When we’re finished, we sit on the sand. He smells like sunshine and fresh sheets, and I don’t know whether to touch him or not because it feels like I don’t have that right anymore. I sit with my hands in my lap and try to figure out what more I want to say to him.
And then he says, “I know what it’s like to be in a rough place.”
I look at him, and he’s looking at the fire. “That doesn’t mean I should have done what I did.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He makes this frustrated groaning sound and shakes his head at the ground. He closes his eyes. Opens them. “Shit.” He sighs. “But I get it. Sometimes you do things just to make it worse. Back when I was thirteen and life was at its absolute shittiest, I wanted something to numb the pain and I found it. It worked for a little while, but the problem is, you want more, you need more, and before you know it, you can’t feel anything.” He stares down at his hands. “But you know what I finally figured out?” He looks up at the fire again. “You have to feel it. You have to feel it even if you think it’s going to kill you.”
“I’m sorry. About Grady. So sorry.”
“I know. We don’t have endless time here, and I still want to hang out with you too. Like, really want to hang out with you.”
“But?” I brace myself because I know what’s coming.
“But it hurts. And I think I’m supposed to forgive you, because if I want to spend any time with you before we leave this island, I’m going to need to. And I want to do that, but we’ve been pretty honest with each other, and I’d be lying if I said…I mean, as much as you worried about Wednesday? I don’t know. The thing is, you got in there, Captain. You got way the hell in there.” And he’s talking about his heart, or maybe all of him.
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we need to be bigger than what happened with Grady. We’re bigger than Grady.” He looks at me then. “Well, I know I am.” Our eyes lock and the corners of his mouth turn up, and suddenly the dimples are there. Different, but there. “But I still feel shitty.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“I know.” Like that, the dimples disappear. His eyes move back to the fire.
There are a million things I want to say to him, but I don’t say any of them because I know they won’t help. So eventually I say, “Tell me about your brother. If you want to.”
It takes him a minute to answer.
“I never really felt like I got to know him, because by the time I was old enough, he was gone to basic training, Ranger School, his first tour, then another. He was tough, but funny. Whenever he came home, he’d wear those dumb-ass shorts, the ones you love so much. He’d say that after all that gear in the desert, wearing them was like ‘cradling your junk with a pillow of angels.’ It’s stupid, but when I put on those shorts, it makes me feel like he’s still here. Like it’s just him and me having adventures.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid.”
“Before Bram and Shirley, he was maybe the only person in my life who never let me down. But that doesn’t mean I was always a good brother to him.”
“What was his name?”
“Flynn.”
“I’m sorry about Flynn.”
“Yeah, me too.” He looks at me then. “Here’s something else I’ve figured out, Captain. At some point, you have to start trusting that there’s a floor again. What’s the worst that can happen? Okay, so it disappears. You’ve already survived one disappearing floor, and you’re still here, walking around. So you can survive others. Yeah, you can put yourself on twenty-four-hour watch, never take your eyes off it, but that’s not going to keep bad things from happening. Because life is going to do what life’s going to do. The thing you can count on is that at some point something bad will happen. Which makes things like blood moons and treasure hunting and you even more important.” He takes my hand. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“At least he’s still here. And I get that. I try to remember that. I just pretty much feel like the last to know, like everyone saw it coming but me.” With my free hand, I pick up the notebook, write I feel so stupid, and hold it out until the flames catch it and swallow it and turn it to dust.
We sit like this for a long time, watching the fire die down. I concentrate on the feel of his hand in mine—fingers, skin, warmth. No matter what happens to Miah and me, I want to always remember the feel of his hand.
I say, “I’ve been thinking about it and you should dream big. You need to dream big. Whatever that means. Montana. Outward Bound. The rodeo circuit. The moon. You deserve to live your own life, Jeremiah Crew.”
I meet his eyes, and there is this look on his face that’s hard to describe. It’s as if I can suddenly see him as a little boy, before all the loss and heartache, before he had to grow up too fast and become an adult and take care of everyone.
He reaches for me and pulls me close.
At some point we lie back. He closes his eyes. I close mine.
“I got you,” he says.
I lie there for a long time, feeling his arm around me. Telling myself it’s okay. Right now it’s okay, I’m okay, and he’s here. Telling myself this is enough.
He’s got me.
He’s got me.
He’s got me.
“I got you, too,” I whisper.
DAY 26
The next morning I find my mom in the kitchen. We move around the space, pouring ourselves coffee and cereal, cutting up fruit, spooning yogurt into a bowl, and not talking. I don’t say anything. I don’t mean to say anything. Ever. Then she looks at me and asks, “Is everything okay?” And I start to cry.
In a second, her arms are around me and I’m crying into her shoulder. I stay there for a moment, holding on to her, and then I make myself pull away.
I say, “I need to talk to you.”
By the expression on her face, I can tell she’s bracing herself. She probably thinks I’m pregnant.
