‘I always brought him home a rock from my walks. Now I just save the best ones up until this time of year and give them to him all at once.’
Abe remembered that – if he ran to her as a child, after falling or crashing his bike, there would always be something hard in her pocket. Sometimes she’d give him one to hold, to take to school. ‘To remind you that I’m with you,’ she’d say.
Rock as comfort. Well, it was as unexpected as water for comfort, he supposed, and that’s where he found his.
If he found any at all, that was. Every year, he hated this deathiversary more.
‘You okay?’
Abe spun. He’d been watching his mother so closely he hadn’t even heard Fiona approach.
She said, ‘You look funny.’
He tried to smile. ‘That’s my face.’
She took a step backward, rubbing the tip of her nose. ‘It’s going to be a cold night.’
He nodded. Small talk it was, then. He didn’t care. Just as long as he could keep looking at her. ‘You look great.’ She did. She looked like her. Black t-shirt, those broken-in jeans with the perma-grease trail at the cuffs, her hair an amazing tangle on her shoulders that had obviously fallen from where she’d stuck it under that old black cowboy hat. When she looked up at him, there was a challenge in her makeup-free eyes. It wasn’t hard to read.
She wasn’t Rayna.
Thank God for that.
Fiona stepped around him, looking at his mother down the path. ‘Is she throwing rocks?’
‘She does that.’
His mother turned and made her way back to them. ‘You came,’ she said to Fiona.
‘I did. I’m not sure why.’
Hope glanced up at Abe and then at Fiona. ‘I know why,’ she said simply. ‘Come. Sit over here with me.’ She made her careful way to the one spot of bermuda grass that grew stubbornly at the base of the lighthouse.
Abe helped Hope shake out the wool blanket – always the same blue one, the one his father had given his mother for their fifth anniversary. Was that normal? For a man to know what anniversary presents had been given on what date to his mother? Or was that the legacy of a lost father, a lost love?
Hope had brought the basket, too. Of course.
‘I’ve never picnicked in the cold like this,’ said Fiona, drawing her thick sweater more tightly around herself.
‘It’s not so much a picnic …’ started Abe.
‘It’s a memorial we have every year,’ finished Hope. ‘There’s a Jewish term for it – yahrzeit. It’s a good word.’ She drew out a bottle of bourbon and held it up. ‘I hope you’re done with whatever you were supposed to be doing today.’
Fiona didn’t even look surprised, to her credit. ‘All done. Stephen was happy to take over.’
‘Good boy. First,’ said Hope, sitting back on her heels, ‘we tell a memory we have of Conway, and then take a drink. Now. How do you get this off?’
Abe reached to take the bottle from her, but his mother kept it close.
‘I don’t drink any other time in my life. Let me do this part, too,’ she said.
Fiona leaned close to him as Hope struggled to get the wax off the top of the bourbon bottle. ‘You’re playing a drinking game?’
‘Yeah.’
‘At five in the afternoon.’
‘Gotta get it done by dark.’
‘Hmmm.’
Abe looked at her. He was ready for anything he might read on her face. She was probably still pissed as hell at him, and there was no reason she shouldn’t feel as they’d roped her into a private family tradition, because they had. It had been inappropriate of his mother to ask her to come, and it would be understandable if she wanted to get away as soon as possible.
But instead – astonishingly – she smiled at him. As if she meant it. ‘Makes sense,’ was all she said.
Hope had managed to get the top off the bottle. ‘I’ll go first.’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘When Conway was tired, he yawned almost constantly until he fell asleep. I mean, he never took a break. I could see all the way down past his tonsils and just as soon as one yawn was done, he’d start another one, making that huge YAAARRRRRGH noise the whole time. Used to wake you up as a baby, Abe. Drove me crazy. And nothing could make me sleepier faster than that sound.’
Abe hadn’t remembered that in years. It had been like the sound of the ocean when he was a child, as predictable and soothing as a lullaby.
Hope took a large swig and handed Abe the bottle.
