Page 89 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

A trace of bitterness clung to Vivi’s words. But could she really regret any of it? They’d met their uncle. They’d dug up roots that’d remained stubbornly hidden throughout the decades. And they’d found each other again. Neither of them had ever been known for doing things the easy way.

Calla turned to face her sister. “I said you couldn’t let go of me; but the truth was, I couldn’t let go of you either. You are my tether.”

“You’re mine too. A tether can save you—”

“Thank goodness.”

“But a tether can also bind you to the past. Right?”

“I thought we could be us again. TheNguy?ngirls, running through the woods with nothing to hold us back. Isn’t that stupid?”

Vivi’s eyes grew heavy. Residual mist sank onto her lids as they shut. “So stupid.”

“Do you know what Mom told me before she left? She said we love each other best when no one’s looking.”

“That sounds true.”

“You’ve loved me better than anyone else has. And it cost you everything. Can you forgive me?”

“Probably not.”

Calla laughed. She leaned down and, even though it was just them out in the vastness of decimated forest and farmland, she whispered into Vivi’s ear, like she was telling a secret or maybe a prophecy, “You should paint again, VivianNguy?n.”

“Maybe.” Vivi yawned. “You can help me.”

“Bee, I’m not going back.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You should spread Dad’s ashes here in LongXuyên. He’d like that.”

“Spread them yourself.”

Calla touched Vivi’s shoulder, so lightly she almost didn’t feel it. “I’ll miss you so much.”

“I missed you too, Button,” Vivi mumbled.

Only later did Vivi realize that Calla had been speaking in the future tense, while Vivi had been speaking about the past. Forecasting versus remembrance, a disconnect that characterized so many of their conflicts.

At the moment, though, Vivi did not have the energy to consider any of that. Exhaustion overtook her, and she was soon drifting in a safe, reliable, endless ocean of sleep. In her dreams,Tâmand Justine were riding horses through the aqueducts, their laughter swallowed up by the joyful trill of flute song.

It must have been many hours later when Vivi woke to the noises of birds industriously putting their nests back together in the trees. Water still lingered on the ground, but it had stilled and retreated, steadily evaporating in the hot air. God, was it hot. She stretched and sat up.

Could it have only been a day since they’d learned of the sundial? What a conclusion this would make for Paul’s book. If she could paint again, maybe she could also write. The cycle of art and life: creating, destroying, rebuilding.

And what a good story it made for the sisters to tell. Vivi added it to their vault of shared experiences, ones they pulled out to regale friends with, cutting each other off to fill in the details. Acting as witness and editor to each epoch of their lives.

She turned to tell Calla a truncated version of this, or maybe she turned to bicker with Calla again or complain that she was hungry—she wassofamished—but before Vivi could say anything, she felt it.

The certainty, the emptiness.

As she lifted her gaze, she saw what her body had already understood. There was no Calla. Her sister had disappeared again. To Cam Ranh? Back to France? It didn’t matter. She had again leapt out of Vivi’s grasp.

“Fucking Calla.” Vivi lay back down on the roof. But she was fighting a smile.

Once, she would have spun herself into knots trying to find her sister. Now she saw that they had to live apart before they could be together again. All Vivi’s life, Calla had asked her for help. She’d needed her. In this most recent leaving, Calla was telling Vivi that she no longer did. Vivi’s only job was to love her from a distance.

Somewhere along the way, Vivi had finally learned the art of faith. Calla might be running, but she wasn’t hiding anymore. She was running for the love of it, and Vivi had to trust that she would return eventually, her arms open, her boundless heart thumping again in time with Vivi’s. Because that was also the secret to their sisterhood. They might live apart, they might struggle to free themselves of the other person, but homecoming was inevitable. As May would have told them: homecoming is the only real ending to a good story.