by Nancy Thayer
Keely straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “I wasn’t thinking of a bank. I was thinking of a personal loan.”
His face was stone. “I suggest you forget that idea. Loaning money to friends only leads to trouble. I always advise against it.”
How can you do this? Keely wanted to cry. How can you be so cold?
“Keely.” Quietly, her mother reached over and held her hand.
“If you had an income,” Mr. Maxwell continued, his tone neutral and formal, “you could help your mother keep the house.”
Keely stared at Isabelle’s father. More than anything, she wanted to help her mother. She also wanted to retain some semblance of dignity.
Keely turned toward her mother. “I’ll move back here and work. I’m sure I can help with the finances.”
Her mother gave Keely a heartbroken, heartbreaking look. Her sweet mother, so strong and caring for her patients, was broken now.
Mr. Maxwell spoke gently. “It is an option, Keely.”
Desperately, Keely said, “But maybe you could change from a fifteen-year mortgage to a thirty-year mortgage and then the payments wouldn’t be so high every month.”
Eloise managed a weak smile. “What a smart girl you are, Keely. Your father and I used to wonder where on earth you got all your brains. Yes, you’re right about that. But a few years ago we switched to a thirty-year mortgage.”
So, Keely thought, there was no other way. She forced herself to sound confident. “I’ll come just for a year. While you recover from losing Dad—not that you’ll ever really recover, I don’t mean that—I’ll live with you and work two jobs and help pay the mortgage. Right, Mom?”
“Oh, Keely.” Her mother’s face was pinched with regret.
Mr. Maxwell spoke up. “Good for you, Keely. You’re young, energetic. And of course, you could finish your last years of college later. Maybe take some courses online.” A kind of satisfaction ran through his words.
Keely stared at Mr. Maxwell, searching his face for a gleam of malice. Had Keely ever believed that Mr. Maxwell really cared for her, about her, because she was Isabelle’s best friend, because they did everything together? You wouldn’t ask Isabelle to leave college, Keely wanted to hiss, but of course that was irrelevant. It was demeaning, humiliating, to sit here like this with a man she’d unintentionally thought of as, maybe not a father figure, but close to that, an adult who saw that Keely was special, set apart from the crowd, because Keely was his daughter’s best friend.
But really, it didn’t matter what Mr. Maxwell thought. What mattered was her mother, who had lost her husband and now had to face the world alone. She studied her mother, who had dropped at least five pounds in the past few days, and looked drawn and withered and frail. Eloise had never been frail. But these were exceptional circumstances, Keely realized. She had to help her mother.
Keely reached over and took her mother’s hand. “Mom, let’s do it. I mean, I’ll do it. We can figure out our finances, and how much we need to meet the mortgage and living expenses. I always make a pile babysitting and house cleaning. We’ll be very Swiss Family Robinson and live on twigs and snails and pay off some of that mortgage.”
Eloise looked at Keely. “Oh, darling. You are such a wonderful daughter.”
“You are, Keely,” Mr. Maxwell agreed. “You should be very proud of yourself.”
“Thank you,” Keely said. But she didn’t feel proud. She felt destroyed.
“But that can’t be right!” Isabelle cried.
Cell phone against her ear, Keely lay on her bed in her UMass dorm—for the last time. She was taking a break from packing up, preparing to leave the university and return to the island.
“Lots of people drop out for lots of reasons,” Keely replied. Her best friend’s shock and indignation pleased her. It was how Keely felt, and good Lord, it helped to have someone on her side.
“I’ll talk to Dad,” Isabelle declared, righteousness strong in her voice. “He’ll figure something out.”
At that, Keely’s heart sank. With those words, Keely knew she really was all alone, and her gratitude toward Isabelle for sharing her outrage vanished. What a child Isabelle was, thinking her father would fix everything. How fortunate Isabelle was, to have everything, always, and to be able to count on that.
“Your father knows. He agrees that I should drop out.” Keely heard the bitter triumph in her voice, as if she, Keely, had somehow won a point. When really, she was losing everything.
For a long moment, Isabelle was silent. “Keely, listen. Wait. I’m too upset to think straight. We could loan you money. Let me ask Dad—”
“Absolutely not!”
“But—”
“I don’t need his charity. He’s already said there’s nothing else to do.”
“Keely, I can’t wrap my head around this. I’m coming over to see you.”
“Really, don’t bother. I’m sure you have class, and I’m packing.”
Another long silence. Now Isabelle’s voice was meek. “I do have my seminar on the modern novel in fifteen minutes…”
“Go. Learn stuff. Be smart. Thanks for wanting to try, Isabelle. I’ll be okay.”
“Will you really?”
“Of course.”
* * *
—
Keely held back tears as she tossed a duffel bag loaded with books into the backseat of her Honda Civic.
She had done it. She had signed the official documents, talked with the registrar, spoken to the professors she liked—some TAs wouldn’t know her or care.
She had forfeited her chance for an education, for more classes on the modern novel or creative writing or even horrible trigonometry.
She had most likely forfeited her chance to achieve her most precious goal.
