The Second Mother

by Jenny Milchman

  “We’re not a family that talks, never have been,” he said. “And the news gets things more wrong than right. You were young when a lot of what happened took place in this town, and I don’t know how much my baby brother told you. Then he died, and if he had been going to put his own spin on things one day, give you a legacy you could live with, that day never came.”

  Julie’s vision clouded, and she swiped at her eyes.

  “I don’t talk about it much myself, living alone as I do,” Vern said, “and I’ve got no intention of changing. This is as much as I’ll ever say, and we’re gonna call it a going-away present, a one-time-only offer, you hear me?”

  Julie bore down on the coffeepot she still held in her hand.

  “What happened to your little girl ain’t nothing like what I did,” Vern said. “You suffered a tragedy nobody could’ve done anything about. The finest policing, all the integrity in the world, would’ve had no effect on what happened to Hedley.”

  Julie couldn’t see her uncle before her anymore, detect his mouth moving. She brought her face down on the cool surface of the table and felt it flood.

  “The burden I live with every day is because I knew what we were doing was wrong, taking shortcuts for all the right reasons maybe, but still wrong to take ’em. And I went on anyway. It would be like if you had fair warning and still took your daughter out that day, except not even because what happened would’ve just occurred someplace else in that case. Wherever you happened to be when lightning struck.”

  Julie shook her head back and forth against the slick surface of the table.

  “You look up at me, little girl,” Vern said, and for just a moment, her uncle was commander in chief again, at the height of his powers, a man no one would dare disobey.

  Julie lifted her head.

  “There ain’t no similarity between you and me,” Vern said. “Except for maybe the Weathers’s gene for survival. Wherever that surviving might take place. And if you feel yours has to take place elsewhere, well, you don’t need my blessing, sweetheart, but you got it.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “One last thing.”

  Julie swabbed her eyes with the hanky. “Yes?”

  Her uncle walked over to the pantry. Its door had been left ajar, in anticipation of packing still to come, and Vern reached in unerringly, bringing out two bottles of scotch.

  “There’s escape and there’s escape,” he said. “We Weathers have relied on this kind too. Papa Franklin had more scotch in his veins at the end than blood.”

  Vern strode over to the sink, twisted the caps on both bottles, and poured twin amber streams down the drain. Then he handed her the empties. “Go where you need to. Do what you want to. Just don’t do it with this.”

  Julie stared at her uncle, restored to his deified state, making moves, rearranging pieces on the board, for everything and everybody. She watched the final swirls of scotch at the base of the sink, and pictured the arid, endless nights before her, not lubricated by the syrupy properties of her favorite fix. Then she gave a mental shrug.

  She couldn’t have gotten those bottles on the plane anyway.

  Part II

  Have Mercy

  Chapter Eleven

  The travel promised to be exhausting. Julie had to make the afternoon ferry crossing, which meant that she needed to be at the airport in Albany, three hours from home, in time for a 7:00 a.m. flight. Staying overnight in a hotel was tricky with Depot. From the airport in Maine, she’d get a Lyft or Uber to Lambert Point, the ferry’s port of departure, and a location nearly as removed from civilization as the island itself.

  Julie studied the route after deplaning in Portland, then asked the driver if he would mind making a quick detour. The plane had landed a little ahead of schedule, miracle of miracles, and who knew what kinds of options there would be on the island? Even if there was a store with decent wares, it probably kept limited hours. She showed the driver the place she’d found, angling her phone so he could see.

  “Not a problem,” he said. The not came out nawt and the problem sounded different too. It was as if Maine were a foreign country instead of a neighboring state.

  The driver gunned the gas, making miles north.

  Julie took Depot with her when they came to the stop, running him around the parking lot a few laps before leaving him outside the store while she dashed in and out. She nested her purchase between layers of clothes in her suitcase in case it got jogged around on the boat, then climbed back into the car.

  Another half hour to Lambert Point.

