22 North Carolina

22

NORTH CAROLINA

LATE JULY

PHAEDRA

The house at Holden Beach is the only place we ever acted like a normal family while I was growing up, so it makes sense that Dad would choose to die here. It’s a beautiful beachfront five-bedroom, all soft white surfaces combined with cozy rustic shit.

As a kid, I had a conflicted relationship with the Holden house. It lacks the garage and workshop we have in our Charlotte home, so I sulked every year about having to be at the beach. When we weren’t on the road, Dad insisted we spend half our time at the coast—it forced me to interact with the family.

Unfortunately, I usually ignored two-years-younger Aislinn in favor of my beloved textbooks. From ages eight to ten, I constantly had my nose in high school mathematics and physics books. From age eleven on up, it was college textbooks, which Dad would buy for me at a university bookstore.

My mother is pretending everything’s the same, that Aislinn and I aren’t cynical adults now, and Dad isn’t weeks from dying. It’s like she thinks if the throw pillows have the perfect knife chop, the floors gleam, and something’s in the oven, everything is GOING TO BE JUST FINE.

Dad talks a bunch about old memories: funny and smart and cute things Aislinn and I did as kids, memories of his courtship with Mama back in the eighties (her hair is still incredibly high—I think that woman has stock in Aqua Net), memories of his boyhood in Fairmont, all the mischief he got up to with our uncle Skeet.

My whole life, Mo has been a big, jocular, “mostly muscular with a touch of middle aged spread” guy with sparkling eyes and charming laugh lines. Illness has shrunk him. He hasn’t done chemo or radiation because he was told right out of the gate that it wouldn’t help much and might just buy a handful of extra time. He was adamant he’d rather not have a few more months if it meant spending them puking and bald.

The guy is so fearless it freaks me out. Aislinn said Mama told her Dad’s reaction when the oncologist laid out the facts: Dad was silent for about a half minute, then said, All right—let’s get on with it . By which he meant dying, not treatment. Who says that shit?

Edward fucking Morgan, that’s who.

“Girls,” Mama scolds, lifting a steaming pan of striped bass from the oven, “put those darned screens away or I’ll lock them in the liquor cabinet.”

Mama’s a teetotaler, and the liquor cabinet has always been where anything that causes bad behavior goes: fought-over toys, the Tamagotchi Aislinn wouldn’t stop staring at when she was seven, my textbooks sometimes, flavored lip gloss (which she said was “trashy”), Dad’s rare packs of Swisher Sweets.

Hard truths and unpleasant thoughts are “locked in a cabinet” with Mama as well. I thought we’d circle the wagons over Mo’s illness—maybe she’d even call me to talk one-on-one sometimes, rather than just when someone pulls her into their call—but it hasn’t happened.

I’m not sure if that’s awkward or a relief. But any time I’ve tried in the past few months to make direct reference to Mo’s cancer, she scowls and flaps a manicured hand, protesting, “Land’s sake, can we focus on the positive?”

I look up now from where I’m slouched at the breakfast bar on the kitchen island, going over DiL simulator data on my iPad. Aislinn is at the far end, typing on her phone.

“Put away ‘those darned screens’?” I can’t help but sass. “I’m working, Ma—not playing Minecraft .”

“And I’m…” Linn glances up, and I know that look, that pause. She’s going to give Mama a half-truth and is crafting it to fit within the parameters of Technically Not a Lie. “It’s a message from my boss at Charles Schwab.”

Aha. So she’s sleeping with him. Gotcha, you prissy little twerp.

I study her from the corner of my eye, and she catches me doing it and gives me an impatient look—green eyes wide, straight bleached-white teeth gritted in an attempt at fierceness. Her perfect honey-blond eyebrows would be indignantly high if it weren’t for the Botox. (Who gets that shit at thirty?)

I smirk before sliding my focus back to the iPad.

“Y’all are on family leave and shouldn’t be working,” Mama insists, hands on hips in her polka dot Hedley & Bennett apron.

“Daddy asked me to look at this,” I say. “I don’t know about Linn’s excuse.”

“Oh, get stuffed,” my sister mutters.

“Aislinn Augusta Morgan!” Mama snaps. “Language!”

“I meant like a turkey—not something rude.”

I snort. “You don’t think stuffing bread cubes and celery up my ass would be rude?”

“Phaedra Harriet Morgan, really now?” Mama clucks her tongue.

It just figures that not only did Aislinn get our mother’s flawless C-cup tits and teeth that grew in straight without two years of braces like mine, but she got middle-named after our mother’s hometown, whereas I—the lucky firstborn—was afflicted with a middle name honoring a dead grandmother I never met.

Mama stabs a potato to test it. “Phae, wake your daddy and tell him supper’s on. Linny, set the table.”

“Why does she get the easy job?” my sister whines, and you’d swear we were in middle school again. I’m always amazed at how being around our parents infantilizes us.