A couple of dorm friends had helped her carry her baggage to her car. They had hugged her and said they’d keep in touch—they wouldn’t—and rushed off to class.
Now she was alone. Now she no longer belonged here. She’d left nothing of herself here, except her dreams.
“Enough!” she told herself, speaking out loud. Students on the sidewalk didn’t bother to glance at her. People talked to themselves all the time here.
Or maybe she was already invisible.
She opened her car door and sank down into the driver’s seat. She reached into her bag for her keys and her fingers brushed paper. She discovered the envelope in her mail this morning, but couldn’t find a moment alone to read the letter. And she needed to be alone to read this.
No one wrote real letters anymore, but this letter was real. It was on thin blue paper, with foreign stamps. Sweden. She knew it was from Sebastian, and she had restrained herself from opening it until this very minute. Even now, she only held it, touched her name written in his handwriting, brought it to her lips, inhaling any slight fragrance of Sebastian’s hands.
Dear Keely,
I’m writing to say how sorry I am about your father. He was such a good guy. He didn’t deserve to leave this planet so soon.
I’m also writing to say—and I know this is clumsy and probably inappropriate in a letter of condolence—I read your short story in the Amherst Review. I thought it was clever and compelling. I liked the way you made the homeless man seem so real.
I guess I’m writing this because I hope you know that even now when your father is not here on earth to cheer you on, I am. I believe in your writing, Keely.
With love,
Sebastian
Keely read it again. Folding it with great care, she slipped it inside her wallet, in a private zipper compartment. She would tell no one, it was her most important secret, her most valuable treasure. It was a raft in the dark ocean of her life…Sebastian believed in her writing.
She put the key in the ignition and started her trusty, rusty old car. Sh
e steered over the curving campus roads, diligently braking at every passenger crossing. She left the vast campus of the university and drove along curving pastoral roads toward the Mass Pike.
She cried while she drove. She howled. She missed her father. She was like a little girl, wanting to see her daddy. She sobbed so hard she frightened herself. She forced herself to stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts to buy juice and a glazed stick.
When she paid the clerk, she said, “I’m going to Nantucket. We don’t have any Dunkin’ Donuts there.”
The clerk’s eyes widened in astonishment. “No Dunkin’ Donuts? Well, that’s just tragic.”
“I know,” Keely agreed. Tears ran down her cheeks and she didn’t care. She didn’t care what anyone on the mainland thought of her. She got into her car and headed off, drinking the juice and eating the sugary stick. The sweetness soothed her.
* * *
—
It was all so familiar. She’d done it a hundred times before. Driving to Hyannis, getting in line for the car ferry, crossing Nantucket Sound, which on this spring day was choppy with waves. This time, however, she didn’t go up to the passenger decks to buy a cup of chowder or a beer. She remained in her car down in the hold with the other cars and trucks. She huddled in the driver’s seat, her legs stretching over the passenger seat. She didn’t want to run into anyone she knew. She didn’t want her island acquaintances to hug her with false or even real sympathy. The car ferry docked in Nantucket at ten-fifteen. Keely started her car and followed the line of Stop & Shop trucks, contractors’ trucks, and loaded-down Jeeps rumbling down the ramp and onto the land. She knew the way to her house without thinking. For the first time in her life, she felt no happiness at returning to the island.
The porch light gleamed brightly. Her mother opened the front door the moment Keely pulled into the drive. During the few days that Keely was away, withdrawing from classes and packing, Eloise had lost even more weight. As her mother folded her in her arms, telling Keely how glad she was to have her back, Keely knew she was doing the right thing.
* * *
—
Keely woke at five every morning. She made coffee, took it to her room, and sat down to write. She was determined not to give up her dream.
At seven, she left to join the Clean Sweep gang. It was almost spring, almost time for the earliest of the summer residents to return, and Jennifer Gonzalas needed help opening houses, freshening them for their owners. Because she’d written, Keely was happy during the days when she mopped floors and scrubbed sinks. Maybe writing was her elixir.
Gradually, she began to appreciate being on the island again. Many of the homes she cleaned had million-dollar views of the sweeping blue ocean or the rolling moors. Sometimes in the evening, she drove out to the beaches and sat cross-legged in the sand, watching the light fade and the ocean reflect the change. Blue to lavender to silver to slate. Sometimes there was a heavy fog and she would hear the haunting call of the foghorn.
After a while, she had the time and energy to get together with her high school friends. They met for dinner at the Brotherhood, luxuriating over their curly fries and red wine, their current hit of gossip. Janine, Theresa, the old gang, didn’t mind if something made Keely cry, missing her father. They waited patiently. They patted her back. They hugged her. She was grateful. Sunday afternoons they went to the beach at Surfside, and although the water was still too cold for swimming, they waded in it, they kicked at the frothy waves curling up to meet them.
Isabelle emailed and texted often, usually going on in wild poetic paragraphs about how much she loved Tommy. He was so different from her boring family! He was teaching Isabelle how to roller-skate! On weekends, they went hiking up Mount Tom or Mount Greylock. He didn’t live in his head, he lived in the present, he was like a yogi who never took yoga! It was no surprise, Isabelle said, that his grades were so abysmal. Some people weren’t meant for the boredom of college classes.
