Two Summers

  I shake my head and smile wryly, imagining us sitting down to some cheerful hot chocolate and croissants.

  “I think I’ll go upstairs,” I say, wanting to escape the mounting awkwardness. Vivienne seems relieved, because she nods and murmurs something about going to the farmers’ market. We stand still for a second, looking at each other, and I can see the worry and uncertainty in Vivienne’s face. Finally, I turn around.

  As I head for the stairs, I hear Vivienne murmur something else to me: “Je suis désolée.”

  I know that means I’m sorry. But what can I say? It’s okay, no worries, all is well, ça va? So I say nothing. I keep on climbing the stairs, knowing that Vivienne is watching me go. As I reach the landing, I glance anxiously at Eloise’s shut door. I don’t exhale until I get inside my medieval chamber and close my own door.

  Keep busy, I tell myself, grabbing my empty suitcase from the corner and unzipping it. I yank open one of the rickety drawers and pull out a handful of tank tops. As long as I’m in motion, the darkness can’t swallow me. I can’t fret too much about what will happen once Dad gets back to the house and we have to talk again.

  I’m packing my tote bag—passport, wallet, creased magazines left over from the flight, chewing gum—when there’s a knock on my door. I freeze.

  “Dad?” I say, and then I mentally kick myself, wishing I’d called him Ned. That would get across how separate I feel from him.

  The knob turns and the door opens. But it’s not Ned Everett. It’s Eloise.

  “Hey,” she says stiffly, like it’s any other day. Except, on any other day, Eloise would not come by my room to say anything at all.

  “Hey,” I echo, just as stiffly, holding the pack of gum in my clammy palm.

  She stands there, her arms dangling at her sides, the same way she posed in that poppy field five years ago. Her expression, too, is childlike: at once open and wary. Not her usual sneer. Also, her golden curls are matted and tangled, and there are bags under her eyes. Her white sundress is wrinkled, like she slept in it—or didn’t sleep, according to Vivienne—and her pink nail polish is chipped.

  It’s undeniably satisfying, seeing her looking less than perfect.

  But as I study her, I feel a pit form in my stomach. Because I see something else. I see the resemblance. What Jacques was talking about. It’s subtle, but it’s there, from the shape of her shoulders to the arch of her eyebrows to the way her hair—a lighter shade, more manageable in texture, but still, somehow, the same as mine—frames her face.

  We look alike.

  I take a step back, shaking. Eloise had always seemed sort of eerie to me. Maybe because I’d sensed, deep down, that if I looked at her too closely, I would see what I’m seeing now. Maybe the truth had been haunting me all along. But it had felt safer to bury my suspicions and wonderings, instead of exposing them to the light.

  Eloise steps forward. Then she glances at my bed, where some of my belongings are spread out and my tote bag sits open.

  “Where are you going?” she asks me, frowning. “Are you leaving?”

  “What’s it to you?” I snap, whipping around and dropping the pack of gum into my tote bag. I wish she would leave the room.

  “Fine,” she snaps back, her old huffiness returning. “Excuse me for caring. I wanted to see how you were doing, after—” She pauses, and I hear her breath hitch.

  My heart feels tight, like a fist. “How do you think I’m doing?” I mutter.

  Eloise sighs. I expect her to turn around and finally leave me be. Instead, she sits down on the corner of my bed, gingerly moving aside my South of France guidebook, which I guess I no longer really need.

  I bristle. I consider telling Eloise to get up and get out. But then a resignation like fatigue washes over me. I sigh and sit down, too, although not right beside her. My camera forms a divider between us. We are both silent for a long while, as the birds chirp outside in the garden.

  “When did you first find out?” I ask her, staring ahead at the cracked mirror.

  Eloise picks at the chipped polish on her thumb. “I don’t remember exactly,” she says. “I always just … knew. Ever since I was very young. It was … in the open.”

  I glance at her, uncomprehending. “You always just knew,” I echo in shock. I try to imagine a life in which I was blithely aware of my father’s other family, across the ocean. “That he had … That there was … ” I trail off, language failing me.

