Island Girl

by Lynda Simmons

  Pills swallowed and ready to make my morning notes, I searched the counter by the answering machine for a pen, the one that always sat there. But Grace must have moved the pen again, so I took the hunt to her room and sure enough there it was, sitting on her desk beside the monitor. She must have been making notes of her own.

  Curious, I poked around on her desk a little, lifting bird books, sifting through styling magazines. Sifting, sifting. Opening drawers. Sifting, sifting. Still finding nothing of interest.

  I straightened and gave my head a shake. Rolled the chair out from the desk and sat down. Pulled out the keyboard and tapped the spacebar. A small box asked for a password. I had to smile. Another game of hide and seek.

  I typed in bike, ned, baberuth. When those didn’t work, I tried lordm, ladym, and feralcat. Still no luck so I typed william and breathed a sigh of relief when that didn’t work either. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to cope if we started down that road again now.

  Mark came to the bedroom door. “What are you doing?”

  “Just a quick check on the Life of Grace, but I think Jocelyn might have given her a password and now I can’t get in.” I glanced over at him. “Give me a few passwords Jocelyn might use.”

  “Not a chance. What’s on that computer is none of your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business. How else can I know what she’s up to?”

  I went back to the keyboard. Tried to think like Jocelyn. Goth, hated, fuck. Still no good.

  “Ruby, stop.” Mark rolled me back from the desk. “Grace has a right to privacy.”

  He was right. I could corner Jocelyn later. Get the brat to confess.

  He helped me to my feet and we walked out into the kitchen together. I sat down at the table while he plugged in the kettle and got out the eggs because Grace and Jocelyn were already back, already coming through the gate. How odd. They must have cut their ride short for some reason.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Mark asked as they came through the door, and then somehow they were all working together to get breakfast on the table. Mark measuring coffee, Grace breaking eggs, Jocelyn slipping bread into the toaster. And me? I was sitting at the table. Thinking how quickly this had become a routine and wishing they’d all stop talking at once.

  “Then we’re going birding,” Grace was saying, sliding the eggs onto plates while Jocelyn added toast, and the three of them sat down to join me.

  “When we were out this morning, I heard a black-billed cuckoo near the statue of Ned,” she continued. “So we’re going back to find him.”

  “A cuckoo?” Mark asked. “Aren’t they fairly rare?”

  She said, “Not anymore,” and went off about changes in migration patterns and sightings while I considered my toast. It needed something. Red stuff. The stuff in the jar in the middle of the table. The stuff that’s sweet and bad for you and full of … “Strawberries,” I said out loud. “Can you pass me the strawberries. The jam. The strawberry jam.” Big Al was stirring.

  Jocelyn raised a brow and picked up the jar. Handed it to me much more slowly than I thought was necessary. “Anything else?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.” I smiled and dipped my spoon into the jar. Shook the red stuff onto my toast. Spread it around. Cut the toast in half and dipped it in my eggs. Nope. That was wrong.

  “I like to blend the flavors,” I said, biting into the dripping yellow and red mass. It didn’t taste bad, but I was going to have to be more careful. Think before I made a move.

  “You should come with us,” Grace said, and smiled at me over her teacup. “See the cuckoo for yourself. Might be nice since you don’t have any appointments today.”

  Mark coughed into his hand, Jocelyn bent her head over her plate, and my sweet daughter kept smiling at me. She’d turned the page in the appointment book. Of course she’d turned the page. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “A surprise day off,” she said. “Just like I had yesterday.”

  “Yes,” I said, and laughed. “Isn’t it like customers to cancel all at once like that? But it’s summer and the weather is lovely, so aren’t we the lucky ones?”

  “Lucky,” she repeated, and I knew she had more to say. Could see it in the way her jaw was moving back and forth, back and forth. My fingers fumbled with the other half of the toast. How many pages had she turned? Did she know that Saturday also held nothing at all? Not even Marla Cohen, who had argued and argued with me before finally hanging up. Banging the phone down and leaving me with a headache. No matter how many times I said it, she couldn’t understand that closing the shop was best for Grace, best for both of us. And honestly, how bad could it be for a young girl to have the whole summer off?

