A Week at the Shore

by Barbara Delinsky

  Sure enough, he raises the camera again, focusing this time on the dogs on the bench. After taking several shots, he checks the LED screen again. Then he looks around, apparently feels he’s taken enough, adjusts the camera strap on his shoulder and heads back through the pergola toward the beach.

  Dismissing him as a random tourist, I raise my own camera again and turn to the other side of the square. There my lens finds SUNNY SIDE UP with its eponymous sign and, since it’s after two, a CLOSED card on the door. The shop is much as I imagined it would be, meaning yellow and fresh. It is flanked by a bookstore with as many bright toys in the window as books, and a sand-colored shell shop, both holdovers from my time here. Farther along, I see a deli, its patrons eating thick sandwiches on the patio. At the foot of the square, a beach shop hawks boogie boards, a stack of folding chairs, and blow-up toys ranging from simple rings to Wonder Woman. Next comes Smith Real Estate. And after that, oh Lord, the penny candy store, another holdover from my childhood, and wouldn’t you know, Joy is glued to its window, which is nearly as colorful as she is. How not to immortalize that? I bracket several shots, then, when I see that she sees me, lower my camera. She sprints over.

  “Mom.” Her eyes are wide with excitement, her voice breathless as she grabs my hand. “You have to see this.” She pulls me down the south side of the square to a shop between the Clam Shack and Small Plates. The latter is apparently a seaside version of tapas, serving small portions of lobster salad, slaw, sliders, and skins, if the low prices on the chalkboard outside are a clue. I don’t have time to study the menu further, though, because she draws me into a store between the eateries. Jeans and Joe.

  It occurs to me that Joe is the guy Anne mentioned, the one who dressed Dad when he wandered down from the bluff in his PJs. Jeans are displayed in the window, but they are way outnumbered by BAY BLUFF gear. This is where the family in blue got their shirts, but I’m stunned that my daughter wants this, rather than organic yogurt raisins or coconut smiles. She has never liked tourist gear, always considers it tacky. Before I can remind her of that, though, she slides her sunglasses to the top of her head and leads me past stacks of beach towels and blankets, shelves of branded mugs and picture frames, racks of T-shirts and tank tops and bathing suits. With uncanny precision, she extracts two hoodie sweatshirts, one women’s S, one M. Both are bright red with the town’s name splashed on the front in large white letters.

  “Can we?” she asks, and, yes, it’s a question, though I see dire hope in her eyes, and it’s a killer.

  She’s getting the sweatshirt, of course. I’m a sucker for dire hope, and this is a unique circumstance. Still, I ask, “When will you ever wear this?”

  “Now. Feel the wind? And tomorrow, and the day after that? We didn’t bring anything for the cool, and besides, I’ll wear it back home.”

  “You will not,” I remark. I don’t feel much wind now and, sure, wind can funnel down avenues in New York and fall comes in three months and winter after that. But once we’re back, she’ll think this tacky again.

  “I will wear it. I love this place. It’s my roots.”

  “Whose roots?” I tease, thinking hers are in New York. But that isn’t really true. In the deepest sense, her roots are here. Because my roots are here. So I’m wrong.

  Oh, yes, I’m wrong. No parent is perfect. When Joy was a baby, I spoiled her, the result being a nightmarish terrible twos. Getting through it was a slog that lasted until she was five, but we both emerged on the other side a little smarter. She learned that when I say certain things a certain way, that’s how it is. I learned to hold firm when it really matters and to be flexible when it does not. A stubborn parent creates a stubborn child. A parent who refuses to admit a mistake creates a child who can’t.

  Gracious in victory, Joy simply smiles. And again, I feel a twinge of pride, this time that she does like the place of my birth. Distracted by the pleasure of that, I take both sweatshirts and make for the cash register.

  Too late, I realize my error. Behind it stands a man I’ve definitely seen before, and from the way he is looking at me, the recognition is mutual. I need my shades. But they’re hooked on the neck of my tee, and putting them on here, now, inside, would be a tip-off.

