by Sarah Dessen
I swallowed, trying to pull it together, as I took my phone out of my pocket, unlocking the screen and sliding it over. BAILEY, I watched her type, then the digits.
“There,” she said, returning it to me. Across the table, Mimi was watching us, but I couldn’t read her expression. Half-sad, half-happy, all hard to explain. Like she was seeing something I wouldn’t have, even from the same vantage point. “We’re leaving here at eight. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
After dinner, I went to my room, where I opened my notebook again to the family tree I’d started. SILAS, I wrote, next to Celeste, then drew a line through it. Twice. (There had to be a story there.) I added Amber under Joe, with a question mark, and Anna Gordon below her. So many gaps still to fill, but I was getting there.
Downstairs, I could hear Bailey and Trinity as they got ready in the kitchen and then the screen porch that functioned as their bedroom. There were other noises, too. Mimi’s TV, most certainly showing another fixer-upper show. Jack on his own phone on the other side of the wall, speaking quietly, maybe to Taylor. But as darkness fell and I found myself nodding off earlier than I had in ages, it was those who were not there that filled my mind. Roo first, and the secret, not so much a secret, that he’d kept from me. My mom, in this same room. And the frick to her frack, Chris, gone as well. The past was always present, in its way, and you can’t help but remember. Even if you can’t remember at all.
Six
I woke to the smell of toast.
It was actually the second time I’d been up. The first had been at four a.m., when my dad, obviously so worried about how I was faring that he forgot about the seven-hour time difference, called me from Greece.
“Dad?” I answered, after fumbling for the phone in the dark for a moment. “Is everything okay?”
“What’s not okay?” he replied.
“What?” I said.
“Did you say you’re not okay?”
“No,” I said. “I asked if you were okay, since you’re calling me so early.”
A pause. Then, “Oh, no. What time is it there? I’m all turned around.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I assured him, even as I noticed the little clock on the dresser said 4:15 a.m. Which made this the second morning in a row I’d been awakened by a phone call at this hour, something I could only hope wasn’t a trend. “How was the flight?”
“Good,” he said. “Long. But we’re here now, in a taxi on our way to the hotel.”
“Hi, Emma!” Tracy called out.
“Tell her hi,” I said to my dad.
He relayed the message. “The important thing is, how are you? Is it all right there?”
I looked at the clock again, weighing how to answer this. Of course I didn’t want him to worry. I was fine, just a bit discombobulated. Also I had a lot of questions, most of which he probably couldn’t answer. “It’s good,” I said. “I had dinner with Celeste and her kids.”
“Great.” Hearing the relief in his voice as he said this one word made it clear how worried he’d been, and I was glad I’d chosen carefully. “How is Celeste?”
“She’s good,” I told him. “Raising a cousin’s kid, this ten-year-old named Gordon. Her mom is in Florida. I think her name is Amber?”
“Amber? No. She’s, like, ten years old herself.” A pause. “Or, she was the last time I saw her. Which I guess was about twenty years ago, now that I think of it. Keeping up with your mom’s family always made my head hurt. Glad to know some things don’t change.”
“Guess not,” I said. “Look, I’m fine. Go enjoy your trip.”
“Honey that moon,” he said, chuckling. “Call me when it’s a decent hour there, okay? We’re supposed to have service on the boat.”
“Okay,” I told him. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Emma. Bye.”
I put my phone back on the bedside table, rolling over to face the window. I could just see the surface of the water, the moon overhead. I looked at it, thinking of my dad and Tracy, speeding across a city I’d never seen and couldn’t even picture, until I fell asleep.
And now it was eight a.m., and there was toast, or at least the smell of it. Also, possibly coffee. Hopeful, I got up, pulling on some shorts and a clean T-shirt, then brushed my teeth and went downstairs.