  Eloise nods. “When I was little, he—” She shoots me a questioning look, checking to see if I am okay with her directly mentioning Dad. I don’t protest, so she continues. “He was in America most of the time. I understood that he was with you and your mother then. I accepted it as normal.”

  “Until … ” I fill in for her, sensing what’s coming.

  Eloise resumes picking at her polish, like it’s a serious task she must complete.

  “As I got older, I became uncomfortable with it,” she explains in a rush. “I had never told any of my friends, and I realized why: It felt sort of shameful. But I also became curious. About you.” She peers at me again, her cheeks red.

  I redden, too. I picture a young Eloise—the girl from Fille—wondering about me, while I was doing my homework and having sleepovers with Ruby and bicycling up and down Greene Street, completely unaware of any girl in France.

  “What did you know?” I ask. I glance down at our bare feet, side by side on the wooden floor. Our toes are the same, I notice; long and thin. Unbidden, the word sister springs into my head and I forcefully push it out.

  Beside me, Eloise shrugs. “I knew your name, and that you lived somewhere in New York. That was all. I looked you up online, on social media and stuff, but everything was set to private. I tried asking him for more details, but he never said much. Only that it was a secret, and you didn’t know about me. So I couldn’t ever contact you.”

  She lets out a shaky breath, frowning. I wonder what’s worse—a secret being kept from you, or you yourself being the secret.

  “Then,” she goes on, returning to her must-destroy-polish task, “one day this spring, he told us that you were coming. He said that you would be staying at our house in Provence for the summer, and he would tell you the truth.”

  I flinch. Our house. I peer outside at the blooming garden. This was never just Dad’s house, but his house with Vivienne and Eloise.

  “Suddenly,” Eloise continues, the words pouring out of her, “you seemed real. Too real. I got scared.” She looks up, her blue eyes very big. “There were all these rules put into place. My mother and I were not supposed to say anything to you. It had to come from … him. We had to pretend like we were visitors, in our own home. My whole life would be upended. I began to hate that you were coming. I began … ”

  She pauses, and I wonder if she’s searching for the right words. I’ve noticed that her French accent has emerged more, the longer she’s been speaking, though her English is still fluid. But of course it is. She has an American father.

  “I began to hate you,” she finishes.

  She holds my gaze, and her expression is so raw and pained and real that I can’t look away. I feel stung but I also understand. I would have hated me, too. I hate Eloise after all. Or do I?

  At last, I break our staring contest and peek over at my dead phone on the bed. “I wasn’t supposed to come, you know,” I say. I run my finger down the phone’s blank, innocent face. “He called to stop me but it was … too late.”

  “I know,” Eloise says quietly. She studies her thumbnail. “When he was leaving for Berlin, he told us that he was going to postpone your visit. I was so relieved.” She rips off the whole strip of polish, leaving her nail exposed. “It was like this emotional roller coaster. I’d been crying on and off, for weeks. And I usually don’t cry very much—”

  “Me neither,” I cut in. “Except for this summer, I guess.”

  Eloise gives me a tiny smile, and I wonder if she’s feeling choked up now, like I am. I r
emember her crying in the shower.

  “So I arrived,” I say, fitting the puzzle together, “and you weren’t expecting me?”

  She shakes her head vigorously, her hair getting in her eyes. “And I felt really … resentful. You were like some creature from a story I had heard growing up, and then you appeared in my house.”

  I snort. “A creature? What, like an ogre?”

  Eloise smiles again, that tiny, hesitant smile. “Not at all,” she says. “You were so pretty.” I open my mouth in disbelief but she keeps talking, too quickly for me to interrupt. “And smart, and you came in acting like you owned the place. I remember when we were in the studio, when you said something about being there first. That made me so upset. Even though I guess you are the first—”

  She pauses, and glances at me. The firstborn, I know we are both thinking, linked in the moment of discomfort. Then Eloise goes on.

  “And my mother, she wanted me to be nice and welcoming to you, but I could not. It seemed like you were there to take what was mine.” Eloise throws up her hands. “You even took Jacques!”

  I blink at her. “Jacques—was yours?” I say.

