma Mercer in the living room downstairs, rearranging the furniture to make room for the decorations. Overhead, Mr. Mercer and Laurel’s footsteps creaked in the attic as they retrieved boxes of ornaments. All day a gentle quiet had permeated the house—not an awkward silence but a peaceful one. It was the quiet of wounds starting to heal, of deep sadness that needed room to breathe.
Emma’s eyes darted to the picture postcard she’d slid into the corner of the mirror, alongside all the photos of Sutton’s friends and the concert tickets and the fashion magazine clippings her twin had hung there. The postcard had a photo of the Alamo at sunset, and said GREETINGS FROM SAN ANTONIO in a blocky font. On the back, a scratchy, untidy hand had scrawled only I’m doing okay. —B. It had arrived the day before, addressed to Mr. Mercer. He’d left it by Emma’s plate at the breakfast table.
Becky still didn’t know the truth—that Sutton was dead, that Emma was now here in Tucson with the Mercers. But it was a relief to know that Becky was safe. Emma liked imagining different versions of a new life for her mother: She pictured Becky strong and healthy, putting weight back on her skeletal frame so the severe, haunted look vanished from her face. She pictured her painting houses in bright colors, or selling fruit from a roadside stand, or learning to guide a skiff down the river from some patient, kind mentor. More than anything, she wanted to believe Becky could change. She wanted to believe they all could, if they wanted to.
Her eyes moved back to her own reflection as she raised the lip gloss to her mouth. But what she saw in the mirror made her drop the tube in shock, and it clattered into the sink, forgotten. For less than a heartbeat, she saw her there, a shimmer, a flicker. Sutton.
Her twin stood right next to her. She wore the same pink hoodie and terry-cloth shorts she’d died in, her hair in long loose waves around her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror. The ghost of a smile played around her lips . . . and then she was gone.
“Sutton?” Emma whirled around to look behind her. But even as she turned, she knew she wouldn’t see anyone there. She turned back to the mirror, to her own high cheekbones, her own turned-up nose. The line between Emma and Sutton had been so blurred for so long. Where did her twin’s life end and hers begin?
My sister would have the rest of her life to figure out who she was. But I had a feeling I would always be a part of her—that somehow, we’d changed each other.
A light knock sounded. “Come in,” Emma called softly. Laurel opened the door. She fixed a stare on Emma for a long moment.
“What’s up?” Emma asked.
Laurel shook her head. “It’s still just spooky. Sorry. I know you’re probably tired of hearing that. It’s like you’re Sutton, but . . . not.” She came and stood next to Emma, running a brush through her honey-blonde hair.
“No, you’re right. It’s spooky to me, too,” Emma said, staring into the mirror again. She was wearing her vintage 1970s Tootsie Pop T-shirt and a DIY denim skirt she’d made from an old pair of jeans. She’d braided her hair loosely back and trimmed her own bangs—they’d been in her eyes since she came to Tucson. “This stuff doesn’t even feel like me anymore. But Sutton’s clothes don’t feel like me, either.”
Laurel pinned her hair up in a sloppy bun. “Well, that just means we have to have an identity-crisis shopping trip soon. Maybe this week we’ll hit La Encantada.”
“That sounds awesome,” Emma said. Their eyes met in the mirror, and they both smiled.
“Anyway,” Laurel said, flushing with pleasure, “I think they’re waiting on us to start the tree. Are you ready to go down?”
Emma took a deep breath. This was what she’d dreamed of for so long. A family Christmas. Now that it was here, she was oddly nervous. What if it wasn’t what she’d expected? Maybe the Mercers would resent her being there. Maybe they didn’t want her to come down and help.
“You think it’ll be okay?” she asked, biting her lip.
Laurel raised an eyebrow. “You lived through blackmail, kidnapping, and assault, and you’re worried about trimming the tree? Come on.” She threaded her arm through Emma’s and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Together, they went downstairs.
Mrs. Mercer had hung a garland along the banister already, and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the house. In the living room, they’d moved an armchair to make room for the silvery green fir. Someone had already strung tiny winking lights around its branches. Bing Crosby crooned from the surround-sound stereo, and a platter of sugar cookies sat on top of the baby grand’s lid. Drake—wearing plush reindeer antlers—lifted his nose to sniff hopefully at the plate.
The Mercers were already there, a fire crackling in the fireplace. Mrs. Mercer sat sorting through a box of decorations on the floor, while Mr. Mercer stood looking thoughtfully up at the tree, wearing a bright red Santa hat. Grandma Mercer was there too, her hair perfectly waved, pearls at her neck and throat. Emma swallowed. Grandma still hadn’t spoken to her more than was absolutely necessary.
“Oh, God, they’ve already got ‘White Christmas’ going,” Laurel groaned, rolling her eyes, but Emma could tell she secretly liked it. Mrs. Mercer gave a satisfied little smirk.
“That’s right,” she said. “And after this we have John Denver and Judy Garland to get through, too. ”
Laurel pretended to gag, and Emma giggled. She’d always liked Christmas music—it was one of the few things you could enjoy for free during the holidays. She’d spent plenty of holidays walking the Vegas strip, listening to the Bellagio fountain show play “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” and looking at the lushly decorated Christmas trees the casinos put up. She hummed along now, picking up a cookie from the tray and biting into it.
Grandma Mercer glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Mercer, anxious creases at the corners of her eyes. Mr. Mercer put a hand on her shoulder, some unspoken communication passing between them. He nodded earnestly at her, as if in encouragement. Emma’s heart skipped a beat.