by Rice, Luanne
Bay felt almost like a schoolgirl right now, preparing for the first day of school. Her kids were more ready for September than she was. Peggy's jellyfish sting had given her a few days' reprieve—partly because of its severity, but even more because her youngest had been so quiet since hearing the news about Bay's job.
Bay went into Peggy's room. It was swathed in darkness; of the three kids, Peggy was the only one who liked heavy curtains. She seemed to crave sleep as a restorative cocoon, blocking out the moon at night, the rising sun, to grab every last moment of dreamtime before launching herself full-blast into the light of day.
“Peg?” Bay asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I'm glad you're still awake, honey. How's the sting?”
“Better. Not so itchy. What is it?”
“I want to ask you something. Just . . . how do you feel about my going to work?”
“Did you see the geese flying in a V this afternoon?” Peggy asked. “They're starting their fall migration, aren't they? I don't want them to, Mom. I want summer to last this year.”
“Peggy . . .”
“And the leaves are turning. I don't want them to. I want them to stay green . . .”
Bay took a breath, gently pushed the hair back from Peggy's eyes.
“Honey,” she said. “Never mind the leaves for now. Or the geese. Will you tell me what you think about my going to work?”
Pegeen, lying on her back in bed, stared up at her mother. She shrugged. Their eyes met and glinted, and in the darkness, Bay could see the hard glitter of tears. She reached for her youngest daughter's hand. Above her bed was a poster for a Connecticut College production of Playboy of the Western World. Bay had studied Synge in college, and she had played Pegeen in her senior play.
“I don't want you to,” Peggy whispered.
“You don't?” Bay asked, her heart sinking.
Peg shook her head. “I like it when you're home. You've always been home. I used to feel sorry for the kids whose mothers weren't there after school . . .”
“Peggy, I won't be working all the time. Just doing some gardening for Mrs. Renwick. You know where she lives, right? In that big house on the cliff . . . you know, I told you about her husband, the famous artist, and the paintings he did of their garden . . . I want to make it just as beautiful as—”
“You'll be working for a rich lady,” Peggy said, her throat thick with tears, “and I thought we were . . .”
“You thought we were rich?”
Peggy nodded. “Daddy was a banker . . .”
Bay sat very still, just holding Peggy's hand. She thought of their nice house, their two cars, Sean's big boat, all the kids' bikes and games and toys. What did any of them matter? “We're rich in lots of ways,” Bay said. “The ways that matter.”
“Then why do you have to work?”
“Because riches don't always pay the freight,” Bay said.
“I still wish you didn't have to go to work. I hate that you have to.”
“I know. I know you do. But it's doing something I love—gardening. How lucky can I be?”
“It doesn't seem lucky at all,” Peggy said, breaking down. “It seems awful. As awful as anything! Almost as bad as the leaves turning red!”
“Oh, Peggy,” Bay said, holding her. “You love fall. It used to be your favorite season. Why does it upset you so much this year?”
“Because of Daddy,” Peggy sobbed, clutching Bay's neck. “Because I don't want to leave him behind in summer. I want to have him with me all through the year, but I can't. He's never going to see fall leaves again, Mommy—never! I want this summer to last forever!”
Bay held Peggy, rocking her back and forth as they both cried. Bay felt her little girl's hot tears on her own skin, and she thought she would burst with new grief. Every day there was a little less sadness in one place and a little more in another. She thought of the year to come, of all the “nexts” that Sean would miss—and that their children would miss about him.
When Peggy was limp from crying, Bay kissed her and slid her onto the pillow. She sat with her a little longer, until her breathing grew steady and calm. But when Bay went back to the kitchen, she found Annie upset. She reported that she hadn't been able to speak with Eliza—her dad had answered and said that something came up, that they would have to reschedule Saturday. Eliza had to “go out of state.”
“What does that mean, Mom?” Annie asked.
“I'm not sure,” Bay said. “Maybe she went to visit someone or something.”
“She could have called me,” Annie said, her lower lip quivering.
“I'm sure she will when she gets back,” Bay said, giving her a hug.
“If she even remembers,” Annie said into Bay's shoulder.
“Oh, she will, honey. I know she will.”
They stood in the middle of the kitchen, crickets chirping outside, Bay rocking her. She thought of Dan, wondered what had really happened, wondered whether he was as constantly worried about his child as Bay was about all of hers. Maybe she should call, after the kids fell asleep, to make sure Eliza was all right.
Later, at ten o'clock, the house was finally all hers. Out on the back porch, she thought of Danny again. But it seemed too late to phone. She didn't know what might be happening with Eliza, and she didn't want to bother him. Time had changed everything, and she no longer felt free to just show up in his life when he least expected it.
She thought back to the summer she was fifteen, when she had first met Danny Connolly. What a perfect summer that had been. Love had come along, without her even asking for it. It had just been in the air, calling her down to the boardwalk every day. She had never felt so close to anyone; she hadn't wanted to let a minute go by without him.
And she thought of how silly and fleeting it could seem—a young girl's first crush. Against the backdrop of summer and the Point, the boardwalk and the blue sky, she had fallen in love for the first time. But now, twenty-five summers later, Bay was beginning to see that those feelings had been real and lasting, had spoken to something deep and true in herself. And she was seeing, now, that those feelings had colored all her actions since.
