Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  I’m still grinning as I log out of Instagram and, out of habit, log in to my email. There’s one new message, sent yesterday. From Ruby.

  Happy birthday, babe, it reads. I hope you’re having a magical time in France. I’m sorry I haven’t been great about staying in touch this summer. I guess part of me thinks maybe it’s been good for us, to get a little distance. I don’t know. I do miss you. We’ll have a lot to catch up on when you get back. Love you, Ruby

  I let out a breath. Just yesterday I’d had the thought that it felt sort of freeing, to be apart from Ruby. Clearly, she’d been feeling the same, which explains all the Skye-Austin-Genji action—her new life—I’d seen on Instagram. But I don’t feel the old hurt rise up in me, not even when I realize that Ruby didn’t sign off with Love you times two. Only Love you. And maybe that’s okay. What did times two mean, anyway? It must have made sense when we were little kids, but not all traditions hold up over time.

  I close her email. I can’t respond yet; I’ll need to process what she’s said. My head is full. I will call her when I get home, when my phone is charged. Then I can tell her about Dad, and Eloise. I can tell her I got my first kiss, and that Hugh Tyson and I were in touch on Instagram. We can talk about everything.

  My thoughts tumble from Ruby to Hugh to Jacques, from Eloise to Dad, as I walk through the silent house and outside. I pad on bare feet through the damp grass of the garden and I push open the creaky barn door. Was it really only yesterday that I was in here, making my discovery? It seems like a lifetime ago. I feel old.

  Dad is sitting at his desk, which is tidy now, thanks to me, looking at old papers. A lit cigarette rests between his fingers, which is surely a serious fire hazard. Fine. Maybe he’ll burn this whole barn to the ground.

  “Hello, Ned,” I say coolly, walking over to him. This new name feels wrong in my mouth. He’s Dad.

  But it has its intended effect. He snaps his head up, blinking. “Oh. Summer,” he says, a frown creasing his face. He seems to have aged in a day, too.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other on the cold barn floor, “that I’m going back to Hudsonville. I mean, first I need to call Mom back and look up the flight times, but then … ”

  “Sweetheart,” Dad says. He stamps out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. Then he extends his arm, as if to take my hand, but I step back.

  “Please don’t call me ‘sweetheart,’ ” I say. I glare at him. It hadn’t struck me until now how sick I was of that nickname, how empty and meaningless it always felt.

  Dad raises his eyebrows, as if he doesn’t recognize me. “I—okay,” he stammers. “I wish you wouldn’t call me Ned, but … what can I do?”

  “What can you do?” I repeat, trembling. I’m letting it all out, finally—all my pain and rage. “You can be honest. You can not lie and cheat.” I promised myself I wouldn’t cry but, annoyingly, I feel tears building.

  “Swee—” He catches himself, and shakes his head. “Summer. Listen. I am sorry. I know.” He gets up from the desk, holding a folded piece of paper in his hand. I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “I made a terrible mess of things, with you and your mother. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. Either of you.”

  “It’s kind of too late for apologies, Dad,” I say. I hug myself. The barn feels cool and drafty. I’m glad no other painters are in here, although even if they were, I would have been forthright with Dad like this anyway. I’m tired of hiding things.

  My father presses one hand to his lips. “You’re right,” he says softly. “But that’s why I wanted you to come to France this summer,” he explains. “To make up for lost time. To act quickly. So I could finally join together my—my double lives.”

  I stare at Dad, surprised that he admitted it so plainly. The fact that he carried on two separate lives.

  “Well, I don’t want to be a part of your other life,” I tell him, even though that’s not entirely true. I think of my conversation with Eloise. I think of Paris. I won’t be able to ever un-know that I have a half sister, here in France. Still, I can’t stand looking at my father anymore, especially not here, in this studio that smells of paint and turpentine, where I read Eloise’s name on the back of my sketch and my world cracked open.

  I turn to go, but Dad catches me, gently taking my arm and rotating me so that I have to face him again. I look down.