He hadn’t planned this year. He’d been too busy thinking about the girl sitting next to him, and that was the truth. And it didn’t help that she was right here, so close that his whole left side itched – ached – to press into her, to share his heat with her, to make her not need the extra blanket that Hope had put around her shoulders.
‘Dad said I didn’t deserve a good woman.’
Hope opened her mouth, and then closed it. This was part of their unspoken contract every year. Each of them could remember anything, and the other couldn’t make corrections. Later, afterward, Hope could tell him he was full of cowpie and that his memory was faulty and his father had spent way more than ten dollars on that crappy bike with the broken frame for his Christmas present but out here, bottle in hand, memory was gospel.
Why did it feel so right that Fiona was here? When she’d never been with their family before, certainly not when it was whole?
‘The year he said that – repeatedly, might I add – was the year that I never came out of my room except for school, dinner, and when he made me work the boat on the weekends. One day, he said that I didn’t deserve to have a woman in my life. That confused me, you know, because I was thirteen. The only thing I thought about girls was that they were pretty and scary, and none of them would ever measure up to my own mother in terms of cooking macaroni and cheese.’ He saw his mother smile and glance down at her lap. ‘I back-talked him on the boat when we were docking, saying something smart-assed, I’m sure, even though I have no clue now what it was, and he looked straight at me and said, “Son, act like that and you won’t ever deserve a good woman.” It felt like the worst thing he could say to me, as if he’d said I’d never be a real man. I remember panicking and thinking I wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, but at that moment, all I wanted to be was someone he could be proud of.’
Abe took a long swig of bourbon, the straight heat of it first burning his lips, then heating his body. Kind of exactly the way Fiona did, coincidentally.
He reached to hand the bottle back to his mother, embarrassed again that Fiona was having to sit through this. Luckily they didn’t usually share more than a couple of memories. His mother didn’t like to have too much alcohol on the one night she drank – even though this whole thing was her idea – and Abe would never tie one on in front of her.
But Fiona reached forward to grasp the bottle. ‘Do you mind? I have a memory to share.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Forgiveness is like knitting backwards – a little tricky to learn and very uncomfortable at first – but when you need to know how, it’s best to have already had practice. – E. C.
Abe let her have the bottle but said, ‘You don’t have to say …’
‘Let her,’ said Hope, as if she’d known Fiona would speak.
Fiona nodded at his mother. ‘Thanks.’ She took a deep breath and didn’t look at Abe. ‘Once I ran away from home. I was about eight, and I knew I didn’t have much going for me. I didn’t have looks, and I didn’t have talent.’
Abe sat forward. What was she talking about?
‘But I knew I had one thing. I had brains. My mom didn’t like all the library books I brought home but they were free. She couldn’t stop me from reading. And that’s how I learned that kids could get out. The Boxcar Children. My Side of the Mountain. And From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I had a spiral notebook that my father got me at the dime store, and I made a list of everything I’d need for a m
onth away from home. I figured in a month, I could find a different …’ Fiona’s voice dropped away for a second, and Abe didn’t know if it was because of the wind or the subject matter.
But it was against the rules to ask. He pictured her, a child, living on this very land where they were sitting. Sleeping in the lighthouse, inside the building she hated. He had to find out why she hated it. Maybe she was about to tell him.
In a moment, Fiona went on. ‘I figured it wouldn’t take a whole month to find another mother. I stole one of my dad’s old rucksacks he got at the Army Supply store, and filled it, over the course of a couple of weeks, with food I could hide away. Potatoes, even though I didn’t know how I would cook them. Crackers from my soup. Two apples because they always last longer than anyone thinks they will. I had rope in case I needed to climb anything, and I had three dollars in dimes and nickels that I’d found in the parking lot behind the laundromat. I wanted to take my favorite doll, Joanne, but she wouldn’t fit. Neither would Margot, the cat that lived behind the woodpile that used to be over there.’ Fiona pointed to the east of the lighthouse to where a small, dirty shed stood. ‘God knows I tried one Tuesday afternoon and she sliced me up so badly that I had to take care of all my scratches and couldn’t leave till that Friday.’ She looked at the bottle in her hand. ‘This is turning out to be a long story.’