She had to admit, and it wasn't easy, that she had held Sean up for comparison all along. All these years, she had kept waiting for him to grow up to be like Danny. She had waited for him to outgrow his wildness, to finish sowing his wild oats.
Last winter, when he had looked her straight in the eye and promised he would change, she had wanted to believe there was a chance. But too much damage had been done; whatever promise he had been trying to make, he had been unable to keep. And even if he had, Bay suspected that her heart had been too broken for too long to ever really open up to Sean again.
“Our kids,” she whispered up at the sky, just in case Sean was listening, “love you way more than you deserve.”
By the light of a kerosene lantern, she tried to start reading her grandmother's yellowed and brittle Gardens by the Sea, one of the books she had brought over from her grandmother's house in Ireland. If she was going to start a new career, she was going to do it right. She would resurrect dead grass, restore vine-tangled borders, prune out-of-control rosebushes, make Black Hall gardens more beautiful than ever.
And amid all that beauty and new life, everyone would forget the things her husband had done.
But her kids would never forget. And they would never stop wondering why he had done them. And they would never stop loving him. And they might never, like Peggy, stop wishing that the year would stop right where it was: that the flowers would stay in bloom and the leaves wouldn't change and the snow wouldn't fall.
Because every day that passed took them farther away from their father, from the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand. And because no matter what Sean McCabe may have done to his customers, and to his wife, he was still the light of his children's eyes.
14
DAD, ARE YOU THER
E?”
“I'm here, Eliza.”
“I didn't mean it—I swear I didn't.”
“Okay. Just keep being honest with your doctor.”
“I hate my doctor. He's an atheist.”
“But he's a very good physician. That's what counts.”
“You expect me to trust a man who doesn't believe in God?”
“First of all, I doubt very much that Dr. Reiss has discussed his religious beliefs with you. Second of all, regardless of what he believes, he's the best there is, and I want you to keep being open and honest with him,” Dan said, although what he wanted to say was “start being open and honest with him . . .”
“Great,” Eliza said, starting to cry. “You're calling your own daughter a liar. First a murderer, then a liar.”
“I have never, NEVER called you a murderer.”
“But you THINK it.”
Dan tensed his jaw and resumed planing the plank of teak supported between two sawhorses. As economical as he tried to make his movements, to keep them as quiet as possible, Eliza heard. “You are working, aren't you?”
“I'm in my shop, yes.”
“Your only daughter calls you practically from DEATH'S DOOR, and you're happily building someone a pretty little sailboat. How WONDERFUL for them, so they'll have a Daniel Connolly original, to go tra-la-la-la-ing in, sailing, sailing, fucking sailing into the goddamn sunset with—”
“Eliza.”
“The goddamn FUCKING sunset.”
“That's enough. You're not even supposed to be talking on the phone. Now go back to group and let the doctors take care of you.”
“I want to come home.”
“You will. As soon as you're ready.”
“Right NOW, Dad. Today!”
“You can't come home today. I couldn't legally get you out today, even if I thought it was a good idea.”
“I'm supposed to see Annie tomorrow!”
“She knows you're not available.”
“You didn't TELL her!” she wailed.
“No, of course not. I said you were away for a short time.”
“GREAT, Dad. Just as I get a friend, a real friend, you have to tell her I'm locked up . . .”
“Eliza, pull yourself together. I did not say you were locked up.”
“Well, of course she'll figure it out! She'd know the only reason I wouldn't see her would be if wild horses dragged me away or a shark ate me or I was locked up!”
“Maybe she's not as . . . lyrical as you are. Maybe she just thinks you're visiting your grandmother.”
“We are soul sisters, Dad,” Eliza said. “I know she knows the truth.”
“Well, if you're really soul sisters, she'd probably know the truth whether I screwed up and said the wrong thing or not,” Dan said. The scary thing was, Eliza's logic was starting to make sense to him.
“The minute I get out, I'm seeing her.”
“Fine.”
“Don't patronize me, Dad. Just because I'm in here,” she growled.
“Never.”
“Hey, I learned a new grounding technique. Want to hear?” she asked, her voice and mood changing completely, suddenly sounding like his sweet little girl instead of the reincarnation of Bela Lugosi.
“Sure. What is it?”
“Frozen oranges. You stick an orange in the freezer, and when you feel yourself going off, you take it in your hands. It feels so cold and solid . . . and it smells wonderful. Will you put an orange in the freezer for me? For when I come home?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Now she was silent, and so was Dan, but the line fairly shook with the emotion between them.
“I'm sorry I did it,” she whispered.
“I wish you hadn't,” he said. “I wish you could have talked to me instead.”
“I just keep thinking I'd be better off dead. You wouldn't have to look at me and know that Mom died because of me.”
Dan squeezed his eyes shut. His heart lurched as he thought of Charlie's death, of Eliza keening for hours afterward. That single night—with his anguish and horror—was the reason for all his daughter's problems now, had caused all her scars, inside and out. He was certain of it. He should have done a much better job of just loving his suddenly motherless child.