June hit, and the summer deepened. Isabelle went with her parents to visit Sebastian, who was still living in Sweden with his girlfriend, Ebba. For most of the rest of the summer, the Maxwells toured Scandinavia and the countries bordering the Baltic.
By the Fourth of July, no one had any free time or energy for meeting for dinner or the beach. Keely took every babysitting job she could get. The summer people were glad to go out to the fabulously glamorous galas, and they showed it.
One night Keely returned home from babysitting with a wad of five hundred dollars in her hand. She entered her house to find Eloise in her robe, watching television and weeping.
“Oh, darling, give me five more minutes. This movie is almost over.”
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“I am, darling. It’s just so wonderful to watch a happy ending.”
After the movie ended, Keely said, “I have something happy for you.” She handed her mother a big fat check. “This should help with the mortgage.”
Eloise’s eyes went wide. “So much! Are you keeping anything for yourself?”
Enough to buy paper and toner for my printer, Keely thought. “I’m good.”
“Oh, darling,” Eloise said, rising to hug her daughter. “You certainly are good.”
* * *
—
After Labor Day, many of the summer people returned home and the island population calmed down. September was always a bonus month for the islanders. The sun was bright, the water was warm, and they had free time to enjoy their island. Keely had just come from helping Jennifer close a house. In her white T-shirt and black shorts and sneakers—Clean Sweep’s uniform—she raced into the grocery store to buy some supplies for dinner. She headed down the produce aisle, scrutinizing the berries.
“Keely, is that really you?”
Keely looked up to see Donna Maxwell standing with a small basket over her arm and a clearly smug expression on her face.
“Hello, Mrs. Maxwell,” Keely said politely.
“I didn’t believe it when Isabelle told me you dropped out of school in your junior year, such a brilliant girl like you, what a shame. And you’re cleaning houses now?”
Keely could hardly deny it with the logo of Clean Sweep and a cartoon broom across the front of her T-shirt.
Keely would have bet her two front teeth that Mr. Maxwell had told his wife about Keely’s mother’s financial problems. Still, what else could she say?
“Well, you know my father died. I came home to help my mother.”
Mrs. Maxwell looked satisfied, almost licking her lips like the cat who’d just eaten a canary. “What a wonderful daughter you are. Still, it’s a shame you had to give up college and your dream of writing.”
Offended by the patronizing tone in Mrs. Maxwell’s voice, Keely said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Maxwell, I’ll never give up my dream of writing. In fact, I have more time to write now than I had when I was in college.” She picked up a tub of blueberries and put them in her cart.
“So nice to see you,” Keely lied, and pushed her cart quickly down the aisle before she could blurt out what she really felt like saying.
* * *
—
Her day off dawned crystal clear. Not a breath of wind. It was early October, and the ocean called to her. She forced herself to write, and halfway through an hour, she shoved back her chair, ignored the blinking light of her cursor, and pulled on a bathing suit and sneakers.
She scribbled a note to her mother. Going out. Back soon. She yanked on a light long-sleeved T-shirt—that did not say Clean Sweep—stuck a scalloper’s hat on her head and her sunglasses over her eyes, and rushed to her car.
Sometimes the island did this, beckoned her. No, summoned her. Ever since she was a child, she’d had these unexpected impulses to get outside, be near the water, be with the natural world. And she’d read that sometimes taking a break from your work made you work better t
he next day.
Keely drove to Washington Street, surprised the kid who was just starting to set up for the day, and rented a one-person kayak. She fastened her life vest, rubbed more sunblock over her face—the sun reflected from the water burned more than sunlight from the sky. She settled in, took up her double-bladed paddle, and set off, smoothly riding away from the beach and out into the harbor.
She found her rhythm immediately. The paddle made musical splashing sounds as she dipped and raised it. The water was still and mirror-clear. Many boats were moored in the inner harbor, although the giant yachts towering at the town piers had left for the season. She wove her way around the schooners and stinkpots, heading for Coatue.
Her breathing slowed, deepened. The island was working its magic, pulling her into this singular, irreplaceable, unrepeatable day. Gulls soared overhead, occasionally dropping a scallop shell on the hard bow of a boat to crack it open, soaring down to snatch out the sweet scallop, rocketing up and away with their treasure. On both sides of the harbor, people were starting their day. They were moving blots of color in the periphery of Keely’s vision. With each dip of her paddle, Keely surged forward into the blue, the pristine blue of the air around her, the sea below her, the sky above her.
She moved along, finally arriving at the long strip of beach called Coatue. Her muscles ached nicely. She wished she’d thought to bring along a bottle of water. She walked up and down the beach looking for an oyster shell. She could crack it open on a rock and drink the juice.
“Keely?”
She heard her name called twice before she snapped out of her trance and into reality.
Anchoring near her in an old Boston Whaler was a guy in board shorts and sunglasses. His boat bobbed up and down as a ferry passed on its way into the harbor, its wake making waves.
Keely stared. “Tommy?”
