by S. F. Kosa
He shrugs. “Mina never seemed like much of a native to me. Rose moved here with Scott about twenty years ago when he inherited the house.” He waves a broad, spotted hand at the Cape house. His fingernails are black with grime. “Mina was already headed for middle school—she and my Amy were pals for a while. But she left for school only a few years later. Barely saw her after that.”
“For college, you mean?”
He shakes his head. “Rose had to send her to some fancy boarding school in Connecticut. Pomfret, I think it was. As if this wasn’t good enough.” He snorts. “Surprised Rose didn’t ship her off to some debutante finishing school in Georgia.” He tosses a furtive look at Scott and clears his throat. “I mean, I know she wanted the best for her.”
Mina went to boarding school? Yet another thing she never bothered to tell me. Rose’s comment about Mina not feeling comfortable talking to me sinks its claws into my heart. “Scott was okay with that?”
Andy grunts. “Tough to tell.”
“You have a daughter the same age as Mina,” I prompt.
His face opens as if he’s waking from a reverie. “Oh, yeah, they were fast friends. Inseparable for a while. My wife, God rest her soul, she was so thrilled, because Amy was always a shy one. Still is. She’s a librarian over in Brewster now.”
“Did she and Mina stay in touch once she left for school?” Mina didn’t invite her to the wedding.
He chuckles. “Oh, I think Mina moved on long before that. Like she already knew she was too good for my girl. Amy moped around for weeks. A rough summer, that was.” He makes this damning pronouncement so calmly. Then he once again seems to realize where he is and calls out, “Hey, Scott, you want me to do the clams now?”
He’s already headed over there, walking away from me. Scott is shoveling burgers and sausages onto serving plates. Three picnic tables have been set up near the back of the yard, paper table coverings flapping in the summer breeze, yet another couple laying out foil-covered dishes of various shapes and sizes. I swipe at my sweaty forehead and take a swig of my beer as I try to piece together a timetable of my wife’s early life. Mina moved here when she was ten. Left a few years later for boarding school. She went to Amherst College, a small private school in the same town as the state university her character Maggie attends. Mina’s not like me, in one place most of her life. Drew and I have been friends since our mothers put us in the same preschool, where we apparently terrorized the rookie teacher so badly that she changed professions. Mina never mentioned friends from her youth, only writing friends or those she met in Provincetown, all in the last decade or so. I work over my memories of all the things we told each other late at night, naked in bed, two people getting to know each other story by story. She had so many stories, and she told them so well. Well enough that I didn’t realize I only had half the chapters. She didn’t lie, I don’t think. She let me assume. Somehow, I never noticed the gaps, because I filled them in with my own assumptions.
Suddenly, she’s a stranger to me, this woman I love so much. She’s a black box, and maybe she always was. I thought I knew her so well. I’ve memorized every freckle and mole, the pucker of the dimple on her left cheek when she smiles just so, the ice-gray color of her eyes, the languid motion of her hands as she talks about her imaginary worlds, her wild laugh, the curve of her spine, the feel of her hair, the scent of her skin, the way she always bites the inside of her cheek when she’s trying to concentrate.
I look up at the clear blue sky as my throat goes tight. This is all so wrong. She should be here. I don’t want to do this without her.
“Alex?” It’s Scott. He’s standing nearby with tongs in his hands. When I turn his way, he’s looking at my feet instead of my face. “Burger or sausage?”
“Burger, please.” I can’t believe I’m here, eating with her parents and their friends as if everything is okay.
But I am, and I do. I bow my head as Rose says grace. I end up being seated at the middle of the three picnic tables, with Sharon and Phillip across from me, Julie Leicester on my left, and Michelle Dalrumple on my right. They ask me all about myself, and I tell them about the company and our hope to bring a new cancer treatment to market. Michelle tells the story of her mother’s cancer treatment, and Julie whispers that Andy’s wife died of cancer not even a year ago, poor man. For a moment, there’s a pall over our little group, and then Michelle says, “Alex, what do you do when you’re not working?”
I hem and haw; work is the thing I’m most comfortable sharing about. I could tell them about Devon, but I don’t feel like answering questions about my daughter and my previous marriage. “I work out,” I say, then realize that makes me sound like a complete drone. “I play chess sometimes. Mostly online these days, though.”
Phillip tilts his head. “You any good?”
“Used to be. I don’t play as much anymore. I tried to get Mina to play with me, but she has no interest in learning.”
“Really?” says Michelle. “I could swear that she used to play.” She looks around at the others as if for confirmation. “Wasn’t she in the chess club at the middle school? I remember that Mina beat all the boys, including Bobby!”
Heat spreads slowly from my chest to my cheeks, creeping up like an infection. Everyone at the table is nodding and chuckling as I frantically dig through my memory, wondering if I somehow misunderstood. Did she tell me she simply didn’t like chess?