‘Have a shot, dear,’ said Hope in a quiet voice.
Fiona stared at the bottle and then tipped it up. After swallowing, she carefully placed the bourbon on the blanket in front of her. ‘So that Friday afternoon, I ran away. I knew that if I were to walk, I wouldn’t make it far without being found by my father. If I hitchhiked, a murderer would kill me by nightfall. There wasn’t much I was good at, but I’d been fascinated by boating books for a while. I knew that it was good if a deckhand was small so they could crawl into tiny spaces. I was small, I had that going for me. And for some reason, I thought sailors were so transient they might not recognize me, even though they berthed permanently at the Cypress Hollow marina. I took my bag, kissed Margot the cat goodbye, and marched down to the boats. When I got there, I put on a British accent.’
Hope smiled and covered her mouth.
‘I know. I figured if I seemed local then someone would try to figure out where I should be. But if I were a tourist, no one would care. I honestly don’t know where I got that idea. I wanted to pretend to be from Italy or Germany, but I knew I shouldn’t try to fake an actual language in case someone really spoke it, so I tried to be as British as I could.’ She paused, pulling down her hat so that her eyes were shaded from the sun dropping into the ocean. ‘I thought I could stow away. If I was caught, I’d speak with the accent and say I’d lost my passport. I made up a set of parents in London, and I thought that the worst-case scenario would be getting put on a plane headed to the British Isles.’ Fiona pointed to the bottle sticking out of the basket. ‘May I have some of that water?’
Hope nodded and passed it to her.
‘Sorry,’ said Fiona. ‘I’m almost done. I’d just forgotten this. Haven’t thought about it in years.’ She unscrewed the cap, drank, and put the cap back on as slowly as possible. Abe wanted to take it out of her hands and tighten it for her, and then hold those hands till they stopped shaking.
‘Are you too cold?’ he asked, breaking the rule. ‘You can wear my jacket.’
She shook her head and still didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m fine. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Headed to the marina as an eight-year-old crazy person. I got there, and my backpack already felt too heavy. I tried to get on board a yacht with a tall guy asleep on a front chair. I thought he was from out of town, and I’d just wait to see where he went, but then his gate was locked, and when I tried to force it, his dog woke up and barked his dang head off. I was terrified and ran down the first pier that had an open gate. The gangplank was down on a fishing boat.’
‘The Second Hope,’ said Abe’s mother.
Fiona nodded. ‘I hid in the bathroom. I thought I’d wait till night fell and then sleep under the table, and then go out in the morning with the fisherman, whoever he was. I’d show myself then and I’d talk him – I wasn’t sure how – into continuing to sail. I’d help him catch enough fish and rainwater, and we’d make it all the way to Fiji, or at least to the Channel Islands, and then he could leave me somewhere and I’d be Karana from Island of the Blue Dolphins. When I was old, twenty or so, I’d come back to the mainland and show my parents I could do fine on my own.’ Fiona rubbed her forehead. ‘I didn’t actually want to leave my dad, so I was crying when I locked the bathroom door. Then I felt the boat move, and someone came aboard. I didn’t realize it then, but he’d seen me break in. He knocked politely at the door and asked how he could help.’
Abe could just see it. Some men might have stormed or yelled or called the cops. Conway, though, would have dealt with her the way he did everything – with great thought and careful handling.
‘I told him I was from London and that I liked riding in black and white taxis. He told me he liked fish and chips. I asked him to take me to an island. He said he couldn’t. That’s when I started crying. Instead of freaking out, he asked me if I knew how to steer a boat. I said I did, and I’m sure he knew I was lying, but he took us out anyway. It was about this time of night actually.’ Fiona took off her hat and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Sunset. Cold. Like this. You see that boat out there?’
A sailboat was about four hundred yards out, moving across a long, yellowed ray of sunlight. ‘We were about that far out when he showed me how to turn the boat. I did what he said, and even though I had no idea what he was doing, he made me feel smart. He pointed up at the lighthouse. My house. He said, “No matter what, you’ll always know where home is.” We sailed another hour or so, then he took us in, and we docked in the dark. He told me I was a big help and he shook my hand.’