I flop the cover on my tablet closed and head across the big living room to the deck facing the ocean, where my father is napping on a cushioned lounger. The ocean breeze ruffles his thick, wavy chestnut-and-silver hair, and yesterday’s Sunday crossword is mashed on his stomach under one giant paw, pen on the deck beside him.

I pause to watch him relaxed in sleep, carefree. I hate to drag him back into the world where he has terminal cancer.

I examine his face. Objectively, I know he’s older, thinner, sick, tired. But I lack the ability to see him as anyone other than the person who carried me on his shoulders through the crowds at the track when I was little. I always felt like some powerful queen borne over an ocean teeming with life, and the mingled sound of engines and people was the roar of the tide.

With him gone, I won’t be a queen anymore. It occurs to me with sudden horror that all these years of adulthood—as educated and skilled as I may be—I’ve only felt confident because I knew if things really got fucked up, my dad would be there.

His dark eyes open and slide my way, accompanied by an impish smile.

“Take a picture—it’ll last longer,” he quips. With a groaning stretch he scoots up in the lounge chair.

“Sorry to bug you,” I tell him. “You seemed happy, sleeping.”

“Happier now because I’m looking at you.”

I sit on an Adirondack chair, rotating it to face him. “Mama’s got supper ready.”

He nods, taking my hand as he gazes out at the ocean.

After a reflective minute, he says, “I ask a lot of you, chickadee, but it’s always been because I know you can handle it.”

I give him a smile. “I know, Daddy.”

“What I’m going to ask now is big, but you’re so capable .”

My stomach clenches. Is this it—he’s going to tell me his plans for the team? I’m not sure if he’s gearing me up to accept Emerald’s sale gracefully, or become “head honcho,” as he puts it. Or could it be about Cosmin? Mo’s been silent on the issue and hasn’t mentioned the video call with Reece and Klaus, which was over a week ago.

“First of all, the obvious stuff: take care of your mama and baby sister. Your ma will be lonely.” He sighs. “Thirty-six years is a long time to get used to the way things are. The smiles, the control … She gives the impression she’s okay when she’s not. Dig deeper, you hear?”

“I promise, Daddy.”

“Same with your sis. She needs you more’n I reckon you know.”

I scoff. “I don’t think Linn needs me. She’s the one who’s perfect.”

He makes a comical raspberry noise. “Because she gets hundred-dollar haircuts, and I taught you how to cut your own backwards in a bathroom mirror? That don’t mean shit. She’s still your baby sister, and she wants your approval.”

I nod, though I’m skeptical.

“Finally—and this is the biggie.” He drops my hand and rubs the scruff on his jaw, staring at the beach. “I’ve made arrangements to be buried at sea. There’s a place at Cape Hatteras that does it. The whole megillah—not just ashes. No embalming, no burning. That’s what I want.”

He folds his arms as if he expects resistance. I admit I am sort of shocked.

“Where I come from,” he goes on, “they burn trash—not people. But I don’t want to be buried. Out there, you’re right back in the game. Free in a wide-open world, not tied to a little plot of dirt. Fish eat you right quick, and you’re swimming. Alive again.”

The thought of not having a fixed place to mourn him is paralyzing, but I recognize how selfish of me that is. Of course he’d want to be out there moving around. Mo’s always been restless.

I gnaw at my lower lip. “That sounds like a good plan. But why’s it a ‘big ask’? Do I have to skipper the boat or something?” I joke weakly.

“Your ma and Linny hate it. They’ll comply, but they don’t understand my reasons. You’re so much like me, I know you do. I hope you’ll help ’em to be at peace with it.”

I join him in his scrutiny of the long, gray horizon. I like the idea of him being a part of something so big—the ocean. Every time I go into the water and float on it, he’ll be carrying me on his shoulders again.

My eyes are full of tears when I finally look at him.

“It’s perfect,” I assure him. “You’ll be with me not only when I’m here, but when I’m across the Atlantic.”

He smiles and stretches his arm to chuck me under the chin. “You wander on down to the water and talk to me any old time, chickadee.”

We watch the waves together for another quiet minute. The whine of seagulls feels like an echo of my anxiety, but I keep a relaxed half smile on my face for Mo’s sake. From inside the house comes the clink of dishes as Linn sets the table and the lilt of Mama’s voice, directing her.

“For a second there,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, “I thought you were gonna tell me about selling the team.”

He swivels to look at me, but I keep my gaze on the shoreline, maintaining the neutral mood I hope will make him feel okay about whatever he needs to say. I know there’s probably no chance he won’t sell to Klaus now, with everything that’s happened. It makes sense—I hate to admit it. Better to take the payout and set up the Morgan family with security after he’s gone, rather than risk having his careless daughter ruin Emerald.

“Sell the team?” he says. “Who to? Is someone buying?”

