That Summer in Maine

by Brianna Wolfson

  Jane was a mess. She was in a fog of missing Hazel. There was nothing else she could think about but that.

  “Honey! Pancakes are ready!” Cam bellowed from across the house. By the time she had shuffled one leg and the next into the kitchen, Cam had placed a stack of pancakes on the table and the twins in their high chairs. Cam whistled cheerily as he tore the pancakes into smaller pieces for the twins and then poured coffee for himself and for her.

  Jane sat down on her chair and lifted her fork to eat, but she wasn’t hungry. She could tell Cam was talking but she couldn’t make out the words from the fog in her mind. All she could think about was Hazel. She felt the prickling of tears building up in her eyes.

  She observed Cam’s lips moving and felt an unusual pang in her belly from looking at him. It was hard to admit to herself until now, but she realized she had transferred all of her loving and tender feelings from Hazel straight to Cam and the twins. Drifting away from Hazel was less a conscious choice than a series of unconscious ones. She only blamed herself really, but it couldn’t be denied that the moment Cam joined their family was the moment she’d started losing Hazel. Jane was having a hard time being the right kind of mother to the twins and Hazel and the right kind of wife to Cam.

  But Jane wanted to change that now. She really, really did. She was still Hazel’s mother. And she would be forever. She wanted to reclaim her place. She needed to reclaim it.

  Jane excused herself from the table and went into the other room. She didn’t do it consciously but she found herself picking up the phone and dialing Silas’s number. Jane’s heart was pulsing.

  “Hello?” Silas’s gravelly voice said from the other end of the line. She wanted to yell and scream and let everything out into the receiver, but she tried to stay calm.

  “How are things going up there?” she asked, keeping her voice as steady as possible.

  “Up where?” Silas asked. “Sorry, who is this?”

  Jane felt a volcanic eruption begin. “Who is this?!” she asked indignantly, but then did her best to tone it down and in a softer voice, continued. “This is Jane. Hazel’s mom.”

  “Ohhhh, hey!” Silas responded far too casually in Jane’s opinion.

  “I haven’t heard a peep from anyone. So yes, how are things going up there?”

  “They’re...uh...going. They’re going,” Silas said with what sounded to Jane like some trepidation.

  “Go on,” Jane urged.

  “You know, we’ve been doing the usual stuff. Hanging by the lake. Making s’mores. Cooking meals. Pretty breezy.”

  It was silent for a moment. And Jane was utterly unfulfilled. The volcanic eruption was brewing again.

  “Anything else you would like to share with me about the human being that I carried within my body and underneath my heart for nine months and then for another fifteen years after that and haven’t heard a single word from in over a week?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah.”

  Jane thought perhaps Silas was getting what she was after now.

  “The girls are, uh, getting along pretty well. I think they like it up here. Weather’s been nice. I think I’ll take ’em to the market this weekend. I’m just hanging on the dock right now solo while Hazel and Eve are hanging back up at the house. Uh...”

  Nope, Jane thought. He wasn’t getting it at all. Here was the eruption.

  “Silas, can you please cut the crap? I want to know how my little girl is doing up there in your custody. So, please, can you find something to say that will make me feel like a human and a mother again. PLEASE!” Jane felt herself out of breath. It felt good to say it out loud.

  There was a thick silence, and then a loud exhale from Silas.

  “I’m sorry, Jane. Last summer when it was just me and Eve, it was different. We each kind of just did our own thing, you know. But it’s different with Hazel here, too. There’s more connection. There’s more meaning infused in every little thing. It’s hard to explain. But let me tell you, she’s really special. I don’t think I was expecting all this. You’ve raised such a great girl. You really have. She’s just the kind of daughter I feel like I’d want to have. Well, I guess I do have.”

  Jane’s eyes were filling up with tears.

  “Ugh, I’m sorry. This is hard for me.”

  Jane’s throat was in a knot but she wanted to hear more.

  “What’s hard?” she asked, gentler and meaning it.

  “It’s just so weird when I look into these girls’ eyes, Jane. It’s like they’re my eyes. And I know in some ways they kind of are. Eve’s eyes are like the forest after rain. Lush and rich. Teeming with life and energy. Hazel’s eyes are softer, calmer. Her left eye is a mosaic of greens and blues and browns, all subtly integrated into a single appearance of hazel. And that green eye is emerald green. Definitely mine. Both definitely, definitely mine. And the different sides of me, too. It’s amazing to look at your own flesh and blood. It really is. It makes me want to love them like daughters, like my very own, but really it...” He paused and took a deep breath. “It just makes me think of Ruby. And that makes me think of Torrey. And it’s getting unbearable.”

  Jane could taste the salty tears that fell from her eyes onto her lips.

  “Ugh, Jane. I feel like a terrible person for saying it,” Silas said. “I don’t know why I’m even saying it but I feel like I just have to get it off my chest. I don’t even know if you want to hear it. You probably, almost certainly don’t. But you’re the only one I know that knows anything about Torrey and Ruby. Well, aside from Torrey herself. But I haven’t talked to her in years. Years.”

