“No,” I said. “There is no reason to postpone employment.”
“This isn’t a postponement, Dr. Blankenship. This is a cancellation of the job offer. We can’t employ a physician during an active investigation.”
“It will be over and settled soon,” I said, although I didn’t know if this was true. I reached for a life preserver as I sank into the waters of panic, and there was nothing there. I went under.
“We wish you the best,” the voice said.
I must have said some sort of robotic, well-mannered good-bye, but I don’t remember. I was drowning. Or was I dizzy? I didn’t know. I sank to the grass and dropped my head between my legs, gulping for air.
Lainey ran to my side and crouched down. “Are you okay? What is it, Bonny?”
“They canceled their job offer.” And then it happened—the withheld tears burst forth. A retching noise came from someplace deep and my throat felt raw with its power. The tears came and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to stop it. For all the times I’d held back, for all the times I’d kept control, there was a break inside, a crack that widened.
Lainey dropped to the grass and wrapped both arms around me. “Bonny, it will be fine. The results will come back and . . .”
“No, it’s over,” I said. “Even if it comes back okay, that job is gone.” My voice was garbled.
“Anyone would hire you. Anyone.”
“What am I going to do now?” I asked. “What?”
“We’ll figure out something.”
“Return to Lucas? To that life? God, Lainey, I can’t. Even though I just now left physically, I left a long, long time ago emotionally. And I don’t know how to go back to the dismissive coldness, to the angry rebukes, to the husband as a boss instead of a partner. I was alone even in the middle of the marriage. That’s worse than being alone by yourself.” I took a couple deep breaths and my body slowed. I wiped my face and sat straighter.
“You don’t have to go back there, Bonny. Just because Emory rescinded doesn’t mean you can’t do something new.”
“Do you know how long it took me to get that job? A year, Lainey. A year. And they don’t just pop up every day for the grabbing.” I wiped at my face, tasted the river and the salt of my tears commingling. “I’ve made decisions, one by one by one by one, and they’ve added up. Now here I am. We can’t subtract a decision or undo it.”
“No, we can’t. But you can make new ones.”
“I have no idea, absolutely no idea, what those could be.” Anger forced the words in staccato-like sentences stomping across the yard. “It took me so, so very long to make the decisions I did. Meticulous planning. Outlines and checklists. And I don’t know how to do it again.” I exhaled and gazed toward the river. “What I’d give to go back to 1978, change my wish, change my life. Make new decisions. Start over.” I turned my attention back to Lainey. “Don’t you ever feel that way?”
“Of course I do. What if I’d come out of the bedroom and stayed with Mom through the night? What if I hadn’t written all her wrongdoings in our stupid notebook? What if I’d been a better girl . . . what if, what if, what if . . .”
I leaned into Lainey and our weight fell hard against each other as we gazed out toward the river. And it didn’t need to be said: there was no changing the past.
chapter 17
BONNY BLANKENSHIP
JUNE 1978
THE LAST SUMMER
WATERSEND, SOUTH CAROLINA
That summer of 1978, when the world was dancing to disco and we shook our Polaroid photos, Lainey and I unpacked the new dishes Mom had brought to the river house, organizing them into the cabinets.
“You should have seen Mom freaking out this morning making us all get so dressed up just to sit in the stupid car. She was so worried we wouldn’t look good for your family,” Lainey told me.
“Well, I like your sundress,” I said. “I don’t have one that nice.”
“Mom got it at the church rummage sale. I hate wearing it. It itches and I don’t know who wore it before me and I keep thinking that I’m going to be somewhere and some little girl is going to scream, ‘That’s my dress.’ And I will die a thousand times over.”
“Well, go take it off and put on some shorts. Then let’s sneak away to the beach,” I said, feeling bold because Lainey was finally back with me.
“I will get in so much trouble,” she said. “So much. We have to help before we can have fun. Dad told us that six million times on the way here.”
“That’s stupid,” I said.
“I know.”