  Mercifully, Grace didn’t make me answer that question or anything else. She simply pushed back her chair and said, “I need to feed Lady M,” for which I was grateful. I still needed to plan what I was going to say to her about Chez Ruby, figure out a way to ease into the discussion. Make sure she fully understood what a great idea this was.

  She went to the fridge for the container of dog food and berries.

  “Perhaps if you stop feeding her,” I suggested, “she’ll look for food on her own.”

  “Or perhaps she’ll starve.” Grace put a dab of the bird food on a plate and shoved the rest back in the fridge. “I’ll see you outside, Jocelyn.”

  The ferry horn sounded. “I’m off to get a paper,” Mark said, pressing a quick kiss to Jocelyn’s cheek on his way to the door. No kiss for me, though. Not this time. Not in front of the kid. Just as well. No need to give her something more to scowl about.

  He poured more coffee into his travel mug and headed out. This was also one of the new routines. On the days he was working from home—which had been every day as far as I could tell—he’d take his coffee and the ferry across to the city, buy a paper at the convenience store, and come back again. The trip took him forty-five minutes from the moment he left the house, and rather than seeing it as a pain in the neck—rather than ordering home delivery—he’d come to enjoy it. To remember what it was to relax, to breathe, to be an Islander again. And his return always gave me the opportunity to be frustrated by yet another crossword puzzle.

  “Are you looking forward to birding?” I asked Jocelyn.

  She turned to me, her eyes narrowing, warning. Danger ahead. Danger of what? Impending mood swing? Eruption of pimples? Who ever knew what teenagers were thinking?

  “Grace makes it interesting,” she said. “She knows a lot about birds.”

  “Yes. She surprises me daily with her bird trivia.”

  I went back to my toast. Did not dip the second half. Ate it like any other person at the table. Except I wasn’t hunched over my plate and scowling. Had my own girls been this wretched as teens? Certainly not Grace, but Liz yes, now that I thought about it. She used to sit just that way, slumping and snarling through every meal. It got so that I preferred dinner in front of the television to one at the table with my daughter. Pity really, now that I thought about it.

  I watched Mark through the window, waving to Mary Anne as he sauntered down the path. Breaking into a run when the horn went off again. Another part of being an Islander he’d rediscovered—the stitch in your side from running for the ferry.

  “So did you get the power tools over to the clubhouse?” I asked Jocelyn.

  “Yes, thank you.” She raised her head, those narrowed eyes on me again. “And just for the record, Grace knows you’re winding down the business.”

  I kept my eyes on my cup, breathed normally. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play with me. Mrs. Charlton told her everything yesterday. ‘Winding things down,’ is the way she put it.”

  My stomach tightened around the toast and the eggs and the strawberry jam. Winding down the business, yes. For Grace. So she wouldn’t have to worry about anything. So she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by paperwork and taxes and stupid government forms. So she could relax and enjoy the rest of
her life here on the Island in our house, in our garden. Looking at all the birds she wanted and bringing home as many as she liked with nothing else to worry about.

  Yes, I was winding it down. But I needed to have everything done before I told her. A package to present to her. Nice and neat. All the ends tied up. Nothing to trip over down the line. Nothing forgotten. Nothing forgotten.

  I rose and carried my cup to the sink. “Why did she call Mrs. Charlton?”

  “Because she didn’t know the appointment had been canceled. You didn’t tell her. You let it be a surprise, which it was, believe me.”

  I gathered up my plate, my knife and fork. “I thought she might enjoy it.”

  “You thought it would be easier than telling her the truth. Even this morning, you lied to her. You need to know that you’re an asshole for doing this.”

  “I am not discussing this with you.” I dropped my dishes in the sink and carried on to the door. Stepped outside. Looked around for Grace. She wasn’t there. I glanced over at Mary Anne’s. Probably in there, asking her to keep an eye on the mockingbird while she went out with Jocelyn again. Asking her to babysit because she didn’t trust me to keep an eye out for the cat. With good reason.