  Since this isn’t a kid working a summer job, I’m guessing that this is Joe-the-owner. He is roughly my age and height, with an auburn man-bun and a sunburned nose. I’m struggling to place him, when he turns the same puzzled gaze on Joy, and it strikes me that he may see the family resemblance even more so in her. Joy has the same dark hair as Margo and Anne, the same forest green eyes, while mine are lighter on both counts. That said, we all have Mom’s heart-shaped face.

  A name comes to me then. Joey DiMinico. He was Margo’s year in school, a fact that Anne failed to mention when she told me of the Joe who dressed Dad. Of course, he would find us familiar. He sees the twenty-years-older Anne every day.

  This could be a problem, I realize. The last thing I want is for him to pick up the phone and call her before we get to the house ourselves.

  “Just arrived?” he asks.

  “We have,” I say with an exaggerated flourish that I hope suggests tourist glee. “How much do I owe you?” Since he hasn’t connected the final dots, I search my wallet for cash, rather than handing over my credit card with a neon ALDISS emblazoned on the front.

  While Joy dives into her sweatshirt, I hand over a fifty and, leaving my hand waiting for change, half turn to watch her dance to the front of the store.

  “First time?” he asks as I pocket the change.

  Risking rudeness, I simply lose myself in my own sweatshirt. Good to look like every other tourist, right? By the time I join Joy on the sidewalk, my sunglasses are in place. What I see through them, though, brings me to a dead halt.

  It’s a ghost not ten feet away and closing in.

  But no. The image in my mind is of a woman who, had she lived, would have been in her late sixties. This girl may have the same blond hair and gray eyes, the same tall, athletic build, but she can’t be twenty yet.

  So no, this person isn’t Elizabeth MacKay. It’s just the power of suggestion in my nostalgic mind, active now that I’m back here for the first time in so long.

  The girl smiles—a different smile, I see—and passes us by.

  Then my phone rings, and Anne’s name lights up the screen.

  Chapter 4

  In the space of a heartbeat, I wonder why my sister is calling at this very minute—whether someone did recognize me, even the man with the camera—and why didn’t I play it safe and go to the house first? But Joy wanted to stop.

  Nope. Can’t blame Joy. I wanted to stop, too.

  And besides, it’s done.

  “Hey, Annie,” I say casually and brace for her dismay.

  Her voice is muted but urgent, and not the words I expected. “Dad fell. He was climbing the ladder to get something from the attic and lost his footing. I’ve told him those steps aren’t safe. I’ve told him so many times that I can get things from the attic for him, all he needs to do is to ask. But he doesn’t listen. When did he ever listen? He is the most stubborn man—”

  “Was he hurt?” I interrupt to ask, and Joy moves closer.

  “Broken wrist. It’s a simple break, and at least it’s his left arm, so he can still write and brush his teeth and feed himself. Can you imagine if it’d been his right? I suppose it wouldn’t have been that big a deal, just someone coming in to help him do those things while I’m gone. But his balance isn’t good, Mal. I hear this from tons of people whose parents are starting to age.”

  I defer the aging issue. “Have they set it?”

  “They’re about to,” she says, clearly at the hospital, hence her muted voice. “They’re giving him a waterproof cast. That’ll be one less worry.”

  “Where are you?

  “Urgent Care.” She is instantly defensive. “It’s ten minutes from the house—and I knew it wasn’t major, so if you’re thinking I should have
gone to Westerly Hospital and waited forever, don’t say it. Twenty minutes was bad enough. Dad kept getting up from his chair and going to the desk to ask when Dr. Cronin would arrive. Remember Cronin? His old PCP? Who died ten years ago?” I didn’t know he had died, just one more thing I had missed, but Anne says, “Dad has the patience of a three-year-old.”

  “Is it the Urgent Care at the crossroads?”

  There is a short pause, then a cautious, “Yes…” Clearly, she wonders how I know, since it was not there when I left town.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Joy and I are in Bay Bluff.”

  Her voice jumps. “You are? Where? Since when?”

  “We just got here.”

  “At the house?”

  “No. The square. We couldn’t resist stopping.”

  “Why didn’t you say you were coming? I mean, how fair is that, Mallory? You haven’t been home in years and you just show up? The house is a mess. If I’d known, I’d have cleaned, I’d have aired out your room, I’d have been prepared.” Here’s the chastisement, though it sounds more like hurt.

