The House Above the Sea

38.

Kit should be happy, he thinks. All he wanted for the last eight years of his existence was to be back here, standing in the front lawn of his home, his parents waiting behind the four-paneled front door. But now that he is here, he and Elsie lingering by the fence, the contemporary-designed house seeming to watch them like a wise judge, he can scarcely breathe.

Kit lets out a wobbly breath and lowers himself to a crouch, his shoulders against the fence, arms tense around his stomach. He stares at the ground and blinks tears from his eyes and tries to convince himself there is no reason, no reason at all, to panic.

But still, he's panicking.

A soft hand brushes his cheek, and he looks up into the face of his sister, who's kneeling in front of him. "Kit?" she says, and sighs. "It's okay. You can take as long as you need."

Kit pushes out another labored breath, and buries his face in his knees. "I'm sorry. I just—all of this is really hitting me now, and I need a sec. Sorry."

For a second, Elsie says nothing. Then she asks, her voice low and cautious, "What is it you're so worried about?"

"They think I'm dead," Kit says, lifting his head. Even this early in the morning—he and Elsie had spent the night in the hospital waiting room, as he'd been putting off his return home as long as possible—the day is humid and sticky. Kit's hair clumps on his forehead, his skin clammy with sweat. "They had a memorial for me, right? So they think I'm dead. What if I walk in there and they don't think it's me? That I'm just...someone impersonating their son, or something? What if they kick me out, or—"

"Kit, are you serious?"

He presses his lips into a pout. "Yes."

"You're their son," Elsie says, fiddling with the seashell necklace at her throat, then reaching out and tapping the matching one around Kit's neck. "Of course they'll know it's you, and they're going to be overjoyed."

Kit scrubs a hand underneath his eyes, holding his sister's gaze. "You think so?"

She smiles. The brightness of it chases away the fear that was clamoring inside him. "I know so."

With that, Elsie stands again, dusting off her knees. She offers Kit her hand, and he takes it, pulling himself upright.

"Not that it would be particularly hard to impersonate you," Elsie adds as they start down the brick walkway, which is decorated with a motley of flowering weeds. "All you have to do is be like Ooh, I like art, and also Neo."

Kit shoves her. "Says the one dating a basketball star."

"Hey!" Elsie looks up at him, her face flushing. "We're not dating!"

"Yet."

"Watch it, you piece of—"

At that very convenient moment, the creak of the front door opening interrupts them, and Kit looks up at his mother for the first time since the day he was cursed.

The first thing that strikes him is how tired she looks: a timeless, undeniable exhaustion worn into the fine lines of her face, her cheeks blotchy as if her skin is well-saturated with tears. Her eyes are distant, colder than he remembers them, and her black hair has gone silver at the temples.

She gapes at him, leaning against the door as if she can't stand without it. Kit should say something. He knows he should say something, but he is lost, caught in this poignant gaze his mother is giving him, as if he's something ethereal: a miracle in human form.

Kit's throat tightens, the back of his eyes beginning to sting. Where are the words? He'd thought about what he was going to say when he saw his parents again, just as he'd thought about what he was going to say to Elsie. But here, looking his mother in the face, they're lost on him.