No. We were at the Governor Bradford on a Sunday in April, sharing the space with a bunch of locals gathered to watch the Red Sox play the Diamondbacks, and I tried to drag her over to one of the tables by the windows that’s already set up for chess play. She tugged her hand out of mine and told me there was no way she’d be able to wrap her head around all the pieces, all the different moves. I promised I’d teach her, promised it would be fun. She said it would only be fun for me, and even though it was delivered with a smile, it was obvious she wasn’t kidding. So I gave up, ordered a beer, and watched Boston lose 15–8. Then we walked home through a flurry of late-winter flakes, and she whispered that she knew exactly how to raise my spirits…and a few other things.
It’s not a hazy memory at all.
So forget leaving stuff out—she did lie. But why lie about something so trivial?
On Michelle’s other side, Winn laughs. “Well, our Bobby’s good at a lot of things, but chess was never one of them. I think he might have only been in that club because he had a crush on Mina. I don’t think he minded when she whipped him.”
“She was a very pretty little girl,” Julie tells me. “Always so pretty and well-behaved. She seemed much older than she actually was.”
Michelle nods and glances at the far table, where Mina’s mother is holding court. “I didn’t blame Rose for wanting to send her away to school.”
Winn rolls his eyes. “Nauset wasn’t good enough?” he mutters. He and Andy are obviously on the same page.
“Well, you can hardly blame her,” says Phillip. “Middle school’s in P-town, not a bad drive. But Nauset’s in Eastham. Kids from Provincetown”—he nods at the Tindalls—“Wellfleet”—he gestures at Julie—“Orleans”—this time, it’s another couple I haven’t met yet, who are sitting next to Rose at the table to my right—“and Brewster all bus to Nauset. It can be a hassle.”
Michelle sniffs. “I never thought it was that bad.”
“Truro’s too small to have its own middle and high school,” Sharon tells me. “Most people come here to retire. Not a lot of natives.”
“My family’s been here for six generations,” says Winn with a proud jerk of his chin. “Phil here, at least that long. Right?”
Phillip nods as he lifts a glass of sweet tea to his mouth. He’s still a little shaky, and Sharon’s watching him like a hawk. “Seven, I think,” she says as he sips. “Me, I’m from the Berkshires!”
“Scott’s family, the Wallaces, they
go all the way back to the pilgrims,” says Julie.
“Wow.” Mina had told me this about her dad’s family. She said that when Rose met Scott at Gordon, a Christian college on the North Shore, she thought he was a wealthy, pedigreed Yankee, just the kind her parents had sent her to New England to meet. She only found out later that Scott’s dad was an alcoholic lobsterman already drinking his way to an early grave and that his mom had long since left and married a car salesman over in Plainville. I wonder if Rose ever regretted marrying a guy who ended up as a fishery inspector.
“Rose is an exotic bird around here,” says Sharon, tucking silver hair behind her ear and glancing admiringly at Mina’s mom, who is up and making the rounds with a basket of what appear to be fresh-baked corn muffins. “What do they call them, ladies from the South? Hothouse flowers?”
“I don’t think that’s a nice term,” says Phillip. “Mean’s someone’s fragile.”
Right now, Phillip looks like a hothouse flower.
“College boy here,” says Winn.
Phillip pats his wife’s hand and takes a bite of a cookie he must have brought from inside.
“I certainly meant no offense,” Sharon murmurs as Rose reaches our table.
Mina’s mother smiles down at me as she tilts the basket in my direction. “Having a good time?”
I decline the muffin. “All things considered.”
“I’ve realized I have an appointment this afternoon. Scott is driving me. And aren’t you heading to Boston tonight to see your little one soon? She must miss you a lot.”
I feel all the eyes at the table laser over to me, but I don’t care. Rose is trying to get rid of me. “How about lunch tomorrow? I can take you and Scott out. We’ll have a chance to talk.”
She hesitates, then gives me a bright smile. “That would be lovely!”
“Perfect,” I say, looking hard in her eyes. Mina’s eyes. “I’ll pick you two up at noon.”
Chapter Eight
She told Ivy that she was meeting a friend. Beth Dover. They’d gone to middle school together, until Maggie had gone away to Lexington Christian Academy. Far away, not far enough.
It was a risk; she hadn’t talked to Beth in years. But she remembered—Beth was Jewish. She wasn’t part of the church; her parents weren’t part of the church.
Dr. Schwartz’s office was in a suite, but there was no receptionist. Just a waiting room with one other person sitting in a chair near the window. He gazed out at the parking lot as if he were willing himself alone again. Maggie sat close to the door as if willing herself to accommodate. She was pondering making a run for it when a door opened, disgorging a middle-aged woman who walked swiftly out of the suite, a tissue peeking from between her clenched fingers.
Dr. Schwartz poked her head out not three seconds later. Their eyes met. “Hey,” she said with a smile. “Come on in.”
Maggie got up and headed toward the door. The office was larger than she expected. A bookcase lined one wall. A couch, a coffee table, a chair, a fluffy area rug, a throw blanket.
And a chess set. Of course.
“Do you play?” asked Dr. Schwartz.
Maggie tore her eyes from it. She smiled blandly. “No, never.”
“I could teach you.”
Maggie put a hand on her stomach as if her palm could smooth the nausea down, shove it back where it belonged. She shook her head.