  Julie used the phone app to tip the driver as he let her out near the end of a long, sand-strewn road. She glanced down at the colorful, user-friendly icons, so much a part of everyday life, as taken for granted as air. Once Julie got onto the water, all signal would cease, and her phone would become as useful for connecting as a lump of clay.

  The driver unearthed her luggage while Julie summoned Depot. The dog staggered a bit as he jumped out of the car, still disoriented from their early wake-up, and his trip in the plane’s belly. Julie noted with a glimmer of guilt that the back seat was furred with silky strands.

  “Thanks for taking my dog,” she said, drawing Depot to her side.

  The car made a U-turn, tires gritting on the sandy blacktop, then drove off with a cheerful honk.

  Julie and Depot had arrived with twenty minutes to spare.

  Wedeskyull and the mountains seemed much farther away than the distance they’d traveled, a life that belonged on a whole other planet.

  Julie stood her suitcase in the road, duffel bag balanced on top of it, and took deep breaths of the tangy air. Salt and brine, seaweed and a fish-market odor. Pungent and not altogether pleasant; Julie supposed it would take some getting used to. At home the air smelled like Christmas—a blend of fir trees and cold.

  A constant cry could be heard: the tuneless singing of seagulls. Julie looked up to see white slashes of wings against a sky so glaringly blue, it appeared Photoshopped.

  For the past year-plus of grief and mourning, Julie had been encased in a rubbery balloon. Kept separate while the rest of the world went on without her. Now, suddenly, it was as if the balloon had popped, releasing her. She was out amongst the living, sounds no longer muted, smells no longer damped. Every sensation left behind a residue.

  Taking her luggage in hand, Julie crossed the last section of road to the dock. The blacktop began to deteriorate, until it lay in big shards and fragments, adhering to the roadbed only by gravity. Julie could see why the driver had stopped farther up.

  Depot leapt over pieces, kicking up his hind legs and panting. The presence of the sea seemed to excite him, blowing off the doldrums of travel. Julie called the dog back. She crouched before him, ruffling his fur and looking into his eyes. “You like it here, Deep? It’s pretty nice, huh? But settle down, okay?”

  A breeze lifted strands of Julie’s hair. The smells grew stronger, positively dizzying, as the sea struck the footing of the dock, its rhythm so repetitive, unceasing, that it proffered a glimpse of eternity. Depot seemed to sense it, or something equally solemn. He obeyed Julie’s command, quieting and staying by her side. Back up the road, cars started to amass, letting passengers out. While before them, appearing as a speck in the distance on the flat plane of the sea, a ferry approached the dock, emitting a long, loud tolling as it neared, an animal bray of its horn.

  * * *

  A rusty sign nailed to a splintery post announced No open alcohol, music only with headphones, life preservers on children under fourteen, all pets must be leashed.

  Julie paused to dig around in her duffel for Depot’s rarely used leash, reassuring the dog as she affixed it to his collar. Passengers began to stream off the boat, and Julie studied them avidly, wondering if she were looking at a parent of one of her students-to-be, a friend she might make, or a neighbo
r. Most of these people appeared to be tourists, though, walking bikes, loaded down by day packs, some with picnic baskets dangling from their hands.

  Depot was overcome by the mix of strangers and scents, jumping at the end of his leash. She had to pull back on the leather strap, using all of her weight while giving her dog a look of apology. People steered clear of him, guiding their bikes in a wide circle out of Depot’s reach, although a few sent admiring glances, and one mother crowed to her son, “Even on four legs, he’s taller than you are!”

  Another man called out, “Gorgeous! Newfie?”

  “Probably some,” Julie answered. She was a bit overwhelmed herself, wanting to get onto the boat and out to the peace the calm sea promised. “He’s a rescue.” Sort of.

  The boat was finally clear, and the people waiting to board formed a loose line, chattering with each other, raising their voices to be heard above the gulls, moving forward without even having to look, the steps so oft repeated, they’d become unconscious.