Owen sauntered into the kitchen while we stood jumping to crush the box we’d just emptied: a victory dance. He laughed at us, and the sound echoed below my heart. It was an odd feeling, like he was loosening things inside, like something stretched and wiggled under my ribs. It was a nervous feeling like when I needed to speak in front of the class or when I’d lied to my parents and was about to be caught. I didn’t want to be around him, but I did. No, I didn’t.
“Look what I found,” he said and gently placed a record player on the kitchen table. It was a black box I recognized from the attic at home, an old record player Dad had brought to the river house.
“Awesome,” Lainey said. “What are we supposed to do with it now? You got any records hidden under that fancy shirt?”
“Oh, dumb sister,” he answered, but in this soft, funny way, like the word “dumb” meant something different to them. “There’s a second box. Hold on.” He marched out of the kitchen and I wanted to follow him or make him return.
“You don’t get in trouble for calling each other names?” I asked. “I’d get a spanking and be sent to my room.”
“Spanking? Your parents hit you?” Lainey’s eyes opened wider.
I’d never thought of it this way. Here was this girl, Lainey, with her prissy sundress and her truth-telling humor, telling me that my parents hit me.
“Spanking isn’t hitting. It’s like a punishment for doing something wrong.”
“No,” Lainey said, “it’s hitting.”
Technically, she was right. Suddenly I felt a little sick and a lot embarrassed at my parents, who hit their children. I felt like apologizing for them, but then Owen came back and placed a box on the floor. “Records.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s my parents’ collection. You better be careful. Dad will go crazy if you scratch one.”
“And hit us,” Lainey said.
“I’m not scared,” Owen said, and he did this Popeye move with his arms, pulsing his biceps muscles. I wanted to laugh, but I was too busy staring at him, at the way he thumbed through the records as if he didn’t care what he scratched or how. He yanked Saturday Night Fever from the box but then slipped the record from its cardboard envelope gently, holding the edges with his fingertips. It dropped like air onto the turntable, a soft whooshing sound as it settled. Owen lifted the arm and bent, eye to record, to settle the needle onto the first groove.
He switched it on and there we were, dancing to “Stayin’ Alive” when we were supposed to be unpacking another box. Laughter spilled out and filled the room, and I was someone I’d never been before, even though I didn’t have a word for it yet. I was someone who moved to music and felt looser in my body, like my limbs were made of rubber bands. A hummingbird, the kind that flittered outside our window in Atlanta, now lived inside my chest, tickling me.
“‘Stayin’ alive. Stayin’ alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha,’” we sang together, a trio, out loud. Owen grabbed my waist and spun me around, lifted me off the ground and then set me gently back down on the crushed box we’d been stomping. He lifted Lainey next and she squealed, let her arms fly to the sides like airplane wings and lifted her face to the ceiling as if it was a sky full of all the stars.
I wanted to reach for this boy and yank Lainey from him. I was annoyed, the way I was when Dad par
celed out a bigger piece of his grilled cheese sandwich for Percy, or the way I was when Sara at school let Millie sit in my saved seat at the lunch table. But also differently, with an ache. Which didn’t make sense because this was his sister and it was the most perfect day.
Later that night, when we were all so tired we could hardly speak, Dad ordered pizza. He swayed across the room, loopy steps like one of those clowns hamming it up at the circus. But he wasn’t trying to be funny, although he was laughing. His arms swayed in front of him like they were too heavy and his words were thick like he had taken too big a bite of bread and couldn’t chew it all. Lainey and I were sitting at the kitchen table so happy to be back together, and Owen sat across from us.
We played Clue. I knew it was the candlestick in the library by Professor Plum, but I didn’t want the game to end, so I didn’t guess yet. “Hello, kids,” Dad said. “How’s it going on your first real day of summer?”
“Just fine, sir,” Owen said and rolled the die for his turn.
Dad left us the pizza and then picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and headed back for the living room, only a few steps away. I could see the parents from where I sat. Cards were scattered across the table and they played poker, using the red and black wooden checkers pieces to bet with. Lainey’s mom smoked cigarettes and there was an ashtray stuffed with lipstick-stained butts and dark ashes falling over the edges. Twice I’d seen my mom reach over and take a puff. The first time I almost screamed out, but then I just watched, amazed, like Mom had turned into something other than Mom.