“Is this a window-seat talk or a walk-and-talk?”
“Neither. It’s a monsters-in-the-woods talk.”
This is code for Let’s sit on the bed and build a pillow fort to keep the monsters away. It was what we did when I was seven and terrified of the trees surrounding our house. I was convinced something dark and menacing lived there, and my mom would sit with me at night and explain that there weren’t monsters in the woods, but if there were—which there weren’t—in order to get to me they would have to first unlock the front door, and if they could somehow do that, they would have to get past the dog and then my dad and her. So many lines of defense.
We leave the coffee and food on the kitchen counter and go into her room. Once we’re barricaded and sitting cross-legged, knee to knee, face to face, I tell her about my conversation with Addy. As I talk, I start crying again—tears over my dad’s girlfriend, tears over my entire roller coaster of a life.
She wraps her arms around me and holds me, and even though it doesn’t change anything, it’s enough. I let it be enough.
She says, “First, I’m sorry you found out that way. I love Addy, but it wasn’t her place to say anything. That said, she didn’t know that you didn’t know, and I should have told you. That’s on me. Your dad and I are trying to maneuver this situation the best way we can, but neither of us knows what the hell we’re doing. Second, this isn’t your fault. Let’s make that clear right now.”
“I know.” But I’m not sure I do. And then there’s this overwhelming urge to crawl up into her lap like I’m a little girl again and have things be simple and easy, with monsters in the woods the only thing to fear.
“What did Addy say exactly?”
“Just that he has a girlfriend and she works with him.”
I wait for her to tell me this isn’t true after all, but her face confirms it.
“You knew.” I’m still hoping by so
me miracle she’ll say, No, I didn’t, I had no idea. Not that I want to be the one to break it to her, but I need her to not lie to me, not even by omission.
“I’ve known for a little while.”
My stomach drops. “You should have told me.”
“I know.” She doesn’t make excuses.
“It’s just another secret.”
“I know and I’m sorry.”
“I hate him.”
“Relationships are complicated, honey. It takes two to make one and two to break one. They aren’t black-and-white. And I know all of this seems sudden to you, like love can just go away or change in the blink of an eye. But at least in the case of your dad and me, I’m realizing it was a progression of little fractures. Even if I didn’t exactly understand that at the time.”
“I still hate him.”
“I get it. I kind of hate him too. But I also know your dad better than anyone knows him, and he gets in his own way. He always has. It’s like that book you love, the wallflower book.”
“The Perks of Being a Wallflower.”
“That line about how we accept the love we think we deserve? That’s your dad.”
“So who is she?”
“Michelle.”
“Is it serious?”
“I think so. He said something about moving in with her, so we’re talking about selling the house, me getting my own place. Whether that happens or not, this does not mean he loves you any less. Your dad loves you more than he loves anyone, including himself.”
“Okay.”
I can hear myself. I sound like Robot Claude, but I feel like a tornado or like something cornered and scared and angry. Is all this what you meant, Mr. Russo? Do you think now I’ll be able to write something real and true that will make people feel?
“Claude.”
“Yes.”
“I’m your mother. I’ve known you all your life. And you need to talk to me, no matter what. I’m saying this as a person who can also hide when she wants to.”
“Okay.”
“That includes talking about anything. Your dad. The house. Saz. College. Sex.”
“I really don’t want to talk to you about sex.”
“Fair enough. You know, my own mother has never said that word to me. Maybe that’s why I want to make sure you can talk to me, but I get it. Just tell me once that you’re being safe, because I’m a mom and moms need to know that.”
“I’m being safe.”
“And you’re okay?” She means about the sex and Miah, not about everything else.
“I’m okay.”
She sighs. She tilts her head toward mine and my forehead meets hers. We sit like this for a minute. Then she sits back. I sit back. I picture my house, which will soon be someone else’s house, and my green room, which will no longer be my green room but someone else’s green room.
She says, “I’m glad to see you cry. I’ve been worried about you. If the tears don’t come out as tears, they’re going to come out some other way. And hey, it’s okay to still be a child to your parents. No matter how grown-up you get. It’s okay to let me be the mom. Actually, it’s good for me, too. Especially right now. So let me be the mom.”
* * *
—
That afternoon the two of us, Lauren and Claude, Claude and Lauren, walk outside into the day. The sun and the heat envelop us, as if to say, You’re okay.
Mom stares up at the sky. “ ‘All is well. All will be well. All manner of things will be well.’ ” My mom and dad don’t do organized religion, but this is something she likes to quote from the Quakers. Then she looks at me, eyebrows arched. “Let’s play hooky.”
“We should take bikes and ride to Rosecroft.”
Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “When did you learn to ride a bike?”
But I’m already straddling the bicycle—bare legs, bare feet, bare head because I’ve forgotten my fisherman’s cap—and sailing down the lane.