  “I want to show you something,” Dad says. He thrusts the folded-up paper out to me. “I was looking through my old sketchbooks, and I found this.”

  I’m a little fearful—can you blame me?—as I accept the paper from Dad. I unfold it with trembling fingers. My brain takes a minute to catch up to my eyes. Then I understand that I am looking at a sketch I have never seen before. A curly-haired, big-eyed girl, stretched out on a porch bench, a book in her hands. Barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, clearly enjoying the freedom of summer.

  It’s me.

  “Do you remember this?” my dad asks me gently. “Back in Hudsonville?”

  I do. I remember the mugginess of that July day, the mosquito bite behind my knee, the smell of pine in the air, and the book I was reading (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince). I remember Dad kneeling across from me, telling me to hold still so he could sketch me. I remember it all.

  I nod, but I don’t want to soften. I refuse to soften. Just because Dad drew me as well as Eloise doesn’t set things right. Things will never be right.

  “I have to call Mom and book my flight,” I say. I hand him back his sketch.

  Dad takes my arm again, before I can turn to go. “Summer, I wish you wouldn’t fly off like this,” he tells me. “Why don’t you stay in France a little longer? We can talk more.” He sighs, studying my hardened expression. “I love you,” he tells me. “You’re my daughter. Nothing will change that.”

  I don’t answer. My throat is sore with tears.

  “All right?” Dad says, looking at me pleadingly.

  “All right,” I mutter, only to get away from him. I wrest my arm out of Dad’s grip and storm toward the barn door. There’s a piece of me that wishes he would follow me one more time, but he doesn’t.

  That evening, I arrive at Marseille Provence Airport right on time.

  It’s a new sensation for me, not being rushed or flushed or harried. Nor do I have to find ways to fill the extra, empty hours. I can simply sit in the boarding area with my tote bag in my lap, knowing my flight will be called shortly. Mom was able to book me on the earliest one leaving that day. I glance at the clock on the wall, and then out the window at the runway, drenched in the rosy glow of the Provence sunshine.

  After I’d left Dad in his studio, I’d moved swiftly, calling Mom, returning Eloise’s phone to her upstairs, and finishing the rest of my packing. Dad had come into the house to find me bumping my suitcase behind me down the staircase.

  Despite my protestations that I could take a cab—“I already did it once,” I’d reminded him pointedly—Dad had driven me to the airport. We’d been silent during the ride, but when we got to my gate, Dad had told me that he hoped I’d forgive him, that there was so much more he had to say. Whatever that was, though, would have to remain a mystery; I’d said a terse good-bye and jumped out of the car.

  I will never forgive him, I think now, feeling a steeliness rise in me.

  There’s a crackle overhead, and the boarding agent announces that my flight—Delta 202—will begin boarding. I stand up, slinging my heavy tote bag on my shoulder. Then I notice them—the mother and daughter who had flown over here with me. Only with them now is the father.

  My heart gives a kick and I stare at the small family as they gather up their bags and get in line. Is it a sign? I wonder. But if so, what does it mean? That maybe, one day, in time, I will be able to forgive Dad? That there will be some wholeness back in my own family, now that we all know the truth? I can’t say.

  I give the boarding agent my pass and flip-flop down the
long corridor that leads onto the plane. As I step into the cabin, I fiddle with the single woven bracelet on my wrist; when I was packing, I’d come upon the bracelets and I’d thought about Ruby’s email. So I’d slipped on one of them, leaving the other in my toiletry bag. Because that is still how I feel about Ruby: a little bit split.

  This time, thankfully, I have a window seat, so I can ball my hoodie up into a makeshift pillow and relax against the wall. The petite, chic, elderly French woman who sits down beside me won’t be any trouble, I can tell. I notice that the small French family are seated a few rows ahead of me.

  The plane begins to taxi and I remember how it felt leaving Hudsonville, full of apprehension and excitement, certain that I was on my way to have my best summer ever.