Dr. Schwartz watched her. Looked back and forth from Maggie to the board, its knights and pawns and bishops and queens waiting for an opening gambit. Maggie shuddered.
Dr. Schwartz gestured at the couch. “Would you like to sit down? Can I get you some water?”
“I’m fine.” She took one slow breath, then another, and sank into the couch. Pulled a pillow to her middle. Dr. Schwartz sat in the chair facing her, a notepad in her lap. Maggie examined the area rug.
“I wasn’t sure you’d call me back,” Dr. Schwartz said. “I’m so glad you did.”
Maggie nodded. “I figured, why not?”
Dr. Schwartz appeared to know the value of strategic silence. “It’s been five days since you were discharged,” she said after a solid minute of quiet. “How are you doing?”
About to shake herself apart in midair, shedding engines and propellers, flaps and wings. “Mostly okay.”
“I’m glad. Are you planning to go back to school in September?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’ve been through something, Maggie.”
“But I can’t remember it.” She looked over at the doctor. “Can you help me remember, Dr. Schwartz?”
“You can call me Lori if you like. And I have to be honest with you: I’m not sure.”
“Why?”
“Our brains are amazing contraptions, Maggie. Sometimes the brain seals off parts of memory. It’s a protective mechanism. Meant to keep you functioning. Does that make sense?”
“Sure. But can’t you, you know, hypnotize me or something?”
Lori’s smile was gentle. “Would you like me to?”
“You can?” Maggie laughed. “I thought that was something that only happened on TV.”
“Nope. We can decide together if that’s something we should do.”
“And that could help me remember?”
“No promises. It might be better as a way to help us figure out how your fugue happened in the first place.”
“That’s a gross word. Like mucus or something.”
Still smiling. “Would you like to call it something different?”
Maggie shrugged. “I just don’t want it to happen again. And I want to go back to normal.”
“What’s normal to you?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s such a shrink question.”
“Have you been to a shrink before?”
“Why would I?”
More silence. Maggie picked at a frayed thread sticking out of the pillow.
“Tell me about earlier this year. The spring semester.”
“I’m majoring in art history.”
“History. What about it appeals to you?”
“It’s already happened.”
Lori’s eyebrows rose. “And you like that. Understanding the past.”
“I guess.”
“What about your own past?”
“Can’t you just tell me what you’d like me to say?”
“Is that what you need from me?”
“Do you answer every question with a question?”
Lori seemed to have an advanced degree in smiling. A smile for every statement, challenging or pleading, friendly or barbed. “I’d love to know more about your life in college. You were a sophomore last year. Did you have a roommate?”
“Reina. We met in freshman year.”
“And you’re friends?”
Maggie nodded. “I’m kind of an introvert, though.”
“Do you keep in touch with friends from high school?”
“Nope.”
“Any romantic involvements?”
Maggie clutched the pillow tighter to her middle. “Are you kidding? I’m pregnant.”
“I don’t draw any conclusions from that,” Lori said quietly. “It’s just something that’s often important to people.”
“My boyfriend and I broke up before finals.”
“It was mutual?”
Maggie let out a shaky sigh. “All right, he broke up with me. Happy?”
“Why would I be happy about that, Maggie? It obviously hurt you. How long had you been together?”
“Three months? Not a big deal.”
“Ah. Not serious?”
“Define serious.”
“I’d rather you define it.”
“Can we talk about something else? Wes was fine. He was nice. I wasn’t. He figur
ed it out and got away from me as fast as he could. I don’t blame him.”
“You’re being awfully hard on yourself.”
“I’m being honest. Would you rather I lie?”
Lori shook her head. “But I’m wondering why you think about yourself like that. Have you always been hard on yourself? Were your parents hard on you?”
“My parents were fine.”
“But not anymore?”
“My dad’s dead,” Maggie snapped. “So no, not anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Lori murmured. “When did he pass away?”
“I was nine. Pancreatic cancer.”
“Any siblings?”
Maggie shook her head.
“So it was just you and your mother.”
“She remarried a month later, so no.”
“Oh.” For the first time, Lori really sounded surprised.
Maggie laughed, an ugly sound. The nausea was a living thing in her belly.
She had a living thing in her belly. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.
Lori stood up. “Bathroom’s over here.” She walked to another door and pushed it open.
Maggie shot across the room, lunging for the toilet in the small half bath. Dry heaved. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.
Lori set a glass of water on the counter by the sink and stood just outside. When Maggie emerged, smoothing down the sprigs of recently chopped hair trying to poke through the curtain of long strands she’d meticulously brushed over them that morning, Lori asked, “Can you continue our meeting?”
Maggie nodded, if only because she didn’t feel steady enough to drive away quite yet. She spread herself on the couch like soft butter, then pulled her knees to her chest. Then realized that was inappropriate and began to sit up.
“You can lie down,” Lori said. “It’s okay.”
Maggie went limp. “Sorry. Morning sickness, I guess.”
“Physical and emotional upheaval are so closely entwined.”
“Are you saying it’s all in my head?”
“Not at all. But you had been talking about something intensely painful to you.”
“My dad died a long time ago. I’ve had a while to get used to it.”
