That Summer in Maine

by Brianna Wolfson

  Eve released her arms, picked up her bags and marched confidently onto the bus. Hazel remained in place, still stunned. Before she knew it, her mother’s arms were now around her ribs. They felt much gentler. And suddenly, Hazel was a puddle of nerves, scared and unsure. She was disarmed.

  Over her mother’s shoulder, Hazel spied Susie lingering in the back corner of the parking lot. She was clutching the straps of her bag with both hands. Her body was rigid and vigilant. Her thin face was enveloped by large, dark sunglasses. She could see what Susie saw from the outside. Two young women, mother and daughter, in an embrace Susie longed for. Hazel liked the way it probably looked. And no matter how much she didn’t want it to, she liked the way it felt.

  “Have fun, honey,” Jane said warmly into the side of Hazel’s face. Her voice rumbled below the surface. “I’ll miss you.”

  Eve poked her head out the window. “Let’s go already, Hazel! I saved you a seat!”

  Hazel could tell that Eve had done this before.

  And just like that, Hazel snapped back into her reality. Or nonreality. Or something else entirely. Hazel wiggled out of her mother’s embrace.

  “Mom! It’s just a couple weeks!” Hazel declared loudly enough to make sure Eve heard. She picked up her bag slowly and pressed her lips into her mother’s cheek decidedly. “I love you, Mama,” Hazel affirmed before springing onto the bus.

  “Bye, Mom!” Eve yelled acrimoniously and clicked the window shut as Hazel made her way down the aisle of the bus and into the seat next to Eve.

  Eve rested her head onto Hazel’s shoulder. And Hazel braced herself for more than just a bus ride.

  Part II

  Jane at Home

  10

  Jane’s car ride home from the bus stop was lonely. There was no other word for it. Jane felt emptier than she expected to feel as she watched her baby go head out on a journey that was all her own.

  As she got off the highway and drove down the familiar streets with an unfamiliar quiet in the car, Jane thought about Hazel and the last couple of years. She realized that she and Hazel had been drifting apart for months now. It could have even been years. Was it years?

  It was less of a conscious choice than a series of unconscious ones, but the outcome was clear. Things were different than they used to be.

  Some of that was to be expected with Cam and the twins entering their lives. But Jane realized that she had inadvertently assumed that it would fill Hazel’s life with as much joy as it filled hers. For the first time, she realized that it hadn’t. In fact, it was probably the opposite. Her daughter must be feeling so lonely in this new family setup. Cam and the twins were taking up so much space, so much time, in what was once their home. And there were certainly changes in her daughter, changes in her relationship she hadn’t interpreted as clues until now.

  How had she missed this? There were so many signs. She played them through her mind on a reel, but now the memories were playing through a prism.

  There were Hazel’s sudden announcements of “having too much homework” to join the rest of the family for dinner or a walk or a trip to the store. In the morning she was gone early. Sometimes Jane would catch Hazel walking out of the house with as much confidence as she could muster to take on her day. She never sat for breakfast or said goodbye. And when Hazel returned from school, Jane would offer up hugs and kisses, and promptly request help with the babies. Jane didn’t want to exhaust herself with her boys like she had with Hazel all those years ago, but now she wished that she had spent more time with just Hazel on the couch. She had to admit dinners seemed quieter than they should have been for a home with love in it. The twins would coo and babble, but there wasn’t much talking about real things. Cam was sweet, he always tried, but Hazel would eat quickly and return to her room. And when she did, she would always leave the door ajar—never open, never closed.

  Jane wondered why she never pressed that door wide open and hopped right onto the bed where Hazel was usually perched. Sure, teenagers needed their privacy, their space. But they also needed their mothers.

  Jane had always interpreted Hazel’s behavior as evidence of her coming into her independence. Jane was proud and excited about this prospect—but she could see now that Hazel’s separating from them was something different than a need for independence. She realized now it was more of a loneliness. A cry for more attention, more love from her mother. Jane was sure of it now. And so sad she hadn’t thought to give more of herself to Hazel.

  Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?

  What a mess she had made.

  When was the last time she and Hazel shared a bowl of surprise ice cream tucked under the covers together? When was the last time they found their bodies entangled after lying together and talking and laughing?

  Jane wasn’t sure if teenage hormones or Cam came first, but the touching had become so much less intimate, so much more careless, so much less genuine now. There could be a peck on the cheek or a half-hearted hug, or the occasional instance of a heavy head tilted over onto her shoulder, but there was never much more. Even when Jane would try to pull her daughter in close, her daughter pulled away. And Jane just let it happen. She let it all go so easily.

  She wished now she had held her closer longer. She wished she had snuck into her room more often. She wished, more than anything, that she could pull Hazel toward her and press her so tightly to her body that they would be fused forever.

  But now Hazel was on a bus. Now she was going away.

  Jane squeezed her hands around the steering wheel tightly and shut her eyelids for just a few seconds. She had always felt that loving Hazel as much as she did would be enough. That Hazel would just simply know the scale and intensity of Jane’s feelings. That Hazel would hold that knowledge inside her heart at all times. Even as Jane filled their home with new people. Even as she became a mother again, after it was just Hazel for so many years. But those expectations were unfair. She should have shown Hazel more love. With her whole heart and with her whole body and with all her words.