So he was very careful now, knowing he held Eliza's life in the palm of his hand, as he held back his own tears and cleared his throat.
“You're so wrong,” he lied. “I never look at you that way.”
“Promise, Dad?” she wept.
“Oh, I promise, Eliza. My sweet girl—I promise. Just talk to your doctor, and get well, and come home.”
“Will you send me another phone card, Dad?” she cried. “Or bring me one when you visit?”
“I will, Eliza. Now go back to group.”
“Okay. Bye, Dad. Call me!”
“Soon,” he said. “I'll call you soon.”
When they hung up, he put all his strength into planing the board. Teak was so hard and true. The grain was fine. He kept at it, feeling one hand on the steel plane, one on the smooth teak as curls of wood fell at his feet. That's what he loved about his work—it was so solid, and it was so satisfying to see the results: a smooth board, a well-joined boat.
If only life could be that way.
Back when he had been working on the boardwalk at Hubbard's Point, he had had such young ideas about love. He and Charlie had fallen in love the next year, after he'd returned from a trip to Ireland; shortly after that he had proposed to her. In some ways she was the opposite of Bay—cool, reserved, with a mysterious unhappiness that Dan had, at first, considered a romantic challenge: He would make her the happiest woman alive.
And they had gotten married, in the church on the green in Stonington, where he'd sworn to love her for the rest of his life. And he'd done his best. . . .
They had tried to have a baby for twelve years, and had just about given up when Eliza came along. Dan had been bowled over with love for his daughter. He still found it hard to fathom this: Eliza not only cemented him and Charlie as a family, but she was proof of miracles right here on earth.
“She's ours,” Charlie had said once, within the circle of Dan's arms, while Eliza slept in her crib.
“No, she's us,” Dan had corrected—and she was. The tiny girl, a very distinct person in her own right, had her father's eyes and chin, her mother's nose and cheeks. Looking at her was like seeing a miracle come to life: Dan—who made graceful, amazing boats out of white cedar planking and silicon-bronze screws—was a total hack amateur creator when it came to this league. Eliza's presence in the world bonded her parents together as nothing else could.
Until the night of the accident.
Dan couldn't deny that, in some sense, Eliza was right. When he looked at her, he still saw her mother—and all the hopes that had died the night of her accident. Dan had never stopped believing it was his job to make her happy, his remote, elusive Charlie. That last year of her life, Charlie had seemed to come more alive, gotten more interested in things—and Dan had hoped she would finally feel that sense of joy he'd always wanted to give her but had never felt she truly shared.
Now Dan knew he had lost the chance to have a happy wife, a close marriage. He'd seen the life they'd been building all those years come crashing down. He could never blame Eliza for it—he never would. But she reminded him of what had happened; and sometimes, when he looked in her eyes, he saw hints of her mother's unhappiness, and he almost couldn't stand it.
Dan had already lost his wife and his sense of hope and, for what it was worth, security: his little unit of love and family. Now he felt on the verge of losing even more. He felt he was on the brink of losing his daughter.
As he tried to persuade the steam-bent frames into shape aft, he felt all the muscles in his back and shoulders strain and burn, and he suddenly thought of another parent in pain: Bay McCabe.
This summer was ending soon, and she had the fall and winter to look forward to. Her kids
' first Thanksgiving and Christmas without their dad. He hoped the McCabe children wouldn't shatter the way Eliza had. As Dan leaned harder into the curved frame, he was glad for the work and wished Bay would have something to distract her from the worries he knew she had, and the ones he knew were coming. Dan had some new fears of his own: That anonymous call, asking for Sean McCabe, meant that someone knew something. It had to be a warning, but of what?
Even though it was still August, and the shed was thick with sawdust and summer's damp heat, Dan felt a shiver go through his bones as if it were the dead of December. He thought of the moon, of how much Bay loved it. Would it comfort her now? He hoped she'd look out her window tonight and know that he was there for her.
And later that night, unable to sleep, with his daughter miles away in the hospital, Dan pulled himself out of bed. He went to the window, to look. There it was, angling overhead, the white moon—not quite full, but getting there.
“An obvious moon,” Bay would have said to him years ago. “I like the crescent moon better, just resting on top of the sunset . . .”
But it was all they had that night, so Dan found himself getting into his truck. It was after two in the morning as he drove west. The almost-full moon lit his way, weaving a path of silver on the water he glimpsed from the highway. New London spread out beneath the Gold Star Bridge. He caught sight of his boatyard, just a few piers south of the railroad station, the boats' masts glistening in the mysterious light.
When he got to the Hubbard's Point exit, he turned off and wound down the Shore Road. The countryside was dark and quiet, all the trees blocking the moonlight. He felt strange, excited, as if he had a mission and he needed to accomplish it before moonset.
Under the train trestle, right toward the marsh, he drove through the sleeping community. The small cottages were all dark, their beach toys stacked on the porches until the morning.
He parked in the sandy parking lot, walked past the boat basin to stand on the boardwalk. From here he had the best view anyone could have of the moon: Tilting westward in the sky, just above the big rock behind the raft, it spread its white light like a blanket on the waves.