* * *
—
We ride side by side down Main Road, the sun on our faces, hair blowing. At Rosecroft, the two of us pick our way through the grass and the brick until we get to a broad staircase at the back of the house, the one closest to the marsh. I go first and she follows me, up the stairs to the second floor. Most of the floor is gone, but at the top of the stairs is a single room, broad and airy, blue sky for ceiling, and smelling faintly of flowers.
We walk in and I catch my breath.
The closet door sits open, and she shows me the bullet hole. I fit my finger inside it, the way she said she did when she was young, and wonder if Claudine ever did the same. Did she come in here or close off the room? Is this where she slept? Or did she stay as far from here as she could? I think of her in this grand old house, roaming its halls, sitting alone in these giant rooms, walking down the stairs—as I’m doing now—to the main floor, only the ghost of Tillie to keep her company.
Standing there, I’m suddenly filled with all this love for Tillie, this beautiful and sad young woman who died too soon. And in that moment it hits me. This is why Claudine stayed here all those years. She didn’t want to leave her mom.
* * *
—
Back outside, on the ground, we walk the length of the house, up one side and down the other—Mom describing the way the place once looked, room by room. The blue wicker furniture on the north veranda. The big wooden swing. The golden oak doors with black iron hinges. The square entrance hall. The brass container used for outgoing mail. The card room, where the guest book was kept. The archway into the great hall with its fireplace, the Blackwood motto chiseled into the mantel: VIVIS SPERANDUM. WHERE THERE IS LIFE THERE IS HOPE. The large red sofa where Claudine took her naps, the one nobody dared sit on because it was hers and hers alone. On and on.
By the time the sun starts to set, we’ve put the house back together again, rebuilding the ruins.
* * *
—
I sit in my bed rereading Zelda for the five hundredth time. Fitzgerald is in Hollywood trying to be a screenwriter, while Zelda is at Highland Hospital in North Carolina being treated for her schizophrenia. He is having a wild and flagrant affair with a gossip columnist named Sheilah Graham, who will later write a book about it, while Zelda is locked up in a mountain sanitarium, where she will literally burn to death.
Fuck you, Scott Fitzgerald.
I lay the book down and fall back, head on my pillow, and wait for Miah to come.
* * *
—
We lie on top of the sheets, clothes on, facing each other. At first there’s the feeling again of not knowing whether I should touch him. He is Miah but not Miah, or maybe it’s me. Maybe too much has happened—my dad, Grady—for us to be like we were before Addy came to the island. I say this to him now.
“Well, what are we going to do about it, Captain?”
“I don’t know.”
He takes my hand and places it over his heart. “Let’s start here.” And then he kisses me. I kiss him. This goes on for a minute, maybe two.
We break apart.
He says, “You know, we don’t have to do anything. Sometimes your head’s just not in that space, and that’s okay.”
“Do you still want to?”
“Pretty much always. Yeah.”
“I mean with me.”
“So do I. As in I pretty much always want to with you.”
I kiss him. He kisses me. I rest my hand on his heart again and I can feel the beating of it, slightly faster than normal, but steady, so steady.
DAY 27
We are up before sunrise, riding bicycles to the beach. We leave them by the footpath, the one that will take us over the dunes and onto the sand. I carry my bag and he carries his camera. As we come over the last dune, I see it. The sky is a palette of
soft blues and pinks and gold. The water has captured all these colors and holds them there so that everything, ocean and sky, is bathed in the same dazzling light. The universe feels new and washed clean.
When I mention this to Miah, he says, “Shirley calls it dayclean, when the world kind of starts over.”
Like us, I think.
I breathe in the air, which is cool and light. By midmorning it will be as heavy as a wet blanket, but for now it feels good on my skin.
I say, “I have to write.” But the truth is, I’m already writing. My mind is reeling with all the images and words and scenes that are in it. I need to get them out of me and onto the page.
I wander for a minute until I find it, the perfect place to sit with the perfect view of the sunrise and the boy who is wandering the beach, this way and that, taking pictures.
* * *
—
Every now and then I look up to make sure he’s still there. I watch him as he wades into the water, as he kneels in the sand to get the angle he wants, as he covers the camera screen with his hand to check the photos he’s taking. He turns to look at me, as if he can feel me watching.
He laughs. “I see you, Captain.”
I write, I see you, Captain. I wish I could draw him with words and put him down on paper the way he looks right now, as if he’s part of the sunrise.
* * *
—
At some point—a click. I glance up, and there is Miah, lying on the ground, a few feet away, camera pointing at me. I’m so deep in me that it takes me a moment. There you are, I think. I’m glad you’re here.
Sometime later—who knows how long—he is standing in front of me, shirtless. “Come for a swim with me.”
“I can’t. I’m in it.” Even though I want to do both, stay and go.
“When do I get to read it?”
Breathless Page 29