  But now, she knew, she had to let her go. But only for a little while. Then, she hoped with all her might, Hazel would be all hers again.

  But how? How could she do it?

  She ached to know the answer. She needed to know the answer.

  Jane pulled the car into the driveway and let her forehead fall against the steering wheel.

  She needed to figure out a way to get her daughter back.

  And right at that moment, right at that thought, Susie’s book called to her from the passenger-side door.

  The journal felt heavier in her hands as she lifted it up than she remembered it feeling when Susie gave it to her.

  Jane pulled her fingertips over the leather and opened the cover to reveal the first page. She read the words again.

  The Mess Your Mother Made.

  Letters to my daughter I may never send.

  There was a gravitas to it. Jane flipped through the pages and picked out a paragraph at random from the middle of the book. Susie’s words were so earnest. So raw. So reflective. So human. So feminine. So motherly.

  Jane understood every word. But not in a superficial sense. She felt them right down into her very bones. Right in her heart.

  This was the answer. Jane wanted to, needed to share her story with Hazel. Jane would describe her journey to independence and womanhood, just as Hazel was embarking on hers.

  This was how they both would heal. Herself and Hazel, as individuals, and collectively.

  This was the answer.

  She closed the book Susie had given her and pressed it into her heart. She felt so much love for Hazel in that moment. And for Susie and Eve, too. Their stories were so similar. They were almost mirrored.

  Jane would write her thoughts down, just as Susie had. Letter by letter. Moment by moment.

  She pulled the ca
r back out of the driveway and went to purchase a leather notebook of her own. Then she drove back home and, after putting the twins down for a nap, turned to the first page and inscribed it herself:

  The Mess Your Mother Made.

  Letters to my daughter I wonder if she’d ever want to read.

  Then, before she composed her own first letter, she read Susie’s.

  11

  Letter 1

  Meeting your father

  Susie

  Dear Eve,

  I always enjoyed the life of an interior designer. I loved working with things I could touch and feel and connect with. I loved that the colors and textures of the furniture, and flooring, and tiles, and light fixtures, and accent pieces, and art could create the colors and textures of moods. Sometimes soft, sometimes sturdy, sometimes uneven, sometimes sharp, sometimes brilliant, sometimes harmonized, sometimes mismatched, sometimes calm. But it was always dynamic.

  I loved walking into a new space and seeing potential. I loved closing my eyes, inhaling, and reopening them to a vision of a whole new space. I loved turning that vision into something real right before my eyes. I loved working toward a goal of creating beauty in spaces. And, I have to say, my clients loved it, too.

  It was so much fun to source things to bring to their spaces. I could get into the crannies of the world and pull out something gorgeous. From time to time, when I needed inspiration, I could go to new cities or new countries to shops I’d never seen before and antiques fairs at the end of long roads my GPS could barely navigate to. I loved caressing the edge of a piece of furniture. I loved admiring a piece of art and imagining the perfect wall for it. I loved examining the quality of a side table and handling a piece of fabric between my fingertips.

  About a year before you were born, I found myself particularly excited about the freedom and the newness to just go search. Your father never minded when I left and I really needed it because I was longing and aching for something my life so far would never bring.

  Your father and I had learned that we couldn’t have a child. Many, many tests had confirmed it.

  I wasn’t sure a childless life was a life that I wanted. But then I would look at your father and feel that just he would be enough. Every night when he came home from work, he would take me by the chin and kiss me so lightly on the mouth, and I would fall in love with him all over again. Sure, there were moments when I looked at him and saw nothing but shriveled vas deferens, clumsy sperm—some with death wishes—but those moments were becoming fewer and further between over time.

  Still, I couldn’t just kick the longing for a little baby—and getting into my car and driving far away from my life distracted me. I searched for opportunities for those distractions constantly. And driving to little antiques fairs for work was the perfect one.

  I came across the website for Box Designs at the end of a long meandering morning of clicking around the internet. I think you can guess who this website belonged to...

  The webpage was plain and unembellished, but every single piece of furniture was stunning. I clicked through several pieces, inspecting the photos of each angle. Many designers photographed their goods in perfect lighting, with the perfect context. Nightstands with full bouquets on top. Tables adorned with full place settings of plates and forks and knives and spoons. But these were different. Just plain, straightforward, practical photos.

  Every piece was made with rich, sturdy wood. Some had delicate carvings into the sides. The details had been placed such that you had to look close to notice. Nothing garish, but everything unique. I felt a magnetic pull to those tables and chairs and bed frames, and I clicked the Contact Me icon at the bottom of the page. I wrote with a directness of intention that I thought the person behind the work, a craftsman named Silas Box, would appreciate.

  I said that my name was Susie Warrington and that I would like to see his furniture and asked where and when I could do that.

  I didn’t fumble over a single word as I typed. I jammed down on the mouse and clicked on Send.

  I paused briefly and stared at my screen.

  Nearly immediately, a return message popped up in my inbox.