  Jane was just quiet. The call had started off being for her, but she knew she had to hand that over to Silas. It was for him now. He needed this.

  “I keep zoning out of my life and then snapping back into things, pining after Ruby and Torrey. The other day I took a rose down to the garden in the woods Torrey and I made. And the day after that, I found myself in my workshop unable to work, just holding up a picture of Torrey and the sonograms of Ruby. Those grainy ghostlike images of my little girl, our little girl. Our little girl that never was. And the night after that I couldn’t sleep, and I found myself sitting in Ruby’s would-be rocking chair in her bedroom, which I usually just keep locked.”

  Jane found herself nodding along as Silas spoke. The words, the emotions, were flowing out of him like a waterfall.

  “Part of me expected that that room would have fallen into disrepair, just like my life had. That everything in there would be crumbled and broken. But it was just there, like a fossil. A perfectly preserved snapshot of a moment in time. This is weird to say, but I think having Hazel and Eve here makes me want that life back. Makes me feel like I could have that life with a wife and daughters. Like I could actually be happy someday.”

  Silas seemed exasperated now. “Does that make any sense at all? Like any at all?”

  “It does,” Jane replied, through tears and a tight throat. “Children are the most special thing in this world. They make you see everything, everything, differently. And you’re never the same again once you meet them.”

  “Yeah. I get that now. I really do,” Silas said, trailing off.

  “Well, then, it seems like their trip up to you is worthwhile for everyone, not just the girls, huh?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Well, see if you can get Hazel to call her mother, all right?” Jane urged, but without much belief that he would.

  “All right,” Silas said.

  “Bye now,” Jane said, almost desperate to hang up the phone. It was all too much.

  “Bye, Jane. Thanks for listening.”

  Another moment of quiet.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Silas added. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I really did care for you that summer. It was different with you than the other women. Even Susie
. I really did care for you. If I wasn’t so broken, maybe things would have worked out. But I really did care for you.”

  Jane’s heart stopped for a moment. What could she say?

  “Goodbye, Silas” was all she could muster.

  As soon as Jane put the receiver down, she burst into tears. Being a good mother, a good parent, was the most important thing she, and all the other parents out there, could do in this world. She felt a strange comfort that this was all part of Hazel’s journey. And hers and Eve’s and Jane’s and Silas’s and Susie’s, and even Torrey’s, too. That thought calmed her, but not enough to go back to the breakfast table.

  She pulled out Susie’s book and read another letter and prepared to write her own.

  Letter 7

  When you learned about Silas

  Susie

  Dear Eve,

  Telling you about Silas being your biological father was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I wish the truth wasn’t so painful. I know it was painful for you, too, and I know you were there to experience it, but I want to share my side of things. I remember every detail of this day. I’ve replayed it so often in my mind since.

  When it was time to tell you, your father and I sat on the couch in the living room. I took a deep breath, smoothed my skirt, and crossed and recrossed my legs, searching for a position that would alleviate my discomfort. It didn’t work at all. My heart felt like a hundred moths fluttering around in my chest. Your father nodded reassuringly and brought his hand onto my thigh for comfort, but his lips remained tight and solemn.

  He called out for you.

  We could never be sure about your whereabouts in the house. You were always lost in some cranny, alone, where no one could disturb you.

  He asked you to join us on the couch for a chat. I was glad he was the one calling for you because I don’t think I could have done it myself. My throat was so tight and nervous.

  Soon, we could hear the pattering of feet on the floor above us and then winding down the staircase. When you appeared in the room, you looked as you always looked then: indifferent.

  “What?” you asked sharply.

  He said it was nice to see you, too, with more than a hint of sarcasm. I loved him so much in that moment, trying to bring an ease to things. And then he asked you to have a seat. I loved him even more for his warmth.

  You rolled your eyes, threw your head back and shuffled over to the couch, where you dramatically fell onto the cushions and looked up at us. I wondered what you were expecting to talk about.

  I turned to your father and nodded slightly, encouraging him to talk. We had agreed in our preparation for this moment that the news would be best coming from him. The quiet in the room became thicker. Leave it to you to call it out.

  I could tell you were getting nervous and you hurriedly kept asking what we wanted to talk about.

  You sat up a little straighter now and opened your eyes wide. I couldn’t help but catch another glimpse of Silas in your green eyes. I squeezed your father’s hand and he puffed out his chest and began.

  He said that there was something we wanted to share with you. His voice was steady and his words were slow and methodical. I wonder if you thought the same.

  And first, he reminded you that we loved you very much.

  You had reached maximum impatience by now and folded your arms in front of your chest. I understood, and in some ways shared, your sense of urgency to get it out in the open already.

  He reminded you that he was your real father.

  I braced myself for the deluge and could tell you were doing the same.

  And then he explained that he was not your biological father.