  Here were the parents of Julie’s future students, her friends-to-be, or neighbors, headed to the island in the late afternoon. Although one or two held suitcases, the rest loaded supplies onto the boat that were more easily procured on the mainland: a pallet of rice, oversize packages of paper goods and supersize bottles of cleanser, even a flat-screen TV and a new refrigerator, all ratcheted down with cargo straps. If the purchases hadn’t given it away, something else would’ve done it. These passengers gave off a whiff of the intangible, an invisible aura of fit. The place they were headed belonged to them, and they to it.

  The makeshift gangplank, a single board, wasn’t wide enough for two, so Julie had to nudge Depot forward, coaxing him to ignore the bustle of people waiting behind, and making sure his broad steps didn’t send him off the wobbly piece of wood and into the gray swish of water. She crossed the length swiftly herself—a touch of vertigo quickening her breath—then paused beside Depot to identify a spot to sit. Rows of wooden benches outside on the deck seemed like they would provide the best views.

  The salt air was dehydrating, and Julie found Depot’s portable bowl in her duffel. She shook it into shape and removed the cap from a bottle of water, taking a gulp before emptying the rest into the bowl. Depot sloshed up the contents, then maneuvered into place, his hind quarters beneath the bench. He laid his head between his paws and fell asleep.

  The ferry gave another loud honk and Julie realized they were moving, the water so calm, she’d hardly felt any motion while attending to Depot.

  She twisted around on her seat to watch the dock recede into the distance.

  Farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until their last connection to land was gone, as invisible as if it had never existed at all.

  It was the loneliest feeling Julie had experienced in a long time. Knee-buckling, nearly bowling her over, except that of course she’d gone through far worse. She suddenly missed her daughter anew, felt every vacancy Hedley had left, and to which Julie had just added immeasurably by abandoning the last places the baby had inhabited. Stinging spray settled on Julie’s face, convincing her that she had made the worst mistake since the day her daughter had been lost. And there was not one thing she could do about it now.

  The boat headed out to sea.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Wedeskyull, the locals had a canard about the weather—that the only thing you could count on was that it never did what you were counting on.

  That truth seemed exponentially elevated on the open ocean.

  As the ferry churned along, Julie started to shiver, a product of both temperature and the resurgence of grief and doubt. There came a rush of cold air, a panther shriek of wind, and despite his thick coat, Depot stirred on the boat’s deck, tucking his paws beneath him in sleep. The bright sky went fleecy and gray, and a chop kicked up on the previously glassy water, forming triangular, shark-fins of waves.

  Julie unzipped her duffel and took out a hoodie. No sooner did she have it on, than she realized that she was going to have to exchange it for her new slicker. The sky was ominous now, greenish clouds gathering. Their shade resembled the color in someone’s sick face, and with a queasy swallow, Julie registered the rocking of the boat.

  The swells it rode kept increasing in height. Depot’s body rolled with the movement of the deck, although he didn’t wake. Observing the other passengers, Julie zipped up her raincoat and drew its hood down over her face. The locals’ timing had been prescient; they beat the sky by seconds. Swollen bellies of clouds gave way, and rain began to spatter the deck, as loud as corn popping.

  Julie wrapped both hands around the edge of her bench, and held on. The boat dove into a gully between waves, then leapt back out again, like a bronco. She freed one hand, clutching doubly tight with the other, while pressing the first to her stomach.

  A wave appeared that didn’t look mountable. Julie watched it approach them—or were they approaching it?—with terror. There was no way such a small craft could take a wave like that and come down on its other side. The boat would pitch over backward, dump all the passengers out into the turbulent sea. The wave loomed higher, like the mountains of home. Julie couldn’t stand to watch. She dropped into a crouch, burying her face in Depot’s coat. Breathed in the smell of wet dog, spat fur from her mouth.