  He told me he would be at the Grandor Fair in Grandor, Maine, over the weekend and told me to text him when I arrived.

  The clarity and confidence of the note compelled me even more to go. Grandor was a five-and-a-half-hour drive without traffic. Doable in one day. So I marked the date and the location in my calendar and found myself smiling as I texted your father about my plans. It was just such a rush to get out of my own head.

  The town of Grandor was familiar, though I had never been there. I searched for the phone number for Box Designs and pulled out my phone to send a text.

  When I arrived, I texted him that I was ready to see his furniture.

  I placed my phone in my lap and waited for the buzz of a response from Silas. I rolled down the car window and felt a surge of happiness as I inhaled the clear air of Grandor. I observed the sights and sounds of the market. All the white tents propped up and people moving in between them. The gentle buzz of voices meeting. The piles of brightly colored fruits and vegetables. I looked at my phone again, but it was still blank. So I got out of the car and slowly joined the crowd. I looked left and right for the furniture I had seen on the website. Those sturdy masculine lines. Those smooth and durable surfaces.

  A tent filled with honey sticks caught my eye. You know how much I love honey sticks. You probably remember me bringing you some when you were little. A row of clear jars filled with sticks of all different colors and flavors lined the rickety white foldout table. I traded a nickel for a root beer–flavored stick. I have to admit, I considered the calories in a single stick, but quickly dismissed the thought and nibbled on the edge to open it.

  What was a little indulgence? My body filled with a warmth as soon as the sweet honey hit my tongue. These were a favorite treat ever since I was a little girl. I pinched my index finger and thumb at the bottom of the plastic, pressing more delicious honey onto my tongue. I closed my eyes to savor the taste.

  At that very moment, my phone buzzed.

  Silas told me where his booth was at the market, and then I’ll never forget what he followed up with. He said he was six foot two with black curly hair and very good-looking.

  On the basis of no evidence at all, I interpreted the text to be an expression of Silas’s typical boldness.

  If I am being honest, as soon as I received that text, I felt my cheeks get just a little warm. It was the kind of flirting that almost certainly should have seemed outrageous. I was a married woman, after all.

  I tucked my phone into my back pocket, smoothed my shirt out so I’d look professional and walked in the direction of his booth.

  Now, flash forward to the evening. The first time that night that I looked down at my phone to check the hour, it was already well after midnight. The edges of the numbers on the digital clock appeared blurry. I brought the back of my hand up to rub my eye. I wasn’t inebriated enough to break my rule of touching my own face with oily fingertips. I smiled delicately in celebration of myself, how truly I had stuck to my values even in this seedy bar in a town I had never heard of with a man I had never met before. Admittedly, I hoped the shape of my smile appeared sexy. Sultry. Mysterious, maybe. I had probably never been mysterious to anybody in my entire life, not even your father, but I felt I could be anyone here on this adventure of mine.

  I brought my eyes to meet Silas’s across the table. Those churning, passionate green eyes drew me in. I could smell his musty, sylvan scent from here. His thick fingers with dirty nails were clutching his beer as his forearm lay heavy against the wooden table. He was strong and tall and sexy, with his torn flannel shirt and work boots.

  I was surprised to find myself attracted to this kind of man, but my heart could not lie. It was exciting. I considered whether it w
as just the tequila, or perhaps the classic rock crackling through the barely functioning speakers on the jukebox. But it was equally likely my own body aching for another man. Aching for another life. Longing for another man that would bring with it another life.

  I felt an impulse to curl my fingers around his wrist, but instead my hand instinctively moved back to check that all my hair was still in place, wrapped in a tight little bun at the nape of my neck, but it wasn’t. I could feel chunks of hair spewing out every which way and I thought for a moment about whether I should care. Usually I would excuse myself at the slightest stray lock, but I couldn’t pass up the moment of trying a new life on temporarily. I brought my fingertips to the tip of my hair clip and tugged it loose to release the rest of my hair. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so much hair across my cheeks. It felt so wonderful.

  Silas chuckled and mocked me just a little bit. He said something like, “Really letting loose, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t like that I was so easily identified for what I was behind the guise of my tequila buzz and my newly unleashed hair. But it was true I was not accustomed either to letting loose or to places with sticky floors and cheap decor. I had always been rewarded in my life for keeping things together. I had never before considered that beauty didn’t mean pristine.

  I considered showing my annoyance, but when Silas smiled, the deep seductive green of his eyes ignited. He sat back and pressed the chair onto its two back legs, the toes of his work boots gently hovering over the floor.

  I gasped and lunged over the table, trying to make sure he didn’t fall.

  Silas laughed as he brought the chair back to its stable position on the ground.

  He brought his hand onto my hand.

  He told me to relax, through his charming smile. The feeling of another man’s hand on my hand was so stingingly exciting. No one in my life had ever been so freely affectionate like that. Everyone had been nice and polite and thoughtful, but not affectionate. Not my parents. Not Parker. Not anyone. It surprised me that someone could just touch me at any moment. That someone could pick up my hand as thoughtlessly as picking up a shoelace to tie it. It set my entire existence on fire.