  And was it? I wonder as the plane gains speed, zooming forward at full throttle, the engines roaring. In a sense, it was the worst—the pain I’d felt yesterday, upon learning the truth, is still sharp in my chest. But then I think of Jacques, and eating pain au chocolat as I walked through Dad’s garden, and taking pictures of the farmers’ market, and hearing Eloise say that my photographs were incredible.

  Would I have done things differently—not gone to France at all—if given the opportunity? Would I have traded this summer in for another, different one? As we lift off the ground, I realize that I’m not sure.

  It’s something I ponder throughout the long, bumpy flight, as I doze in and out of sleep over the Atlantic Ocean. Every time I open my heavy eyes, I’m disoriented by the pink sunlight streaming into the cabin; I keep thinking that night should have fallen by now. But because of the time zones, we fly straight from evening into evening.

  When we start descending, though, the sky clouds over, darkens. And when our wheels hit the tarmac—and I let out a breath of relief; it’s nice to be back on earth—it begins to storm. Veins of lightning split the sky and rain rattles the tiny plane windows. Everyone on board begins murmuring about the sudden weather and I feel a little chill, remembering the storm I took off in. This one is so similar, it’s spooky.

  I disembark from the plane, achy and cotton-mouthed. I wind up behind the small French family again, and I trail them to the baggage claim. I’m trying to keep my eye on them in the crowds of travelers when I spot a much more familiar face.

  Mom.

  I run to her, my tote bag swinging, and we hug, tight. Her tortoiseshell-framed glasses bump my cheek and I pull back to look at her, my mom with her pretty brown eyes and thoughtful smile. Something about her seems lighter than usual—her face is bright and relaxed. Maybe it’s because there is no longer that huge secret between us.

  “You look so grown-up!” Mom says, and I flush, thinking that I have grown in these weeks, beyond just turning sixteen.

  “You look so happy,” I reply, which is true.

  Mom’s smile widens. “We have a lot to catch up on,” she tells me, and I wonder what she means exactly.

  Before I can ask, Mom loops her arm through mine, and we head to the baggage carousel. The suitcases go round and round, repeating themselves.

  “Summer?” Mom adds, her voice careful. “I know I always said that honesty was a two-way street, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t very honest with you, as it turns out.”

  I glance at her, my throat tight. “You weren’t,” I say.

  Mom nods. “And in the spirit of being more honest, I should tell you something.”

  I stiffen, not sure I can take any more surprises.

  “Your father called,” Mom says, which is not what I expected.

  “What did he want?” I ask sourly. I see my bag, and I step forward to grab it.

  “Well.” Mom clears her throat. “He’d like to come to Hudsonville. Sometime in early August.”

  “This August?” I say, spinning around to face Mom with my suitcase in hand.

  Mom nods. “He said he wants to spend more time with you, because you left France so abruptly. And I can’t say I blame you for that,” she says, giving me an understanding look. “But the thing is, I actually believe your father. I think he might come through for once.”

  “Really?” I ask doubtfully. “Since when do you have faith in Dad?”

  Mom shrugs, giving me a half smile. “He occasionally has good qualities, you know. What’s that saying? ‘Even a broken clock is right twice a day.’ ”

  I laugh and shrug, too. Right now, none of it feels real—the prospect of Dad coming here, the memory of my trip to France.

  In my tote bag, nestled alongside my camera and passport and guidebook, are bottles of lavender oil and packets of fragrant-smelling herbs. I ended up buying them at the farmers’ market, when I went there on Monday. I’d been hesitant to bring the souvenirs home with me, but now I’m glad I did. They will serve as reminders that Les Deux Chemins wasn’t all a dream. My head is heavy. I yawn, thinking of my bed.

  “Come on,” Mom says, taking my suitcase from me. “I’m sorry,” she adds, as we head for the exit doors, “that I don’t have an umbrella. The storm came out of nowhere.”

  I see the rain splashing down. We have no real protection. But I’m not scared. I know that, together, Mom and I can make it to the car safe and sound.

  As we step outside, though, the rain stops, like someone has flipped a switch. The night is calm and peaceful, and puddles glint in the moonlight. Mom and I glance at each other, our eyebrows raised.