  Jocelyn came out behind me, clutching a brown envelope in her hand. “If you think I’m letting this go, you’re wrong.”

  “Little girl, you’re in no position to judge. You know nothing about me, my family, or my business.” I tried to go around her, go back into the house. Maybe take another couple of puffs. Relax for a moment. But the bitch wouldn’t move. Just stood there with that envelope, like it was some kind of shield. “You know nothing,” I repeated, and went down the stairs instead.

  “I know Grace,” she said, walking beside me across the lawn and around the side of the house. “And closing the shop without even talking to her is wrong. She’s good at her work and she loves it. She needs it. She wants to do more. She wants to expand into manicures and pedicures—”

  “And facials and waxing. I am well aware of my daughter’s pipe dreams and happy to say that she’s over them.” I stopped at the hose reel. Stared at the nozzle. Knew I should do something with it. But whatever it was wouldn’t come right now, and no wonder. I needed away from the girl with the bright red hair. Away from everything. It had been a mistake to postpone the paddle.

  “They’re not pipe dreams, and she’s not over them.” She held out the envelope. “It’s all in here. Costs, courses, equipment, everything she’ll need to offer aesthetics here on the Island.”

  “Pipe dreams.” I hurried back across the lawn and into the house. Stood in the kitchen. Looked around slowly. What had I come back for?

  The brat was there again. Pop. Right in front of me. Appearing out of thin air, I swear.

  “Grace can do this,” she said. “Sure, she’ll take a while to get it, but once she does she’ll be gentle and thorough. What more could anyone ask?”

  I spotted my paddle hanging by the door with the life jackets. New inflatable life jackets. A gift from Mark. Latest technology. Light and easy to wear. That was it. I was going for my morning paddle. “I’m not discussing this.” I grabbed the paddle and a jacket off the hook and headed back out, walking quickly down the path to the gate. Go canoeing, go canoeing.

  “Just like you don’t discuss William?” she yelled from the stairs. “Or the trial or the fucking house arrest that you pushed her into?”

  I froze with my hand on the latch.

  “She told me everything,” she yelled. “Everything.”

  Thank God the street was empty. I leaned my paddle against the gate, dropped the jacket on the ground, and walked back. Stayed calm and in control. But I knew Big Al was watching, waiting, grinning. “You’re twelve years old. I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect respect. I will not be spoken to like this in my own home.”

  “Whatever.” She held up the envelope. “The point is that Grace needs to work, she needs to grow. These courses can do that for her.”

  “What is wrong with you people? I told you on the phone, she can’t even get on the ferry. How can she take courses?”

  For the first time, Jocelyn looked confused, unsure of herself and the righteousness of her argument. “We didn’t talk on the phone. And what’s wrong with the ferry?”

  “It’s not what’s wrong with the ferry, it’s what’s wrong with Grace, and you people with your easy solutions and your quick fixes. Filling her head with nonsense about expansion and added services. Letting her imagine a whole different life for herself, when everything she needs is right here. Not in some stupid envelope.”

  I snatched it out of her hands and walked around the side of the house again. Lifted the lid on the garbage can. Dropped in the envelope.

  Jocelyn snapped it up again before I could get the lid on and held it against her chest. “Why can’t she get on the ferry?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. It means she stays here where she’s safe, and that’s good enough for me.” I looked around again, not sure what to do next. Took a few steps toward the front of the house, spotted my blessed paddle by the gate, and all the gaps filled themselves in. Snap, snap, snap. I was going for my morning paddle.

  But the kid was in front of me again, like a mosquito that won’t give up. “You’re a horrible mother.”

  “I’m a good mother.” And unlike Debbie Darling, I could still figure my way out of a situation. I went around the brat. “I only want what’s best for Grace.”