  She shrugs, her face flushing. “No. We did not date. But I liked him,” she admits, her blush deepening. “Even though I’d been coming to Les Deux Chemins for many years, I only met Jacques this summer. I would go to Café des Roses with my friends after art class, and he always flirted with me. I thought … ” She shrugs again.

  I pick up my camera from where it sits between us and turn it over in my hands. “Jacques is not mine, either,” I tell her, a little sadly. “At least, not anymore. Or maybe he never really was. I get the sense he likes to flirt with a lot of girls,” I add, thinking out loud.

  Eloise rolls her eyes. “A lot of French guys do,” she says. “It is … how do you say it? A blessing, and a curse?”

  In spite of everything, I laugh. Eloise laughs, too, a real laugh, not a snarky one. I remember how she looked on the night of the fireworks, relaxed and happy. I feel as if the curtain is peeling back, showing me the other Eloise, the one I haven’t met yet.

  There’s a knock on my door. I realize I never shut it once Eloise came in, and I turn my head to see Dad standing in the threshold.

  “Hi, girls,” he says softly.

  He looks exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and his face drawn, his chin dark with stubble. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, and his hair is sticking up in the back. But as he regards me and Eloise sitting on the bed, he smiles. I wonder if he ever imagined he would see the two of us together.

  “I’m so glad you returned, Summer,” he says. “Would you like something to eat?”

  Now his fatherly instincts are kicking in. I shake my head, gripping my camera.

  “Okay.” He nods at me, clearly picking up on my simmering frustration. “If you want to talk, I will be in the studio.” He nods at Eloise as well. “I’ll see you girls later.”

  He leaves but his presence looms over the room. I let it sink in that Eloise and I share him. He is our father. He always will be.

  “What do you call him?” I ask Eloise after we’ve been quiet for a moment.

  “Papa,” she replies. She fidgets, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “You?”

  “Dad, I guess.” I shrug. “Although I’m thinking of switching to ‘Ned.’ ” I flip over my camera and press the button that allows me to see the most recent photograph I took. It’s a nighttime shot of Boulevard du Temps, the stores lit up and sparkly.

  “Can I see that?” Eloise asks. She shifts closer to me on the bed. I tense up, prepared to move away, but I don’t. I angle the camera so that she can look at the screen.

  “C’est cool,” Eloise says, sounding a bit like Jacques. She tilts her head approvingly. “Do you have more?”

  I begin scrolling backward. All the pictures I’ve taken in France appear, in reverse order, like a time machine: the azure ocean waves in Cannes; Jacques, leaning against his parked moped, grinning; the bridge in Avignon; cypress trees and sunflowers; the field of poppies …

  I stop there. My breath catches. I glance at Eloise, wondering if either of us will address the epic awkwardness of those poppies, of the painting.

  If Eloise is thinking about Fille, though, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she glances up at me, her eyes wide. “Summer,” she says. “These are incredible photographs.”

  I turn off the digital readout, feeling self-conscious. “Thanks,” I say. “But they’re not that special. It’s kind of a fancy camera, and anyone can take pictures—”

  “Not anyone,” Eloise says firmly, shaking her head. “Trust me. My parents are painters. I mean—you knew that.” She reddens, but then she moves on. “I’ve been taking art classes my whole life, basically. I’m not that good, though my mother wants me to be.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, the point is, I know an artist when I see one.”

  “An artist?” I repeat. I give an incredulous laugh, and then I notice that Eloise is serious. “Oh,” I say. “You’re serious.”

  She nods. “You should display your photos somewhere,” she tells me.

  I laugh again. “Where? On Instagram?” But as I say it, I wonder if that’s not a bad idea. Maybe my photos are better than I thought. I feel a small flash of pride. Maybe people would want to see them, see the story of my summer so far.

  “I love Instagram,” Eloise says. Then, casting a sidelong glance at me, she adds, a little tentatively, “Want to add me on there?”

  “Okay,” I reply, also tentative. “Is your last name Everett?” I ask, bracing for the answer.

  Eloise shakes her head. “LaCour,” she tells me, smiling. “My mother was very firm about that.”

  I smile back. Eloise LaCour, I think. Nice to meet you.