I did my best not to stare directly at Owen because when I did there was this weird thrumming feeling under my chest and I sort of felt like I was going to throw up. But then again, I wanted to stare at him so hard that I memorized his entire face, which seemed like nothing I’d ever seen before even though this was my third summer with him. His mouth turned down at the edges in a sleepy way, and his chin was squared off like he’d drawn it. His eyes, a brown so brown they melted into his pupils, and eyelashes longer than any pretty girl’s. Every time I did stare at him, he stared back and did that mean thing that boys can do—where they widen their eyes and stare back real hard as if to say, What the hell do you want? and then I felt dizzy with embarrassment.
“This is so stupid.” Owen pushed the game away.
“But this is fun,” I said.
“No”—he leaned across the pine table—“it’s not. Let’s go explore outside.”
Lainey didn’t even glance up from her sketchpad, where she was drawing a dolphin. “You go ahead.”
“We’re a team,” I said. “Let’s all go.”
Owen smiled at me and I blushed, which was more embarrassing than burping because at least you could laugh about that. Blushing was a dead giveaway that I didn’t know how to talk to boys, which I didn’t.
The parents turned on their own music then and we huddled together in the kitchen, peeking out to watch them. It was dance music that my parents listened to all the time, “Sweet Caroline,” and I knew the words and I started to sing them. Lainey shushed me. “Shhh. They’ll make us go to bed.”
I leaned against the framed opening and watched in astonishment. I’d never seen my parents dance with each other, or switch partners. Lainey pulled at my arm. “Move,” she said. “Don’t stand there and watch.”
“Why?” I twisted away from her grasp and peered into the living room.
“Because my mom is embarrassing. That’s why.” Her voice cracked.
“It’s fun to watch them. I’ve never seen my parents like this.”
Owen idled next to me and his arm brushed against mine. I wasn’t ever going to move if he’d just stand there with me. “We see our parents like this all the time. Trust me, it’s not fun to watch.”
I averted my gaze from Owen and back to the scene in the living room. What was embarrassing about Mrs. McKay? She was so beautiful. I’d already decided I would try to walk like her, with that little swing in her hips. Her lipstick never faded off and her hair was piled high on her head and small pieces fell onto her shoulders. She was so dreamy. And she lived like she was in a dream. The sleeve of her sundress had slipped and a red bra strap stretched across her shoulder. Every few dance beats she would twist down and take a sip of her drink or drag of her cigarette without ever missing a step.
Dad was dancing with Mom, swinging her in a wide circle, when Clara cut in and took his hands. Her dress twisted around her body with every movement, and her boobs swung against my dad’s chest, where she planted herself and stayed. I was shocked in the kind of way where I couldn’t tear my gaze away. It was too interesting and too weird.
It happened so fast, the way Mr. McKay grabbed his wife and twisted her around to face him, his left arm around her waist yanking her tight against him. He dragged her the few steps toward the kitchen and Owen pulled me backward into the room and to the table where we couldn’t see them, but I heard them. We all heard them.
“What do you think you’re doing, Clara? It’s our first night here and you’re drunk as hell, flirting with our host.”
“I’m not flirting,” Clara said, but her words were so slurry, like a child lisping.
“Don’t you fucking ruin this vacation. I won’t say it again. If you can’t stop, I’m sending you somewhere that can make you stop.”
“I’ll stop. I have stopped.” She was crying, I could tell. “I’m just having fun.”
“Let’s go to the dock,” Owen whispered close to my ear, and he moved quickly to the back door. “Come on.”
I followed him and so did Lainey. We always did.
chapter 18
PIPER BLANKENSHIP
Everyone in the house was in bed, not one light on, so even the house itself felt asleep. Nighttime was always the worst for me. The jagged feelings returned—the awful me again. And I wanted escape. I didn’t know what mattered. I didn’t know who mattered, and the rest of the world did seem to know. I could be witty with old myths in a café, or tell you my favorite books, or look cute in too-short shorts, but I didn’t know what the hell really mattered. What was the deal with Owen and Mom sneaking phone calls like a cigarette? And Lainey, missing him so badly that I heard her cry?