  Right now that meant going for a paddle so I could think for two minutes because there was something I needed to do today. Something important. I stopped halfway to the gate. Pulled the notebook out of my pocket. Open me, you stupid cow.

  I opened it, stared at the blank page. I hadn’t written anything down. I flipped to the next page, and the next and the next. I hadn’t written anything down.

  I looked over at the paddle, looked back at the house. List or paddle? List or paddle?

  “What is wrong with you anyway?” she demanded.

  “I have—” I slapped a hand over my mouth, couldn’t believe I’d almost said it, almost told the one person who would carry it straight back to Grace. I lowered my hand, pointed myself at the paddle. “I have to go.”

  I left her standing there, staring after me. I kept walking, carrying my paddle down the street and around the corner. Didn’t care that my feet were bare and I’d forgotten the jacket, forgotten my hat. Didn’t care about anything except getting in the canoe.

  Go canoeing. Go canoeing. I walked on. Past the houses, past the dock. Saw the ferry coming in. Heard the horn. Walked on. Past the bridge, past the firehouse, past the Rectory Café where they have very nice tea. I hadn’t been there for tea in a long time. But no, that didn’t sound right. I’d been there recently. With Mark. Yes. The day I was mad at Grace.

  Mad because … ? I didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. So what? Right now I knew that Jocelyn was wrong. I had to sell the business. Protect the house. Protect Grace.

  Go canoeing, go canoeing. I walked on. Go canoeing, go canoeing.

  When I stopped walking I was looking at the statue of Ned Hanlan and I had no idea how I got there. Or how long ago. Or why my feet were so sore.

  I looked down. No shoes. I looked around. I was on Hanlan’s Point with no shoes.

  I started to laugh, it was that funny. On Hanlan’s Point with sore feet and no shoes. I sat down in front of Ned, still laughing. Too funny, too funny. And suddenly I was crying. Sitting there blubbering like a fool, unable to stop.

  A young man bent down and handed me a tissue. “Ma’am are you all right?”

  He was nice-looking, clean-cut, the kind Great-Grandma Lucy would have liked. Not an outdoorsman with big hands, broad shoulders, and more patience than I had ever deserved.

  I took the tissue and wiped my nose. “I have no shoes.” But I still had my paddle. I saw it in my hand. My bent-shaft paddle. Where had that come from?

  The yo
ung man took out his wallet. Tucked a bill into my hand. “God bless you,” he said, and walked away.

  I stared at the bill. Twenty dollars. He’d given me twenty dollars. He thought I was homeless. Sitting on the ground with no shoes on Hanlan’s Point. Too funny, too funny.

  I tried to get up. My feet were too sore. I sat back down. What time was it? Time for meds probably. But not here. Not on Hanlan’s Point with no shoes.

  A plane flew over my head. I got up. Shook my paddle at it. “Assholes,” I yelled, and sat down again. “Don’t you know there’s a black-billed cuckoo here somewhere?”

  That’s when I saw him. Mark Bernier pedaling toward me. Going really fast. He was getting good on a bike again too.

  “Ruby.” He dropped the bike, ran to me. Looked at my feet. “Jesus Christ, Ruby.”

  He pulled me into his arms. Held me tight. I closed my eyes and my head fit perfectly into that spot on his shoulder. “I don’t know how I got here,” I whispered, and felt those damn tears burning my eyes, wetting his shirt. “I think I wanted to go canoeing, but I’m not sure.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

  I shook my head. More tears on his shirt. “How can you say that? How can it ever be okay? I have to sell the business. I have to protect the house and Grace. How can I do any of those things if I don’t even know how I got here?”

  “I’ll help you,” he said, but I shook my head again.

  “Help me with the paperwork, yes, and I appreciate that, but what about the house? What about Grace? She can’t stay there alone, just as she can’t run a business on her own. And if she can’t stay there then we’ll lose the house. The Island Trust will sell it and my great-grandmother’s house will be gone. I can’t let that happen, Mark. That house is everything to me, to Grace, but not to Liz, the one person who should be there to take care of it.”