I Knew You'd Be Lovely by Alethea Black Page B

“I found her,” I tried to say, but the words caught in my throat, came spilling out my eyes.
Mom. Come here. I found her
.
    Today, Lindsay is sunbathing on a chaise longue that’s older than she is. Its plastic mesh is faded and fraying like straw. It’s late August, and she’s wearing a brand-new bikini whose borders don’t quite reach the high-tide mark left by its predecessor. One tanned leg is extended the length of the chaise; the other is bent at the knee. Her hair, a deep honey blond now, is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing those oversize sunglasses, the kind movie stars wear. Lindsay is seventeen.
    I went away for a few years, packed all my belongings in a duffel bag, sneaked out in the middle of the night,the whole deal. But now I’m back, and Lindsay and I are trying to get along. Everyone acts as if I’ve changed, but I haven’t. Or rather: We’ve all changed. That summer was my first taste of wanting something more, of believing there was something out in the world for me. So I did it. I made my escape. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone else; I was only trying to save myself. Still, when I returned—out of money and out of options—Lindsay acted as if I had abandoned her personally.
    My eyes are on the low range of mountains across the lake. Lindsay’s head is tilted toward the sun. She makes the
come here
gesture with her hand.
    â€œGive it to me,” she says.
    â€œPusillanimous.”
    â€œOh, man,” she sighs. The P’s are her weak spot. “Give me a hint.”
    â€œWhen your animus needs a poos.”
    She bolts upright. “Is this another one of your sex words?” she laughs. “ ’Cause I don’t know what the SAT was like back in your day. But it’s rated G now.” She pats my shoulder. “I’m going to go make a sandwich. Want anything?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” I say, and she walks away, the balls of her feet leaving swirled pivots in the sand.
    While she’s gone, I stare at the old house. It looks deserted. The wood is gray-black, and in many places, it’s falling apart. After the divorce, Mom always said there wasn’t enough money to fix anything, but it seemed as if there was more to it than that. During the school year, when he’s not giving lectures or presenting papers at a foreign university, we still see Dad every other Sunday,and he’s still his same quiet, bespectacled self. But this place feels like an abandoned set where we once filmed some scenes, an artifact from some other life, made even stranger by its eerie familiarity.
    Sarah is studying in Barcelona for the summer, drinking sangria and mastering the language. In her postcards, her handwriting has become curvier. “Barcelona is an extremely humid city,” she writes. “The pickpocket capital of the world.”
    I twist my finger around a thread at the bottom of my cut-off shorts and snap it off. I’m wearing sunblock, plus a baseball cap. Lindsay is the only one in our family who tans. Sometimes, when I’m on an outdoor shoot, I’ll slather on so much SPF 45 that the other assistants tease me. “Step aside, Meg, you’re a secondary source of light.” Or: “Watch out, she’ll cast a shadow.” Especially Ed—he likes to rib me the most. “You glow,” he says. I refuse to go out with him. Mostly I ignore them all and try to focus on adjusting the backdrop and prepping the subject. I have to admit, I like what I do. There’s something about being on the hidden side of the camera that suits me.
    I hear the screen door slap, and Lindsay walks over with a BLT on a paper plate. The smell of bacon takes me by surprise.
    â€œYou know,” she says, settling back into her chair, “Winnipesaukee means ‘Smile of the Great Spirit.’ ” Her sandwich is cut in half, and she hands one piece to me.
    â€œI know,”