“Morning,” a voice said as soon as my foot hit the bottom step. Startled, I jumped: Oxford, Mimi’s husband, was sitting at the table, a newspaper open in front of him. Otherwise the kitchen was empty, although when I glanced at the toaster, I saw the indicator light shone bright red, signaling it was on.
“Good morning,” I replied. I walked over to the counter, where, sure enough, I found a coffeemaker with half a pot left. Score. “Okay if I take some of this?”
“Help yourself.” He turned a page of the paper. “Milk and cream are in the fridge, sugar’s over here.”
I found a mug, filled it, then came over to the table, finding a spoon and adding some sugar before taking a seat. As I did, the toaster binged cheerfully, six slices popping up. Oxford didn’t seem to notice.
“You want some of the paper?” he asked me.
“Sure.”
“What section?”
I took a sip from my mug. Perfect. “Do you have the obituaries?”
He didn’t bat an eye, rifling through to pull out the local news. “One of my favorites. Always good to start the day making sure I’m not in there.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, smiling at him.
“Do that.”
We sat there, reading in companionable silence, which was a strange thing to do with someone you’d only barely met. But reading the paper I did know, since Nana and I did it together every morning. After all the newness of the day before, it was nice to have something familiar. Of course, the moment I felt relaxed, Trinity showed up.
At first she was just shuffling footsteps, coming down the hallway. Then she appeared, looking half-asleep in sweatpants and an oversized tank top, her pregnant belly stretching it out. She did not look at or address either Oxford or myself, instead just walking to the toaster, where she retrieved the six pieces of toast, piling them on a paper towel, before going to the fridge for a tub of butter.
“If you take that, bring it back,” Oxford said, still reading. She did not reply, instead just going back the way she’d come, leaving us alone again.
The obituary section in the Bly County News—North Lake was too small for its own paper, clearly—was much smaller than the one in the Lakeview Observer. Which I supposed made sense: fewer people, fewer deaths to report. Today there were only two, starting with Marjorie McGuire, 82, who had gone to meet her Lord and Savior the previous week. In her picture, she had a beauty shop hairdo and was smiling.
The fact that I was interested in the obits made my dad uneasy. He worried it reflected my anxiety, fear of death, not dealing with my mom’s passing, or the triple bonus, all three. But it wasn’t about that. When Nana and I had first started our breakfast-and-paper tradition, I’d cared about comics and not much else. The obits were always there, though, on the opposite page, and at some point I’d started reading them as well. Then my mom died. She’d had no obit, for reasons I could never understand, so I got even more interested in how people chose to be, or were, remembered.
Most obituaries, I’d found, shared the same basics. The opening paragraphs rarely gave specifics, other than the person had passed “after a long illness” or “unexpectedly.” Occasionally someone died “at home,” which sounded like it might be a way of saying it was on purpose without using those exact words. The religious ones often contained scripture, if not a mention of where the deceased planned to go and who they hoped to see there. Next up was usually a summary of the life itself, with education, marriages, and children and a listing of career high points. The final paragraphs usually touched on a hobby dear to the person who had passed—travel was big, and volunteering for good causes—be
fore providing funeral info and suggesting where to donate in lieu of flowers.
I always made a point to read each word of every obit. This would be the last way this person was remembered: Was I really too busy to take an extra three seconds to read about their commitment to the March of Dimes? Also, I felt reassured when all the day’s listings were people like Mrs. Maguire, who had lived a good, full life. An obit for a younger person, like my dad’s age, always made me sad. A teen or a child was heartbreaking. It just didn’t fit, like a rule had been broken, and I’d find myself trying to piece together the part of the story that wasn’t told.
When I’d first started reading the obits, they never mentioned overdoses or drugs as causes of death. In recent years, though, as more opioid crisis stories hit the front page, they made this section as well. Occasionally it was spelled out, with the deceased having “struggled with an addiction,” or similar. More often, though, you had to read between the lines, finding the references to battling demons, pride in a previous period of sobriety, or a family request to donate to Narcotics Anonymous.