Abe leaned forward and jammed his hands together. It was so damn hard not to touch her.
‘And that was the wild thing. I went home. I wasn’t sad I’d been foiled. I just felt relief he hadn’t told on me. I unpacked my rucksack and my mom, who was having a good night, made mashed potatoes, which were my favorite.’
Abe’s glance tangled with hers in the golden sun’s rays. She continued, ‘Your father treated me like I mattered. And I was only eight.’ She grabbed for the bottle and took a quick, short sip.
Fiona handed the bourbon to him, and their fingers brushed. He pulled his hand back, but she reached forward, lacing her fingers with his for just a second. When she let go, Abe’s hand felt colder than ever.
Hope took the bottle from him and said, ‘When we fought, he always made sure he told me that he loved me. During a fight, no matter how stupid, I was always convinced we were over. That he’d leave me. He knew that, so in the middle of any raging we were doing, he’d look dead at me and tell me I was still the only woman for him. Then the fight would go on, just like he hadn’t said anything.’ She paused. ‘That was wonderful. Your turn, son.’
Abe crossed his legs awkwardly, conscious of Fiona’s eyes on him. ‘I had a memory I was going to tell, about him at the fish market in Monterey, when he carried a drunk guy for more than a mile, but I just remembered something else.’ It came back to him in a rush, and he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten it. He hadn’t thought he’d forgotten anything about that night. ‘The storm was coming in.’ He didn’t have to say which storm. ‘I was scared and I was trying really hard not to show it, since Dad was never scared of a damn thing. I asked him where we’d end up if we couldn’t get through the channel into the harbor. He told me a story of a stowaway who wanted to go to Fiji. She was a little girl, but had worked out the way the currents flowed, and she’d tried to get him to drift away with her. First, he told me that no matter what, the worst was that we’d end up in Fiji where we’d fish for a few days before heading home to Mom. Second, he said that the reason he hadn’t gone with that little girl to Fiji was that he couldn’t leave me. Or
Mom. That no matter what, he’d never leave us.’ Abe took a long pull from the bottle. ‘Hoo, damn. Don’t let me have any more of that. Not if I’m going to drive back to the marina.’
In other families, this was where Hope would lean over and hug him. Maybe cry a little. Tell him he’d been a good kid and that his father had always loved him. But this was his family, and they didn’t work like that. Never had. Abe hoped that Fiona wouldn’t mind or think they were broken.
Even though they were, in their own, Atwell way.
Hope gave no sign that she’d heard his story. She reached in her bag and pulled out what looked like a roll of wire. ‘This is my idea,’ she said to Fiona. She took out a pair of needles and looped the silver wire over the tip. She made a few laborious moves and then handed the whole metallic nest to Fiona.
Fiona took it, looking confused. ‘What am I doing with this?’
‘Knit.’
Fiona held the mass closer to her eyes. ‘Not to state the obvious, but this is metal.’
‘Silver plated copper wire, to be exact. Just do the moves I taught you last week. Same ones,’ said Abe’s mother.
Abe watched as Fiona moved the needle, holding the wire like his mother usually held yarn. It took a moment, and then it clicked. He could actually see Fiona figure out what to do, what came next.
‘If I turn the work here, can I add a stitch on either side on the next row?’
Hope nodded. ‘You’ve got it. I knew you would.’ Hope stood and briskly brushed off the front of her pants. ‘Will the lighthouse come down, then?’
Fiona looked as surprised as Abe felt and the wire stopped moving. ‘Yes. Everyone I’ve spoken to about my proposal for the park seems to be behind it. So far.’
‘So my son hasn’t managed to change your mind.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘My husband loved this building.’
‘I know.’
Hope shrugged. ‘Tearing down the lighthouse won’t fix anything. I think you probably know that, too. But I’m glad you knew my husband. I’m glad he got you home safely.’ She looked at Abe, that look she’d been giving him since he came home alone that night. ‘He was good at getting people home safely.’ She tucked the bottle of bourbon into her picnic basket and tugged the blanket out from under them as they scrambled to their feet.
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