That summer, when Cole came to Wolf Island, Lucas and I had been alone in the house for almost ten years, and I’d been looking after him all that time. The desire to leave the island—to go back to college—was usually smothered by another force: the need to take care of him, which was strong and palpable, a physical pressure in my chest. Sometimes when I remember those years together alone, I think: we were happy. Sometimes I think: we were dying of loneliness. With Cole, I felt the arrival of a new force in our lives—a new desire—and I had the strange feeling that we’d spent our whole lives preparing for this change.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss. Lucas saw ghosts and went to the lighthouse. I read books and organized drawers. I gave out information, piece by piece. Everyone finds a way to cope with grief. So what if Lucas’s way seemed eccentric? It was only music. It was only light. The cinnamon cookies were excellent. That’s his way, I told myself. He has his way and I have mine. What harm could come of it?

Chapter 8

8

Cole stayed for three days, four days, five. It felt like a miracle—a brother returned to me. And I don’t mean Colin, I mean Lucas. He bloomed and flourished, was confident, happy. It was as though Cole made him into a different person altogether: someone who could interact with the world without fear. I might have worried more about this brotherly infatuation—except that Cole seemed to have nothing better to do with his time than whatever Lucas wanted him to do.

They went clamming, fishing. They went to the movies. Cooked dinner together. I felt like I was watching an after-school special.

I didn’t ask him how long he planned to stay, but he gave no indication he was thinking of leaving. He moved to room eleven at the Island Inn, but there were no ghosts, he said, with disappointment.

“You’re the ghost,” I told him.

Sometimes I thought about what he’d said about dreams, about the Quahog Pit, or about the coincidences with the skipped stone, the way he sat like my mother. Those were strange little flags, asking me to pay attention. But it was so much easier to pay attention to other things. How he laughed at what I said, making me feel funny and bright, like a different girl, someone like Kim. How he asked about the islanders as if they (and by extension I) were fascinating exemplars of human complexity. The way he paid for groceries, made dinners for us. If he was a guest, he was a very pleasant guest. If he was a ghost, he was a sincerely helpful ghost. And anyway, I was used to being haunted.