Page 33 of Surfside Sisters

“I don’t need his charity. He’s already said there’s nothing else to do.”

“Keely, I can’t wrap my head around this. I’m coming over to see you.”

“Really, don’t bother. I’m sure you have class, and I’m packing.”

Another long silence. Now Isabelle’s voice was meek. “I do have my seminar on the modern novel in fifteen minutes…”

“Go. Learn stuff. Be smart. Thanks for wanting to try, Isabelle. I’ll be okay.”

“Will you really?”

“Of course.”

—

Keely held back tears as she tossed a duffel bag loaded with books into the backseat of her Honda Civic.

She had done it. She had signed the official documents, talked with the registrar, spoken to the professors she liked—some TAs wouldn’t know her or care.

She had forfeited her chance for an education, for more classes on the modern novel or creative writing or even horrible trigonometry.

She had most likely forfeited her chance to achieve her most precious goal.

A couple of dorm friends had helped her carry her baggage to her car. They had hugged her and said they’d keep in touch—they wouldn’t—and rushed off to class.

Now she was alone. Now she no longer belonged here. She’d left nothing of herself here, except her dreams.

“Enough!” she told herself, speaking out loud. Students on the sidewalk didn’t bother to glance at her. People talked to themselves all the time here.

Or maybe she was already invisible.

She opened her car door and sank down into the driver’s seat. She reached into her bag for her keys and her fingers brushed paper. She discovered the envelope in her mail this morning, but couldn’t find a moment alone to read the letter. And she needed to be alone to read this.

No one wrote real letters anymore, but this letter was real. It was on thin blue paper, with foreign stamps. Sweden. She knew it was from Sebastian, and she had restrained herself from opening it until this very minute. Even now, she only held it, touched her name written in his handwriting, brought it to her lips, inhaling any slight fragrance of Sebastian’s hands.

Dear Keely,

I’m writing to say how sorry I am about your father. He was such a good guy. He didn’t deserve to leave this planet so soon.

I’m also writing to say—and I know this is clumsy and probably inappropriate in a letter of condolence—I read your short story in theAmherst Review. I thought it was clever and compelling. I liked the way you made the homeless man seem so real.

I guess I’m writing this because I hope you know that even now when your father is not here on earth to cheer you on, I am. I believe in your writing, Keely.

With love,

Sebastian

Keely read it again. Folding it with great care, she slipped it inside her wallet, in a private zipper compartment. She would tell no one, it was her most important secret, her most valuable treasure. It was a raft in the dark ocean of her life…Sebastian believed in her writing.

She put the key in the ignition and started her trusty, rusty old car. She steered over the curving campus roads, diligently braking at every passenger crossing. She left the vast campus of the university and drove along curving pastoral roads toward the Mass Pike.

She cried while she drove. She howled. She missed her father. She was like a little girl, wanting to see her daddy. She sobbed so hard she frightened herself. She forced herself to stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts to buy juice and a glazed stick.

When she paid the clerk, she said, “I’m going to Nantucket. We don’t have any Dunkin’ Donuts there.”

The clerk’s eyes widened in astonishment. “No Dunkin’ Donuts? Well, that’s just tragic.”

“I know,” Keely agreed. Tears ran down her cheeks and she didn’t care. She didn’t care what anyone on the mainland thought of her. She got into her car and headed off, drinking the juice and eating the sugary stick. The sweetness soothed her.

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