  The boat’s angle grew sharper. Julie felt herself start to slide backward. Depot’s greater heft and prone position aided him in not moving, but he was awake now, big eyes fixed on Julie. She grasped hanks of his fur in her hands. Then the ferry slapped down hard, sinking deeply enough into the sea that water crested both sides of the deck. Julie leapt to her feet and leaned over the rim, losing every bite she’d eaten along with last night’s duo of farewell shots.

  Panting, keeping an eye on Depot, Julie wiped off her mouth with the back of one hand. The other passengers sat calmly on the benches, or stood together at the back of the boat, rain sluicing their sleeves and hoods. They studied the sea with mild expressions, as if nothing about it were surprising.

  Julie fought to balance herself, but the ferry continued to heave beneath her feet. Its range felt slightly less extreme, the peaks and valleys not as dramatic, but Julie was still scarcely able to keep from falling over. She needed to check on Depot, but taking a step proved impossible.

  “Rock your feet,” someone said.

  Julie straightened up shakily, looking around for the speaker.

  A man edged away from the group huddled in the center of the boat. He was dressed in a slicker, boots, and waterproof pants, no exposed part of him so much as damp, while Julie felt soaked to the skin. Rain snaked down the collar of her slicker; the jeans she wore were drenched.

  “What?” she asked.

  Rain blurred her vision, and she had to squint to watch the man demonstrate, positioning his legs akimbo, and swaying back and forth with the rhythm of the boat. Far from appearing unsteady, he seemed to be in control, as if he were moving the craft rather than the reverse.

  Julie copied him, and immediately felt the motion in her stomach still.

  The man gave a nod. “If you move with it, things settle down. But if you fight, the sea will always win.”

  Julie couldn’t make out the man’s face beneath his hood, and she assumed he couldn’t see her that well either, but she gave him a smile of sheer relief. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s a lot better.”

  He nodded again. “First time on-island?”

  Julie felt her cold, wet cheeks heat. “Is it obvious?”

  The man reached toward her, and Julie frowned.

  He flicked a label on her slicker. “Leaving the tag on is a sure sign.”

  His tone was gently teasing—there was a pleasant burr in his voice—but when the man pushed back his hood, no levity softened his features. He was a good-looking guy, black hair that glinted with gray, eyes like the sea or sky when blue, and an exp
ression that Julie suspected often lived on her own face, including just before when the boat had left land. A kind of resignation.

  The ferry steamed ahead, suddenly faster, and she realized that the ocean was flattening out. Vapor rose off the deck in tendrils, leaving behind a sparkle of drops.

  The clouds parted, glazing the whole world in an apricot hue.

  “There she is,” the man said, staring out to sea.

  Julie turned around on the now level deck to watch a hump appear in the distance, like the back of some enormous, curved beast rising out of the ocean.

  “That’s Mercy.”

  * * *

  The ferry threaded its way through an array of boats competing for space in the water. Working boats; these weren’t luxury liners or speedboats for play or sport. Shiny with many coats of paint, lobster traps stacked on their decks, loaded down by coils of rope and blocky tanks. Striped buoys trailed long lines, which tangled amidst strands of kelp, both visible beneath the moving surface of the sea.

  As the ferry approached the dock, passengers began to unzip raincoats and shed outerwear. Julie dropped into a crouch to scoop up Depot’s leash. The bovine lowing of the boat’s horn sounded, and its side bumped gently against the dock, nudging barnacled boards before a wave came up and pushed the vessel seaward again.

  The man with whom Julie had been talking leapt out of the boat, a long jump across a jagged stretch of water, before he came down on the wooden dock. Julie started to reach for her suitcase and duffel, preparing to jump just as Depot took his own leap and made Julie lose her footing. The man seized her hand in his. She registered seawater splashing beneath her, for a second was airborne, then landed on the dock.

  Apparently, such niceties as planks were confined to the coast.

  The man went back for Julie’s luggage.

  “Thank you,” Julie said as he set the two pieces down on land. “Again.”