  Eloise’s smile fades and I wonder if she, like me, is realizing that this beginning of sorts is also an end. “So you’re going back to New York?” she asks, looking down at my packed suitcase on the floor. “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure,” I reply, and it feels good and declarative to say that.

  “Do you think you’ll return to Les Deux Chemins?” Eloise asks, and I shrug. I truly don’t know. “Or maybe you will come to Paris?” she offers.

  Paris. Right. Where Dad lives when it’s not summer. Where Eloise and Vivienne are, too. “Maybe,” I say. I can’t think about that yet. Any of it.

  “I’m so sorry,” Eloise says softly. She glances from my suitcase to me, and her eyes are teary. “For how I treated you this summer. That’s not actually—me.”

  “I think I see that now,” I say. I bite my lip to keep my own eyes from welling. My heart seems to open, a hand unclenching. I remember when I thought that Eloise was like Skye Oliveira; it’s not such an easy comparison to make now. Unless Skye herself is more complicated than she appears. That could very well be the case.

  Eloise hurriedly gets to her feet, dabbing at her eyes. “I’ll let you finish packing,” she tells me. Clumsily, she bends down and gives me a one-armed hug, one I’m too startled to return in time. Then she starts for the door.

  “Wait,” I say after her. “I meant to say—before. I’m not that pretty. You are.”

  Eloise smiles at me, tilting her head to one side. “Well, we are half sisters, non?”

  Sisters. This time, I let the word stay in my head. Half sisters. Such a funny expression, like something in two pieces. But it’s what Eloise and I are.

  She walks out, and I hear her go back into her room. I stand up and, for a minute, study myself in the fractured mirror. I feel a rush of inspiration and I bring my camera to my eye. I take a picture of my broken reflection.

  Then I have an idea. I sort through the stuff on my bed, finding the cord I need to attach my camera to a computer. I tap on Eloise’s door and ask her if I can borrow her phone, promising to give it back right away. She looks only a little hesitant as she hands her cell over. I thank her profusely and bring her phone, my camera, and the cord downstairs
to the living room.

  I sit at the desk and attach the camera to the computer. Outside, the sky is a brilliant blue over Rue du Pain. I email all the photos to myself, and, with a few swipes and clicks, use Eloise’s phone to upload the pictures to Instagram: my first post since leaving Hudsonville.

  As each photo appears onscreen—the shots I took from the cab; my cool, broken-up self-portrait—I feel a sense of satisfaction, like I’ve completed something that I was meant to complete.

  I’m writing captions when I notice that one of my pictures—the self-portrait—has already received a “like” and a comment.

  From Hugh Tyson.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Amazing picture, Summer, he has written. I’m taking a photography course for the first time. We should compare notes one day.

  I feel my face warm up. What does that mean? Does he think I’m taking a photography course, because of all my pictures?

  Does he want to hang out?

  I click over to Hugh’s profile, as if that will give me some clues. His most recent picture, uploaded minutes ago, is of what looks like a hotel room window, facing the white dome of the Capitol Building. Wide awake in the middle of the night, writing bad poetry in our nation’s capital, the caption reads. Just as the Founding Fathers intended.

  I smile. I’m not sure I realized before that Hugh was funny. I never really got to know him at all. I wonder why he’s in Washington, D.C., now.

  And then I feel a surge of bravery. I “like” his picture, and type under it: So. Are you about to meet the president or something?

  I sit back in the chair, a little proud of myself, a little disbelieving. But I know that the next time I see Hugh, I won’t be so shy or skittish around him anymore.

  A second later, a response pops up beneath my comment. My belly flips. Hugh wrote back! I guess he’s online right now, across the ocean.

  Haha, not quite, he’s written. Boring parent stuff. Looks like your summer is more interesting … ?

  I realize I’m grinning. Somehow, impossibly, I’m talking to Hugh Tyson. And I’m doing okay at it! I could respond to his response, and keep the conversation going. But I decide I’ll let it be for now. Hope swells in me. Maybe Hugh and I can continue the conversation in Hudsonville. In person. Maybe that would be even better.