I meet his eyes, and the shock he sees on my face elicits a laugh from him. He shakes his head as if it’s the silliest thing he’s ever heard.

“O-okay,” I stammer, “but I mean, um—”

“I already talked to your mama about it and made the arrangements with Charlie and the rest of the legal eagles.” A shadow of worry clouds his expression. “You don’t prefer I find someone to buy us out, do you? I figured—”

“No— God no. Of course not. I just assumed it’d be, um, Klaus .”

“Klausy?” Mo looks genuinely bewildered. “What would he want with that kind of headache—team principal and full owner?”

“Wait, for real? You guys haven’t been—?”

“Hell,” my dad says, cozying down into his lounge chair with a chuckle. “Klaus started talking about the transition—you as the new owner—the same day I told him I’m sick. It was just a foregone conclusion for him, no question.”

I sink back in my own chair, stunned. Recalling Klaus’s words after Silverstone, I reexamine them: You may soon have big shoes to fill as team owner.

I misunderstood the “may” and assumed it meant team ownership was up in the air. But it’s now clear that Klaus was applying “may” to the “ soon ”—trying to soften the notion of Mo’s death being close at hand.

Holy shit, I feel like an asshole, suspecting him all these months.

“K-Dog’s in your corner, chickadee,” my dad says, reaching to give my hand a squeeze and closing his eyes, the matter settled. “He’s your first mate. He’ll steer the ship all you need, but you’ll be Emerald’s captain.”

It’s Saturday night, and the German Grand Prix starts at nine Sunday morning, our time. Mo and I are going to stream it live, and I know any time there’s a flash of the pit wall—Lars sitting in my place—or a shot of Cosmin’s intense eyes staring out from his helmet during the prerace coverage, I’m going to want to scream.

I’m still having insomnia, even though the jet lag is far behind me two weeks after arriving in North Carolina. Chalk it up to grief over both Dad and Cosmin.

Cos and I saw each other in two remote meetings last week—exchanging coolly polite hellos—and Klaus later told me he wanted to relieve me of all work duties through the F1 summer break in August.

The day after the last meeting, Cosmin texted a heart emoji to me. I wanted to fill the screen with hearts back, but eventually went with a squid emoji, because squid are funny. I have no clue what I was trying to say—I panicked. I haven’t heard from him since.

It’s late Saturday night, and I’m sitting in bed staring at Duolingo on my phone. I’ve been doing lessons for three hours now, and if I ever happen to find myself in a Bucharest farmer’s market, I’m all set—the emphasis on produce in this app is disproportionate.

I just wanted to hear the sound of the language—though it’s not like I’m rubbing one out to it or anything. What started as curiosity hours ago has turned into a compulsion, as if acquiring more words will heal my aching heart. The “gamification” is sinister—I’m chasing points like a lab rat pressing a lever for cocaine.

In the adjacent room, Aislinn’s voice has been droning on for an hour on a phone call that launched with affectionate tones and giggles, then went off the rails. For the past fifteen minutes, my tinny Romanian recordings of The tall woman has an apple and a potato have been punctuated with tense outbursts from Linn.

I hear a thump against our adjoining wall, followed by what’s definitely crying. I set my phone down, listening to the muted sobs. My father’s words come back to me: She needs you more’n I reckon you know.

Ugh, fine. I’ll give it a shot.

I stand on the bed, walk across it, hop down, then go out to the hallway, listening before tapping cautiously at the door.

After a pause, Aislinn calls out, “Mama?”

I stick my head in. “No such luck, Chuck. Just me.”

“What do you want?” she demands, swiping her blond hair out of her face.

I try to lighten the mood with an absolutely terrible Jimmy Stewart impression—we used to watch It’s a Wonderful Life every year, and I know she’ll recognize the quote.

“ Me? Nothing ,” I drawl, hands in the pockets of my pajama pants as I saunter in like George Bailey, looking around. “ I just came in to get warm. ”

“Hilarious.”

I pick up her phone—she must’ve thrown it hard, because the screen has a crack—and plop down on her bed, handing it over.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Not particularly.” She scowls at the damaged screen and sets the phone face down on the night table.

Yep, this was a bad idea.

I pop back to my feet. “All righty. See you at breakfast.”

It’s not a power move—I just genuinely have no clue what to do with her rebuff. But as I cross to the door, she calls, “Phae, wait.” She points at the foot of the bed. “Sit.”

I put my hands into a begging-dog pose. “I can balance a Milk-Bone on my nose too,” I snark, going to perch cross-legged on the bed.

“Oh, eff off.”

“Is this the kind of conversation that requires snacks? That’s what they do in the movies. Should we be eating cookie dough straight outta the tube?”

“If we had any, I’d be all over it,” she says with a wry look. “But you know Mama won’t buy store-bought.”