  Feeling guilty for that, I say a soft, “I wanted to surprise you, Annie. We can be at Urgent Care in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’ll take you eight.”

  “Yes, but my daughter hasn’t eaten since breakfast. We’ll get something to go. Should I get something for you and Dad?”

  Since the answer to that is a no, Joy and I wolf down our own lunches as we drive—a veggie burger for her, fried clams (could not resist) for me. The wolfing down is starvation on Joy’s part, nervousness on mine. I haven’t seen my father in three years, and, forget Alzheimer’s disease or dementia or even just ordinary old age, the man terrifies me. He always has, which is probably the major reason I haven’t been back to see him sooner.

  Parking in the lot outside Urgent Care, we run up the steps and down the porch to the wavy glass door. We’re barely into the reception area when my father and sister emerge from an inner office.

  Given that he has a fresh white cast on his left hand, Dad stands remarkably tall. He wears ironed khakis and a button-down shirt whose left sleeve is rolled to clear the cast. His silver hair is vaguely disheveled, but his posture picks up the slack. It is commanding, a warning to anyone who may be in his way, and certainly enough to intimidate me. I’ve been waiting for his illness to soften that, but it hasn’t done it yet. His eyes are blue, faded from what they were a few years back, but authoritative nonetheless. His stride keeps him the half-step ahead of Anne that always seemed his due.

  My sister is wearing a yellow tank top, short denim coveralls, and fuchsia high tops. With a burgundy streak in tousled dark hair, she looks as funky as my daughter.

  She is reaching forward to keep a guiding hand on his elbow, though his purposeful manner implies he knows exactly where he is and why. This is encouraging. Not so the fact that he glances at us and doesn’t react.

  My stomach dips under the weight of this particular memory, the one where he looks past me at Margo or Anne. That worked evenings when a jury’s prolonged deliberations nastied his mood. I was happy to be out of his sight then. Other times, I would have killed for a loving word.

  Anne quickly pulls him to a stop. “Look who’s here, Daddy! It’s Mallory and Joy, come to surprise us. Isn’t that super?”

  “Hi, Daddy,” I say, stretching up to brush a kiss on his cheek.

  He seems puzzled, unable to place me. I’m wondering if maybe it’s just disbelief, when Anne breaks the moment by giving me a hug.

  “You look fabulous, Mallory. And Joy?” The deliberateness with which she repeats our names says she’s helping Dad out. In the three years since he saw my daughter last, she has certainly changed.

  Joy is shy, standing close to me when her grandfather’s gaze finally leaves my face and finds hers, and what takes place then is the best I’d hoped for. His features soften, brows rise in pleased surprise, eyes light with something akin to hope.

  Encouraged, Joy kisses him as I had done. “Hi, Papa,” she says.

  He smiles and touches her cheek with his good hand. “Margo. You’re here. All the way from San Antonio?”

  “New York,” Joy says lightly, ignoring the Margo. “We just drove up. I’m sorry about your wrist.”

  But he’s frowning. “Not San Antonio? Did you move?”

  Anne says, “Daddy, Margo lives in Chicago. This is Mallory’s daughter, Joy.”

  “Mallory’s?” He does look at me, clearly making the connection with my name, but he’s confused.

  I put an arm around Joy’s shoulder and smile. “My daughter.”

  “You’re married? When? Why did I not know? Does no one tell me these things?”

  Anne rescues me with a quick, “Okay, Daddy, we can talk about this when we get home. There are other people here, and we’re in the way.” The reception area is barely full, but the excuse is enough to get us moving again.

  We are barely out the door and on the porch, though, when my father snags Joy’s hand. “Margo, with me,” he says. “I don’t see her enough.”

  “Our back seat is available,” Anne offers with an inquiring look at Joy, who quickly looks at me. I’m not sure if her expression is a May I? or a HELP! So I waggle a finger between us and hold up my hands, as in, either way is fine.