Would it have made a difference, having a clipping from a paper with my mom’s name and dates, a recap of the things and people she loved, and those who were missing her? It would have been at least more closure than that night outside the building as the elevator doors closed. Maybe that was what I was looking for, all those mornings with Nana and now.
“Morning,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see Bailey come into the kitchen in shorts and a red T-shirt that said BLACKWOOD on it, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Morning,” Oxford said. “You working today?”
“At nine,” she replied. She went over to the counter, where she opened a loaf of bread, taking out six slices and dropping them into the toaster before turning it on. “Why?”
“Mimi’s knee is acting up,” he replied, folding down the top part of the sports section.
“Oh, no.” Bailey came over, sliding into the chair beside mine. “How bad is it?”
“Doc says he wants her off her feet for at least a week, but we all know that’s not happening. You want any of the paper?”
“Horoscopes, please.”
He handed her a section as I went back to my own reading about Wallace Camp, 78, who had passed surrounded by loved ones after a long illness. His photo was from his military days.
There was a thunk from upstairs, then the sound of a door opening. Jack yelled, “Can someone put in some toast for me?”
“On it,” Bailey called back.
“Thanks.” The door shut again.
“I can try to trade shifts with someone for tomorrow,” Bailey said, running her finger down the horoscopes before landing on Aries, which was my sign as well. “But it’s late notice for today.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll work it out somehow.”
The timer sounded—BING!—and she jumped up, taking a plate from the cupboard and bringing it over to the toaster. As she plucked the pieces out, one by one, the screen door slammed and Mimi came in. Gordon was behind her, in shorts over a bathing suit, a backpack over her shoulders.
“Oxford,” Mimi said, dropping a cordless phone receiver on the table beside him. “Answer this if it rings. I’ve got to take Gordon to camp.”
“Where’s Celeste?”
“Early shift. She left at six.” Mimi looked at me. “Emma, honey, did you eat breakfast?”
“Not yet. I’m fine, though.”
“Let me make you some before the bread’s all gone,” she replied, crossing the kitchen to load the toaster up with slices again. “If the Sergeant’s spending his money on this fancy thing, we should use it.”
The toaster being idle couldn’t have been an issue. By my count we were at eighteen slices now and counting. I asked, “The Sergeant?”
“Trinity’s fiancé,” Oxford explained, not looking up from his own section of the paper. “Deployed right now.”
“Where’s the butter?” Bailey, now peering into the fridge, asked.
“Your sister took it,” Oxford told her.
Bailey sighed. “Trinity! Bring back the butter!”
“I’m getting dressed,” her sister replied. “You can come get it.”
“Honey, I’ve got to take Gordon to camp!” Mimi yelled in the direction of the hallway, starting the toaster again. “So you’ll be starting on your own today.”
“Are you serious?” Trinity replied. “I’m huge. I can’t even bend down to get under the beds.”
Mimi exhaled, looking at the ceiling. “We’ll talk about it when I get back. Gordon, come on.”
“Trinity!” Bailey yelled as they left, the door again slamming behind them. “I need the butter.”
“I told you, I’m getting dressed. Damn!”
“You two stop yelling, before you chase me out of my own kitchen again,” Oxford warned.
“Fine,” Bailey said, ripping a paper towel off the roll and folding two slices up inside it. “I’ll eat it dry on the way to work. If I choke to death on the way, you’ll know who to blame.”
With that, she was gone, the door banging again behind her. A beat later, the toaster popped up: BING! Oxford reached over, extracting the slices and dropping them on the plate Mimi had left for this purpose. Then he put it on the table between us, taking one before looking at me.
“You want butter?”
I smiled. “Nope.”
“Wise move,” he said, and went back to his paper.