She rises onto her knees to stretch for a tissue box on the bedside table, and I glance at her impeccable yoga butt, encased in baby blue leggings I’d never be brave enough to wear.

“I’m shocked you’d consider eating cookie dough,” I mutter, “and risk that perfect little size-two peach you’re sporting.”

“Yeah, well.” She gives an unladylike honk into the tissue. “This perfect size-two peach didn’t keep Remington from going back to his ex-wife.”

“Please tell me you weren’t actually fucking a guy whose parents named him after a gun.” Of course I focus on the exactly wrong thing, because I am a garbage sister.

“Shut up.” She smiles around the tissue, so maybe it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.

I take the ball and run with it.

“It’s not a name you could cry out in the heat of passion with a straight face.” I flop my hand against my forehead like a swooning maiden and collapse back on the bed. “ Oh, Remington! Do me like a big funky sex machine! ”

She leans in to deliver a smack to my thigh, and I yelp. She shushes me, laughing, and to my surprise we’re both cracking up now. I grab for her face the way I did when she was little, and finally she submits to my squeezing her cheeks into fish lips.

“Say it or I’ll sit on you,” I demand. “You know the drill.”

Her eyes check mine for level of seriousness, and apparently she decides not to chance it. A sigh whistles from her protruding lips. “Teapot,” she mumbles. “Teddy bear. Butter pecan.”

I release her, and she massages her cheeks with a grumpy glare.

“We did have fun sometimes,” I say, more to myself than to her.

Aislinn snorts. “ No , you just found it entertaining to torture me.”

Well, shit. She’s not entirely wrong. Looking at her now, I remember the gangly, fuzzy-haired pest she was—back when I called her a “stinky little spider monkey”—and I feel bad.

“Sorry about that.” I grab a pillow to put in my lap, and the way she flinches as if expecting me to pummel her makes the guilt even worse. “I wasn’t around other kids. Spending all day every day with guys didn’t train me well for, uh…” I clear my throat. “ Ladyhood. ”

She eyes me. “At least you probably understand men better than I do.”

“ Psh! I wish.”

She twists one of her pearl stud earrings. “Guess we’re both getting our hearts broken.”

“How do you know about that?” A wave of paranoia goes through me. “Did you see something online? Gossip or whatever?”

She scoffs. “You’re not exactly a Kardashian, Phae. The world doesn’t give a rat’s hiney about your love life.”

I can tell she’s getting a certain satisfaction out of taking me down a peg, so I let her have it as payback for the face squishing.

“I overheard some stuff the day before you got here,” she goes on. “A video call with the, uh, who’s that handsome older guy? The one who sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger—”

“Klaus.”

“And the short-haired British lady.”

“Reece. Gotcha.” I twist the corner of the pillow. “What’d they say?”

“I just heard the tail end, before they noticed I was around the corner. Daddy sounded tired when he hung up the call, and he said—” She pauses and shoots a look at me. “He said, ‘I am real disappointed.’”

“Fuck.” My stomach flops.

No wonder he hasn’t said a word. I’m sure the last thing he wants to do with this pre-death family reunion is scold me about the Cosmin debacle. I’ve clearly shut it down, so there’s nothing more to say.

“What else did you hear before they clammed up?”

Aislinn shrugs. “Mama just said, ‘Was she havin’ relations with that boy?’ and Daddy said he didn’t wanna talk about it.”

I giggle. “You do a perfect imitation of Mama’s voice. You have her drawl a little anyway.”

“I do not!”

“Do so. Like how you sorta say ‘tah-rd’ instead of ‘tie-urd.’ I’d probably sound like that too if I’d spent more time at home with you guys as a kid.”

“I don’t have a Georgia drawl,” Aislinn insists.

“Just a hint. But it’s cute.” I reach to prod her on the shoulder. “I’ll bet Winchester thinks it’s dreamy.”

“ Remington , you a-hole,” she says, laughing and throwing a punch at my boob, which I block.

Her smile wilts, and I realize I’m being a self-absorbed dick. I came in here because she was crying, and I ended up grilling her for information that pertains to me .

“Hey, Linny,” I say with an earnestness that I suspect catches both of us off guard. “Ol’ Smith & Wesson doesn’t fucking deserve you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, and most importantly you’re a nice human being. Twenty thousand times nicer than me.”

She flaps a hand, and I grab it and hold it.

“Seriously, Linn. I’m a shitty sister, I know. But I’m going to do better.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m gonna, um, take care of you. I mean, if you need.”

She twists a skeptical half smile. “Why? Daddy told you to? ’Cause I’m a fragile hothouse flower?”

Everything about her in this moment—her posture, her tone of voice—crashes into my memory banks, and the exact feeling of my childhood spills out. My heart wrenches and I yank her closer, flinging my arms around her neck.

“No. Because I fucking love you, you stinky little spider monkey.”