I caught a glimpse of my sad, defeated daughter sitting at the end of our dock, her hair blowing in the breeze. From the time she was a toddler Amelia had simply looked like a little girl who belonged on this beach, whose natural beauty, golden skin and sun-kissed hair melded seamlessly with the scenery around her. I almost went down to her. But then I saw another child I knew nearly as well sitting at the end of his dock right next door. And I realized that it wasn’t only this place that had taken care of us so well; it was the people, too. The ones that were here and the ones that had passed on, who had left this house in body but who, I couldn’t help but feel, were always here with us just the same. All I hoped now was that this place would provide the same healing for Amelia that it always had for me—and that I could hold on to it long enough for her to find her fresh start.

Greer AUGUST 21, 2015

I DIDN’T TELL PARKER I had an appointment today. I didn’t tell him because I already assumed what the verdict would be. I didn’t want to believe it, but this shit is living in my body. How could I not know? When the doctor came in with a grave expression and said, “Greer, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the treatment appears not to be working,” I just said, “I know.”

You could tell she wasn’t used to that. She was used to tears and panicking, but those aren’t things I really do well. I do stiff upper lip well. So that’s what I did. That’s what I’m doing.

She droned on about clinical trials and alternative therapies, but I already knew I wasn’t going to do any of them. I’m not going to put Parker or my father or my sister or myself through that. I am going to just go ahead and go, on my own terms. I watched my mother’s agonizing death, and I’m not going to let that happen to me. There are peaceful ways to die, places and people who help you do it. That’s what I want, so that’s what I’m going to have.

Thinking about telling Parker breaks me apart inside. I’ll wait a little longer, let him have hope as long as he can. I only wish that I could still hope, too.

Amelia HELL IN A HANDBASKET

JUST THREE DAYS AT HOME had cured me. Okay. So maybe it hadn’t cured me. But it had given me three days to ignore Thad’s texts and calls and to avoid the fact that my life was in shambles. It had also given me three days to paint and hammer and caulk around Dogwood like old times. It had given me three days to drink way too much with my forever friends Jennifer, Madison, and Sarah and to ascertain that I could crash with my Palm Beach friend Sheree and her husband, Philip, until I got back on my feet—after they promised, of course, that they would not praise Thad for following his truth in front of me.