  The room all of a sudden felt colder and more cavernous. I locked my fingers into a neat pile on my lap to keep them from flitting around nervously. I didn’t want to force you into any kind of reaction. The look in your eyes started to change immediately.

  He matter-of-factly stated that he could not have biological children of his own. Which was the truth. But it was the part that I knew would make my insides squirm.

  You asked who your biological father was.

  I felt it was my turn to chime in and bear some of the burden of the conversation. We decided that we were not going to lie to you about any of it. I explained that it was someone I had met on a trip to purchase furniture a long time ago.

  You caught on quickly and asked if it happened more than the one time. I was surprised that your view of relationships was already that sophisticated.

  I could feel that your words were picking up momentum and heat. I squeezed my eyes together and tried not to cry. Or scream. Or run out of the room. Or throw my arms around you and your father or both and then grovel and cry.

  Your father tried to interfere and his voice boomed when he did. It was rare he sounded so big and strong. But he did right then. I knew how badly he wanted things to go smoothly. But how could they?

  Something raw and fragile had taken over you, but there was also vicious grief apparent in your eyes. A hint of a tear danced on your eyelid. Your cheeks got hot and red and your green eyes began swirling with something even more fierce. You looked like you were capable of doing anything.

  It scared me.

  And then, without another word, you got up from your seat.

  And then there was a full teenage explosion, in a fashion that only you could summon.

  Your fingers balled up into tight little fists and your knees popped up and your heels slammed down on the floor as you walked to the other side of the living room. You picked up the picture frame from the sleek midcentury modern console pressed up against the wall. It was a vintage Tiffany’s silver frame I’d got a decade ago in a town in Virginia, and I’d placed a photo in it of the three of us at a baseball game. We were smiling in our seats, wearing matching Yankees baseball uniforms with our arms slung around each other. You were in the middle, with a big pile of peanuts in your lap, smiling up at the camera through missing teeth. You tilted the frame to one side and then the other, staring into the image at the center.

  I tried to figure out what you were thinking. Was it sadness? Longing? Fury? Hope? Love? I wanted to know so I could soothe you. For a brief instant I thought the rage may be subsiding but then, in an instant, you brought the frame above your head and slammed it down onto the floor. The silver clanked against the wood floor and the glass of the frame shattered immediately; shards flew in every direction.

  Your father and I both gasped. I reached for your father’s hand, but he had already brought one to his heart and the other right on top of it. I expected this would be the main event of the tantrum—that you would march right on upstairs to your room and slam the door, having made your statement. But you just stared down at the pile of glass, your green eyes swirling with what I was now sure was rage.

  You bent down and pulled the picture from the pile of glass and pinched it between the tips of your fingers. The photo itself appeared unscathed despite the mess underneath it. But I was sure it wouldn’t remain this way for long. And still without saying a word, you opened the drawer of the console and pulled out a sleek black pen.

  You picked your head up slowly and looked straight into my eyes. There was heat and fire and aching in them. And then you assertively twisted the back of the pen and forced the inky point from its tip straight through my eyeballs in the photo. And then you did the same to your father’s eyeballs. And then you dropped the photo at your feet carelessly.

  I instinctively lunged toward you. “Honey, plea—” I started.

  But before I could finish my plea, you stamped your foot into the ground and, through gritted teeth, flinched back into place and remained motionless next to me, stunned.

  You took a slow step forward. Your foot rocked over the broken glass, crackling slowly as you transferred your weight from your heel to your toes and
walked toward the small table next to the couch, where three more family photos were propped up with pride. Smiling faces with white teeth and joyful eyes. Ice cream and beaches and gorgeous scenery. Bodies huddled together with love.

  You picked each one up and smashed them onto the ground. And again, through the craggy piles of glass, you picked up each photo and stabbed through the eyes with that same sharp black pen.

  I felt my cheeks tense and I began weeping. Tears spilled from my eyes as I watched you destroy the memories of our happy life. But it seemed only fair. I had certainly just shattered your image of a happy life.

  When I snapped back to the scene, I noticed you were heading for the dresser that your father kept all our family photos in. My throat constricted and my feet felt stuck in their place. Without even realizing, my hands had come up for cover over my mouth. I couldn’t fathom what you were about to do, but then you did it. You pulled open the drawer and vigorously tore out photo after photo, stabbing each quickly and haphazardly with the pen.

  Your father launched over and wrapped his arms around you. Why hadn’t I been able to do that?

  He pulled you tight and close and your body went limp. I watched your arms slink over your father’s shoulder and then your fingers uncurled from the pen. Finally, you dropped the photos that were in your hands and as you sank down to the floor, your father sank down with you, his arms still tight around your body.

  He reminded you how much he loved you. He let it sink in.

  He said again and again that he loved you, with his eyes closed, rocking you back and forth a little.

  My fingers were now clutching my sweater over my heart as I watched the reality I had created and then sat here so pathetically observing from afar. I felt, at once, the inevitable consequence of my actions all those years ago. I felt my own tears coming down my cheeks.