Page 6 of The Edge of Summer
Two months ago, as I stood in line at the post office, a piece of mail fluttering to the floor caught my attention. Without thinking twice, I picked it up. I have no idea what the postcard said—all I remember is the image of the lighthouse standing proudly on the shore. The owner of the postcard snatched it out of my hand shortly thereafter, but I managed to catch the inscription.
Greetings from Kip Island.
I completed my business at the post office in a daze. To this day, I’m not entirely sure that I sent that paperwork to the right place. All I knew was that I needed to be wherever Kip Island was.
Perhaps it was ill-advised to make a drastic life change based on a stranger’s postcard, but I had felt unmoored since the moment I found out about the accident. That lighthouse felt like a tether—something I could reach for to pull myself out of the fog like the ships of long ago.
“Sissy, Sissy,look!”
Again, Sophia points across the water. I follow her finger to where the white lighthouse—arguably what Kip Island is most famous for—juts off the horizon, standing proudly. The reds and oranges of the rising sun serve as a picturesque backdrop, exactly like the one off that postcard.
A promise of sanctuary.
My sister’s little hands grip the metal rail in excitement as she tries to peer over the edge of the boat, and I can’t help but tighten my hold around her middle in response. My mind flashes with images of her falling overboard and me being helpless to stop it. I refuse to lose someone else. Not to mention, the papers would have a field day when they inevitably found out who I am. It’s bad enough that our parents’ accident was splashed all over the news. They don’t need to report that the daughter of British Columbia’s former premier got her little sister killed, too.
“Careful, Soph, or you’ll be swimming with the fish.”
“I wanna swim with the fishies, Sissy,” she says. “I wanna be a mermaid!”
Says the girl that can’t handle her face getting wet whenit’s time for a bath. I’m surprised the spray coming up off the water hasn’t bothered her yet. Though that is due, in great part, to the way the island has mesmerized her. Sophia is probably the only one out of the three of us actuallyexcitedabout this move. When I showed her pictures of the lighthouse, beach and quaint downtown, she wanted to pack her bags immediately.
I smile as I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. While both Parker and I share the same dark brown hair, Sophia’s is almost a white blonde. Our parents’ decision to foster and then adopt her when she was a baby had taken me by surprise. I was the product of a rather eventful homecoming night, and Parker came along as planned ten years later. The idea of adding a baby to the mix when I was twenty-one had been a little off-putting at first. But then I saw her adorably chubby face and none of my reservations mattered anymore.
“If you want to be a mermaid, then that’s what you’ll be.”
I don’t realize what I said at first. Not until my eyes prick with involuntary tears.
If you want to be a photographer, then that’s what you’ll be.
I wasn’t much older than Sophia when our mother said those words to me. I was fooling around with a disposable camera, getting my thumb in all the shots, when she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought about it for a second and then declared I was going to be the best photographer in the world. And she smiled.
I swallow thickly as I try to dislodge my mother’s words from my brain. Simply because I never managed to followthrough. Given everything, a business degree seemed like a more suitable path.
When Sophia looks over her shoulder, beaming up at me, it gets a little easier to breathe. Every time she does, I swear my heart doubles in size. Because it means that she’s happy, and that perhaps I’m not messing up as royally as I think I am.
“Pretty,” she whispers, eyes glazing over as she stares at the horizon.
In the distance, Kip Island, the biggest in an archipelago on Lake Huron, welcomes us. We left the mainland just as the first rays of light were beginning to peek out, scaring the moon into submission. Now sunrise is in full force and I itch for the weight of my camera in my hand, but it’s tucked away in the trunk of my car. I settle for my phone, pulling it from the back pocket of my shorts and aiming it one-handed toward the scene beyond the bow. I snap a dozen pictures before I put my phone away. I hope at least one of them isn’t blurry.
It’s been a long time since I felt the urge to take pictures. Eight months, to be precise. I hardly ever went a day without my camera in hand, but that was before. Before I messed up. Before our parents died. Before I became the guardian of both my younger siblings. It’s hard to find joy in a hobby when tiredness clouds your soul.
The breeze cutting across the lake whips Sophia’s hair into her face. I smooth it back again and secure it in a ponytail with one of the hair ties that are always on my wrist. My own hair is tucked into a ponytail, up and out of my face theway I like it. I hardly ever wear it down, and when I do, I almost always regret it.
The ferry begins to slow as we approach the shore. I can see the lighthouse looming closer, the marina dotted with boats of all shapes and sizes. It’s still early May, but the weather is warm. Even if it wasn’t, the island is charming enough to make visitors forget about subpar temperatures. All the articles I read online said that a trip any time of the year was worthwhile. I hope it’s all true considering we’re going to be here longer than a simple vacation. At least a year, given the lease I signed on our new house.
A voice crackles over the speaker system, instructing everyone to return to their vehicles parked on the lowest level of the boat. I tug Sophia from the rail, setting her back on her feet.
These past few months have not been easy on my baby sister. She is the strongest, most resilient girl I know, but I still worry. That’s why we came here. Kip Island may be charming, but it is also symbolic of the fresh start Sophia needs. The fresh start weallneed.
“Where’s Parker?” Sophia asks.
I glance toward the starboard side of the boat. Our brother leans over the rail, much like Sophia had a moment ago. His hood is drawn over his head, likely hiding the earbud playing music that is way too loud.
“Parker!” I call. “Time to head back to the car!”
For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me. He has grown exceptionally good at that over the past eight months. Thankfully, he pushes off the rail and stuffs his hands in his pockets, making his wayback to us.
Sophia isn’t old enough to know the details of how our parents died, but Parker is. I worry about Sophia, but I’m actively concerned about Parker. I know that sixteen-year-olds aren’t perpetual sunshines and rainbows, but my brother has nearly disappeared and I don’t know how to get him back.