The two obits read, I pulled over the horoscopes to read Aries for myself. Apparently, Bailey and I were both going to savor something delicious in the day ahead. My thoughts drifted back to Trinity, who was coming back down the hallway, dressed now in shorts and a tie-dye, carrying the butter. She went straight to the toaster, loading it up again with what I could not help but notice was the last of the bread. Suddenly Celeste’s frustration the day before made sense.
“Here,” she announced, dropping the butter in front of me, as if I’d been the one demanding it. I didn’t say anything, instead just picking up my dry toast and taking a pointed bite. I was pretty sure she didn’t notice. “Is Bailey going to come clean today?”
“She’s got to work,” Oxford replied.
Trinity’s expression, already sour, grew more so. “Great. So it’ll just be me turning over four rooms before check-in.”
Oxford did not reply to this. I said, “I can help you, if you want.”
“You?” She narrowed her eyes, as if I was so small she couldn’t see me otherwise. “You’re on vacation.”
This stung, for some reason. “Not really.”
“Well, tell it to Mimi. That’s what she said.”
Oxford glanced at her, then me. I thought he was about to say something, but was glad when he didn’t.
BING! went the toaster, six slices popping up. Trinity retrieved them before bringing them to the table on a paper towel. She reached across me for a knife, which she then used to briskly butter each slice, the scraping sound hard to ignore.
“I’m late,” Jack, also in a BLACKWOOD T-shirt, said as he came down the stairs. “Is there any—”
Wordlessly, Trinity picked up two pieces of buttered toast, holding them over her head. As Jack passed, he grabbed them. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“We’re short a cleaner,” Oxford said as he started for the door. “Mimi’s knee. Ask Roo if he wants some hours.”
“Will do,” Jack said, heading for the door. “Thanks for the toast.”
“Thank the Sergeant,” she replied. “He’s the one who bought that huge thing.”
I looked at the toaster, remembering how my dad had remarked that it was new. Apparently, there was a military aspect to it as well. In this house, even the appliances were complicated.
“Trinity?” I heard Mimi yell from outside. “Best get started on those rooms.”
In response, Trinity sighed loudly enough I literally felt a breeze from her direction. Then
she pushed back her chair, grabbing a piece of toast. Oxford said, “Mimi’s got no business cleaning. Her knee can’t take it.”
“I’m pregnant,” she replied unnecessarily. But she got to her feet, yelling outside to Mimi, “Coming!”
As she left, I looked at the table. Only three pieces of toast remained. On the counter, the bread bag, defeated, was crumpled into a ball. The clock on the stove said 8:58 a.m.
I stood up, carrying my plate over to the sink, which was again full of dishes. They don’t want your help, I told myself, even as the urge hit, then grew, to start washing them. But I rinsed only my cup, putting it on the (empty) dish rack as Oxford grabbed a final slice of toast and the phone, taking both with him as he left. After so much noise and commotion, the house felt so still suddenly, with only me in it and the whole day ahead. What do you do when no one wants you to do anything? I wasn’t sure. But I did put the butter away.
It’s so boring, oh my God. I mean, I’m happy Grandpa’s ok. But I am so sick of hospital cafeteria food and trying to keep my brothers quiet.
It was late morning now, and I’d finally heard from Bridget. Her grandfather was recovering in the hospital, the boys were driving her nuts, and there was nothing to do in Ohio. These were the headlines.
I understand, I wrote back. So glad he’s getting better, though.
Me too. What are you doing?
What was I doing? At the moment, sitting on the front steps of Mimi’s house, wondering how to keep myself busy while everyone else was at work. So far, that had entailed reorganizing my already neat clothes, reading part of an Allies book Gordon had left in the living room—the sixth book from the second series, according to the back cover, but I’d had no trouble dropping right into the mythology—and, now, watching the hotel guests converge on the beach for the day.
Guests emerged with beach bags, wheeled coolers, and more children as they made their way down the plank walkway to the water. They set up camp on the covered part of the dock or the sand, spreading towels and dragging chairs into position as kids were wrangled, protesting the application of sunscreen.