I knew I wouldn’t sleep, and the sea called to me like it wanted to tell me how to fix whatever it was that was wrong with me. I slipped on my shorts and a T-shirt, and carried my flip-flops as I tiptoed out of the house. I held my hand on the screen door and guided it back into its frame to avoid the bump-slam that might wake someone.
The flashlight app on my phone and the crescent sideways moon guided me across the street and over the dunes, past the prickly bushes and onto wet, packed sand. I heard them before I saw them—a group of teens around a bonfire. Loud country music vibrated across the sand. Coolers of all shapes and sizes were scattered about the beach, some open and some being used as chairs. Aluminum beach chairs, bent and pulled close to the fire, were full of kids and couples. I stood still, about to turn around, when I inhaled the sweet aroma of someone’s joint. Yes, that would definitely help.
I dug my toes into the warm sand that held the leftover sunshine of the day as if the beach didn’t want to let the day go. I wandered close to the bonfire: girls in shorts, boys in baseball caps, beer cans scattered and a guy with a guitar butchering a Kenny Chesney song about a blue chair. It felt like I’d been dropped into a country music video.
I stood still and quiet, trying to decide whether to bolt or make the first move, but I didn’t have to because it was then that a guy with curly dark hair and a scruffy beard came over to me. “Hey,” he said and tilted his head as if questioning me instead of greeting me.
“Hey.” I smiled and glanced at the joint in his hand. “I’m Piper. I don’t mean to crash your party, but I heard y’all and thought I’d come down here.”
“A pretty girl like you can crash anytime. You a vacation
er?”
I laughed. “I didn’t know that’s what we were called, but yeah, I guess I am.”
He bowed in a silly gesture and pretended to wave a hat. “Welcome to our small boring town. I’m Lyle.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He held out his joint. “Want a hit?”
“Absolutely,” I said and took it from him, inhaling the sweet, pungent smoke that would burn and then soothe. It would happen quickly—the fluttery fear would settle down and leave me alone. I would be fine with who and what I was. I took another hit and then tried to hand it back to him. “Keep it,” he said. I tapped it out on the sand and slipped it into my back pocket for later.
Soon a few of his friends joined us and I met local kids with names that blurred together like watercolors. I sat in one of the empty aluminum chairs and stared into the flames, watching them lick the sky and attempt to join the stars.
A slow fuzziness descended and the warm night soaked through my skin and my eyes closed. I sank deeper into the chair and felt my body melt into it. Who cared if I didn’t know what mattered? I would figure it out. Who cared if Ryan was with Hannah? Who cared if I lost my virginity to a guy who didn’t give a flying F-word about me?
I couldn’t feel my teeth, which happened when I got stoned, but I could feel the hot sting of heartbreak. I opened my eyes and stared out to the sea. Then I stood and stumbled to the edge of the ocean to sit and dig my feet deeper into the sand, burrowing for something solid.
“Piper?” My gaze wandered, languid and tired, to my name. A flicker of familiarity crossed my mind: Fletch from the Market.
“Fletch,” I said, peering over my shoulder. “Hey there.”
“You’ve got a little fan club up there. You’ve already made friends and you’ve been here for, like, a minute.” He laughed and plopped down next to me.
I was not in the mood for this—making small talk with some guy I didn’t know while I was stoned and wanted to be alone. And cry about Ryan. And stare at the waves. And think about my life. Everyone thought I didn’t care about anything. Like Dad saying, “Why don’t you care about anything at all?” when he found out about my failing grades. But how could I ever explain that it wasn’t that I didn’t care about anything, it was that I cared about everything. Too much. The world poked at the softest places inside of me all day long. I didn’t fail because I didn’t care. I failed because I felt too much, and then avoided all the things I was supposed to do.
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