  It’s a moot point, since my father is already leading her down the porch. Trailing them, I watch her slide into the back seat of Anne’s Volvo. It is actually Dad’s car and likely on its last frugal legs, but at least Anne is driving. Last time Dad drove, he phoned Anne in a panic when he couldn’t start the car. She laughed telling me the story—he got confused, forgot how, kept trying to start it like it was his old wagon—and while that might in fact be a common aging problem, seventy-two isn’t terribly old. Forgetting how to start the car is one thing, forgetting how to brake in traffic something else. Though the latter hasn’t yet happened, Anne promised me that she wouldn’t let him drive.

  She hides the keys, makes it a game. She tells me this often, like she’s handling a child. The fact that my father doesn’t call his buddy at the local garage, whom he once helped with a DUI and who then did every last bit of service on our cars for free, puzzles me. Maybe Dad doesn’t think of hot-wiring the car. Maybe the buddy is retired or dead. Maybe Dad doesn’t want to drive because he has nowhere to go.

  Whatever, he takes the passenger’s seat without a fuss. As soon as the door is shut, he swivels to look back at Joy. I see this through the window, see that he stays that way as the Volvo backs around and heads out.

  Alone in my car, I follow them back to Bay Bluff. Gravel has been strewn over pavement, a summer ritual that hasn’t changed. Under the hot sun, it will embed itself in the tar, adding traction for winter’s ice. In the here and now, it adds crunch to a soundtrack whose background is, always and forever, the sea.

  My car climbs. The shrubbery now is more dense than I remember, a wealth of sea grass, myrtle, and juniper, with scrub pines interspersed, all a safe bet against the ocean wind. After a minute, two houses rise against the hazy sky like a pair of standing stones.

  Though separated by several hundred feet of gravel and grass, the houses are clearly a pair. They were commissioned by Tom Aldiss and Elizabeth MacKay within months of each other and designed by the same architect. That was more than forty years ago, which is how long our families have been entwined.

  Since the bluff stands high above the sea, cresting it offers a breathtaking view. I might have stopped to take it in, if the Volvo wasn’t already at the house. My father waits for Joy to climb out, then takes her hand and leads her to the front steps.

  I’m not sure what they talked about in the car, or whether they talked at all. But the look Joy shoots me over her shoulder is definitely amused. I’m guessing she loves being coddled. I may have coddled her when she was little, but it’s been a long time since I led her around. Hell, she stopped letting me do it. Pa
pa, apparently, is something else.

  Wanting her back by my side—my family, my safety, my need—I climb out to follow, but pause with a hand on the roof of the car. The house stands above a fieldstone skirt, and is wide rather than tall, with turrets front and rear. Its sides are clad in cedar shakes—and yes, the shakes buckle in spots. Yes, several shutters could be straighter. Still, my heart trumpets, because this house is a handsome thing.

  That said, I’m not quite ready to go inside and greet the memories waiting there like a party of long lost relatives.

  Needing a boost before I confront them, I follow the timeworn path between heather the color of slate, to the staircase that leads to the beach. The wood here is just plain weathered, ragged both underfoot and on the handrails, but other than the splinter risk, it feels solid enough.

  Walk, don’t run! my mother calls. So I descend one step at a time, inhaling more deeply the lower I get. At the bottom step, I do the little dance of kicking off my flip-flops, and sink into the sand. It is cooler than it will be in another month, and damp enough after last night’s rain so that I don’t sink in far, but it feels wonderfully familiar. Likewise the smell. There is nothing to dilute it here—no food, no people, no cars. It is pure ocean, pure … pure.

  A man-made barrier of rocks forms a breakfront protecting the dock, whose planks range in color, old to new. The whole of it is held in place by thick pilings, and stretches well out over the water. Two boats are tied here, my father’s on the right, Jack’s on the left. Both are powerboats of average length and beam; both are new to me, clearly purchased in the years since I’ve been gone. Still, the sight of them takes me back in time, way back past that one awful night to boat picnics and sunset cruises and trips to Newport or Montauk or the Vineyard.

  Inevitably, though, that one awful night looms. Where had my father and Elizabeth been headed? Just out, he said in annoyance when we asked, and when the authorities asked, he said Jamestown. Just for a ride, he replied when they asked him why, and the story never changed.