Project Hannibal Kathryn Hoff (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

to trigger the streetlights. Through it all, Sera had been interested and pleasant in public, uncomplaining and helpful at home.

Encouraged, Estelle had embarked with Sera on a road trip. At Denali National Park, they’d spent a day at the grand monarch of North American mountains. They’d ogled bear and moose from the safety of the park ranger bus and even watched wolves flit by.

To cap off Sera’s visit, Estelle had arranged for an even more adventurous jaunt: flying by small plane into Wrangell-St. Elias National Park to stay two nights at the charming Kennecott Glacier Lodge. They’d spent an afternoon touring the eerie ghost town left by an abandoned copper mine and even hiked over the glacier’s ice.

And now, the day before returning to Fairbanks and what Estelle had thought would be Sera’s last days in Alaska, Sera confessed that she didn’t want to go home to New Orleans. She hadn’t even bought a return ticket.

“Oh, Sera.” Estelle gazed at the snow-topped line of ancient volcanos, looking for inspiration—or rescue. “We talked about this after the funeral. We all agreed you’d be better off staying with Gran and Gramps.”

“I tried.” Lips tight, Sera stirred milk into her coffee. “But having me around is making it harder for them. Gran keeps saying how much I look like Mom, and then she starts to cry. Then Gramps gets mad and goes to sneak a drink in the kitchen. Then in the evening, they both drink and start to argue about whose fault it is.”

“Not yours, chérie. And they always drank too much.” One of the reasons Estelle had left her New Orleans home at eighteen and never moved back. Could she really blame Sera for wanting to do the same?

But there were limits. Estelle and her sister Marie had bickered all the way through their adolescence. Estelle suspected that living with Marie’s daughter would be just as trying. As an intern in Chicago, Estelle had shared an apartment with two other young doctors. How well she remembered the stress of sharing living space with other women—waiting for the shower, the mess in the kitchen, the noise in the night. And weren’t all teens hair-obsessed, spending hours in front of the mirror?

“Living together long-term isn’t like a vacation trip,” she said. “My apartment would get awfully cramped for the two of us.” Estelle had lived in her one-bedroom-plus-study for years, and every closet was full. Even finding space for Sera’s luggage—at the moment taking up half the living room—was a challenge.

Sera stirred her café au lait in endless circles. “I know I’m asking a lot. But being at Gran’s house is like living in a mausoleum. They put me in Mom’s old bedroom, can you imagine? I feel like a ghoul, sleeping in her bed. All around, they still have her books, her pictures, her basketball trophies—even her prom dress is still hanging in the closet. Like she might magically reappear and be mad at me for messing up her room. At least with you I won’t be forced to look at pictures of Mom every time I turn around.”

Estelle murmured sympathy, feeling guilty that she hadn’t hung up a couple of photos of her sister.

Sera slumped deeper into her chair. “You don’t know what it’s like. Gramps is angry all the time. He keeps asking if there wasn’t some warning sign or if something happened that day. Like maybe if I’d noticed something or said something or done something it wouldn’t have happened. Like it’s all my fault.”

Poor kid. She must have been asking herself the same questions. “I’m sure he doesn’t really think . . .”

“And those nosy old cats who Gran calls friends? After church, they all come up to me to get a little fuel for their gossip.” Sera’s voice rose to falsetto. “How are you holding up, dear? As if I’m about to cry on their shoulders.”

“They mean well, I’m sure . . .”

Sera’s words tumbled out. “You know what I hate? The way people tiptoe around it. Like a bomb’s about to blow up if anyone says the word ‘dead’ or ‘suicide.’ Especially Gran and Gramps. They talk about ‘the accident’ or ‘when your dear mother passed away.’ Sometimes I want to scream at them. Mom didn’t ‘pass away’ and it was no accident. I wish they’d just come out and say it. She killed herself. Jumped off a damn bridge.”

Estelle sighed. The last thing a grieving child needed was having to pussyfoot around her grieving grandparents. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, everybody’s sorry.” Sera stared unseeingly at the sun gleaming off the mountaintops. “For the last month, that’s all I’ve heard. Sorry, sorry, sorry, like a bunch of damn parrots.” Sera’s hand slapped down, sloshing coffee onto the table. “One word! One goddamn word! What kind of suicide note is that? Her last chance to tell me something, anything, and all she could say was ‘Sorry.’ What use is that to me?”

Estelle was quiet a moment. “No use at all.” Far in the distance, a plume of volcanic steam wafted into the blue sky. A light breeze bore it away, to be lost in the afternoon sun.

Sera shut her eyes and took a breath. “I know, I know. Everyone feels bad. Everyone wants to make it all better, but she’s gone. Nothing will change that.” She looked up, eyes pleading. “At least in Alaska, I could have a fresh start. Nobody whispering behind my back about my mother. Nobody being sorry.”

Christ on a crutch, why does anybody have children? There were so many ways to screw them up, and her sister had chosen one of the worst. Suicide. Self-extinction. What a legacy to leave your kid.

Estelle’s resolve began to slip. “We have to be practical. I’ve got a demanding job. I travel—every other week I spend three days away, seeing patients in one of the village clinics.”

“I’m not a child.