  “Is it a sign?” I ask her.

  “A sign of what?” Mom laughs as we continue on toward her car. “The weather being crazy and unpredictable?”

  No, I think. When I left New York for France, the storm had stopped suddenly, just like this one has. It can’t be a coincidence, can it?

  Maybe it is a sign, about things coming full circle. I open the car door, thinking that I will soon be in Hudsonville once more. I will wake up in my familiar bedroom and I will pedal along Greene Street in the warm wind, almost like France didn’t happen. Except it did, and it’s forever changed me, even though I am back where I started from.

  Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.

  Walt Whitman

  The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.

  Albert Einstein

  Friday, August 11, 7:37 p.m.

  I pedal along Greene Street, the warm wind in my hair. Although it’s a typically hot August evening, there’s something in the air—a subtle cooling, a smell of freshness, like after a rainstorm—that hints at the September to come. It happens every summer: the first curled leaf you see lying on the sidewalk, the first night you don’t need to sleep with your air conditioner on. I always feel a tug of sadness at these signs; I never want the summer to end. I resent the passage of time.

  But now, as I park my bike outside the bank, that usual sense of despair doesn’t rise up in me. It’s been a tumultuous summer, a summer of surprise and change. An amazing summer, yes—but difficult. So, a part of me welcomes the calm coolness of the approaching fall, the shift in seasons. There are things to look forward to.

  I smile to myself as I cross the street toward the river, my camera in hand. My loose hair swings down my back, feeling pleasantly wild and messy, and my flip-flops thwack against the sidewalk. My “lucky” dress swishes against my legs; I still think of the dress as new, even though I got it back in July.

  July. I stop at the riverside, reeling. Was it really only last month, on my birthday, that I found out the truth about Dad—that my life fractured? In some ways, it feels much closer—like it all occurred yesterday. But in other ways, that moment of discovery seems to belong to another life.

  It’s almost sunset; the sky above the Hudson River is a pale, pearly pink. The water, streaming past, looks gray, as always. When I bring my camera to my eye, though, and look through the lens, I can catch shades of peach and blue and green, a whole host of colors, shimmering in the waves.

  “I’d forgotten how lovely the Hudson is,” Dad had said when he was here, earlier this
week, standing beside me in this same spot. “It’s easy to get caught up in the romance of Provence, but there’s plenty of beauty here, too.”

  I’d nodded, thinking of sunflower fields and cobblestone streets. Provence and Hudsonville seemed to represent two different kinds of beauty. One wasn’t necessarily better than the other; they were just different.

  As I take pictures of the river, I recall Dad’s visit. He’d come for four days, and stayed in the Marriot near the mall, renting a car so he could drive back and forth to the house to see me. Unlike his visits past, there were no fleeting lunches and calls of “Bye, sweetheart!” as he dashed off. No. Instead, we’d sat and talked for hours over burgers at PJ’s Pub. We’d taken long walks up and down Greene Street, and wandered through the campus. We’d meandered around the mall, and went for drives.

  On Tuesday night, Mom had even invited Dad to the house for dinner, shocking me. But Mom had become more open, once she saw Dad was making an effort. Also, she was now officially dating Max, which seemed to raise her spirits in general. And I was very slowly getting used to that new reality.

  I’d been anxious about Dad coming over for dinner, but there wasn’t as much hostility between my parents as I’d feared. They were both mellower, eating Mom’s meat loaf and catching up while Ro meowed at the three of us from beneath the table. We’d felt, somewhat, like a family—dysfunctional, yes, but still, a family. I’d hoped that things would be easier, now that the secret was out in the open. Although Dad did not speak of Vivienne, or Eloise, in front of Mom, and I was grateful for that.

  When he and I were alone, he did try to answer most of my questions—and I’d had a ton. About Eloise, about Vivienne, about Dad and Mom, and the painting, Fille. It wasn’t like every answer he gave me was satisfactory; often, it hurt to hear the truth and sometimes, he dodged certain topics, saying things like, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” which made me groan.