All The Things We Didn’t Say. Sara Shepard

father opened his door and climbed out. ‘You remember Samantha, don’t you, Summer? She’s Skip’s sister’s kid’s kid. Your second cousin.’

      ‘My name isn’t Samantha anymore.’ The girl didn’t move. ‘It’s Sword now.’

      ‘Ah. Well. Hello, Sword.’ My father, surprisingly, didn’t miss a beat.

      Samantha-Sword-snorted. My father told me on the way here that Samantha’s parents died in a fire nine months ago, and she’d been living here with my now-dead grandmother. Stella, my great-aunt, lived here too, having moved from her own house into this one when my grandmother’s health began to decline. This, at least, was what Stella told us on the phone a few months ago, when she suggested that my father come see my grandmother before she passed. But my father didn’t. This was the first time he’d been back here in years.

      My father took a few steps away from the car, squinting into the backyard. ‘Where’s the boat?’

      ‘Ruth sold it,’ Samantha yelled, starting to swing.

      He frowned. ‘When?’

      ‘I don’t know. When I came here, it was gone. She said she sold it to spite you.’ Samantha smiled greedily. I expected her teeth to be gnarled, yellow, overlapping, but they were beautifully straight and white.

      My father ran his hand through his hair. ‘Huh.’

      The screen door slammed, and an older woman tumbled out. Her long reddish hair curled around her head, and she wore cat-eye glasses. ‘Ritchie!’ She had loose jiggle on her upper arms and smeared, orange-pink lipstick. ‘It’s been…my God. How long?’

      ‘I don’t know, Stella,’ my father answered, hugging her. ‘Maybe ten years?’

      Stella hit him-hard. ‘You’re shitting me.’

      ‘Nope.’

      Samantha swung violently, bumping the porch rail with her feet.

      ‘And who are these two?’ Stella turned her over-magnified eyes to me. ‘This your girlfriend?’ She moved to Steven. ‘Who’s this big strapping gentleman? You old enough to date, honey? ‘Cause if so—’

      ‘We’re his kids,’ I gasped.

      Stella sidled very close to us. She smelled not how I thought a great-aunt would-like urine and cats and menthol-but like peanut butter cookies. ‘I know that, honey. I know.’

      ‘It’s very nice to see you both,’ my father said. ‘I haven’t seen Samantha-sorry, Sword-since she was a baby, I think.’

      Stella rolled her eyes. ‘Sword! Now what kind of name is Sword for a girl?’ She looked over her shoulder at Samantha. ‘If you’re going to change it, change it to Trixie. Or Marilyn, after Marilyn Monroe.’

      ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Samantha muttered.

      ‘Where’s Petey?’ my father asked. ‘Is he here yet?’

      ‘He’s around here somewhere.’ Stella pulled out a cigarette.

      Her cat-eye glasses slid down her nose. She looked at my father. ‘Your crazy mother, huh? Had to go and die on us.’

      ‘That’s one way to put it,’ Steven mumbled.

      ‘And did you hear the latest?’ Stella shook her head. ‘The Department of Veterans’ Affairs gave her a stipend for her funeral, for being in the Army Nurse Corp, you know. And you know what she did? She spent every penny. Didn’t think, gee, my sister could use that money to fix up the house, did she? Nope. Had to buy the best casket and everything. Satin-lined!’

      ‘You’re kidding,’ my father said.

      ‘Apparently she made these arrangements years ago. So the money had been spent all this time and we didn’t even know it. Like she even liked the war! I know for a fact she wanted to be back here, ironing things and baking pot pies. She’s even having the military come out and fold the flag and shoot off guns.’

      Steven brightened. ‘Cool.’

      ‘Mom?’ My father scratched his chin. ‘Seriously?’

      ‘You would’ve known this if you visited.’ Stella hobbled up the porch steps. ‘She probably would’ve told you. She never told me shit like that.’

      My father looked down, not saying anything.

      Stella removed her glasses. Her eyes were brown, large, and a little crossed. ‘We should go over to the home probably, huh?’

      ‘We can’t go there until three,’ Samantha barked. She and Stella had a funny way of talking, some of their vowels very clipped and thin. We can’t go thirr until three. ‘Don’t you remember what that dickwad at the funeral home said?’

      Stella looked delighted and punched Samantha softly on the arm. ‘Dickwad! Now, that is an interesting mental picture. Leon is a dickwad, isn’t he?’

      You’ll remember Stella, my father told me on the drive here. She’s a spitfire. But I didn’t remember her. I didn’t remember any of this. We used to go to my mother’s family’s house for holidays. My maternal grandmother lived just two hours from Brooklyn, in a town in Pennsylvania called Bryn Mawr. Her yard was fenced and she had one dog-a bichon frise. When she died, there was a closed casket and a small, tasteful service. We had a brunch afterwards, and some great-uncle made me a Shirley Temple with two maraschino cherries. We didn’t have to do anything like go see the body.

      Stella put her arm around Steven’s shoulders. ‘You’ll love it here. It’s such a nice little vacation for you. Did your father tell you about the crick? And the river. They have these new things, they’re like water scooters. They’re called…oh, what are they called…?’

      ‘Jet skis,’ Samantha sighed.

      ‘Jet skis!’ Stella crowed, holding up one finger in eureka!

      ‘Jet skis aren’t new,’ I said.

      ‘A jet ski chopped off Mason’s leg last week,’ Samantha said.

      ‘It did not.’ Stella shot her a look.

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘It’s all right,’ Steven said. ‘I’m not really into jet skis, anyway.’

      ‘Now, have you ever been on one?’ Stella asked.

      ‘Yeah,’ Steven said.

      ‘No you haven’t.’ Stella put her hands on her hips. ‘These are completely cutting-edge. You’re probably thinking of a canoe.’

       5

      The front door led into a sitting room with two scratchy plaid couches, a worn circular rug, a dingy fireplace and a very old television in the corner. On the mantle was a large, gold trophy in the shape of a horseshoe. There were giltframed, oily paintings on the walls, all of either hunting scenes-dogs majestically pointing at foxes, ruddy men on horseback, a deer, standing dumbfounded in a clearing-or of Frank Sinatra. Frank singing, Frank grinning, Frank with his Rat Pack.

      ‘A sight for sore eyes, huh?’ Stella sighed, as if the room were beautiful.

      ‘Looks good,’ my father answered quietly.

      I passed into the dining room. There was a painting of Frank on navy blue velvet. He was made up to look like a saint, a Mento-shaped halo around his head.

      On the table sat a bunch of framed photographs, a little shrine to my grandmother. I leaned down and examined the pictures on the dining table. The first was a black-and-white snapshot of her in a nurse’s uniform, standing at the edge