Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe

by Abbie Williams

  “Goddammit, Jillian,” I muttered, too spent to work myself into a real anger over it.

  “Don’t go blaming me,” my sister snapped back. “Like it wasn’t obvious as the nose on your face July third.”

  “Well I ended it,” I flared back, and tears sprang again; I curled my arms around my torso, where it ached and pulsed at just the thought of what I’d ended. I whispered through a throat that felt crushed, “I’m doing what I have to do.”

  “Joelle, it ain’t no secret,” Gran said, using her most down-homey voice to emphasize her point. She thumped the butt of her cane on the porch floorboards and studied me with unflinching eyes. “You love him?”

  It was no use to hide anything, and I met her gaze steadily and whispered, so much feeling packed into the one syllable, “Yes.”

  Gran sighed then. “I knew it, I can see it all over your face, Joelle. Joan and Ellen knew it, too. You got it bad, as bad as Jilly here for the boy.”

  Jillian huffed a little, drawing her hooded sweatshirt more firmly around her shoulders and grumbling, “Why must everyone insist on calling him that?”

  At the same time I sputtered, “Even Mom knows?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Joelle, she’s not blind,” Gran said.

  And then suddenly, from out of the darkness came my oldest’s voice. My shoulders jerked in surprise as she spoke from the edge of the porch, where she had certainly heard every bit of our conversation. She said, “I knew it, Mom.”

  I spun to face her, as she emerged slowly from the shadows wearing an old sweater of mine over her shorts, hugging herself in the old-fashioned way she had, when things were tough and she needed the reassurance. My heart sank onto the porch floor. My daughter walked to within a few feet of me, her face lit from below by the lantern light, and stood totally motionless, appearing much older than her years. The candle picked out her delicate features, her pretty lips and long eyelashes, the freckles a summer’s worth of lake time had exposed. Her hair was soft on her shoulders, her arms clenched around her midsection. I felt for a moment that some sort of judgmental guardian angel rather than a child to whom I’d given birth was regarding me.

  “Camille,” I said, softly, on the thinnest of ice. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way. And it doesn’t matter anyway, I ended it last night.” Never mind the pain that seized my insides as I spoke those words; my entire body ached at the agony of the thought. I moved almost unconsciously into a pose mimicking my child, hugging myself harder.

  “Blythe is so much younger than you,” she observed, her voice quiet and strained. “How could you…how could…”

  “Camille, I love him,” I justified, my heart clubbing against my crossed forearms. Gran and Jilly might not have been there, so silent were they, observing as though watching characters in a play.

  She tipped her head and I realized she was crying, softly and almost silently, and I was snagged, caught somewhere between concern and resentment. Was it that reprehensible to her, that I could possibly have such feelings? Tears poured over her cheeks as we remained frozen in our respective places, until I relented, stood, and moved to gather her close. Camille put up a hand though, a wordless request to halt, and I froze, blinking in stun. She gasped a little, as though in pain, and suddenly whispered, “Mom, I’m pregnant.”

  An invisible mushroom cloud seemed to morph over the porch, enveloping all of us in the shock of the aftermath of that wholly unexpected statement. As though through a long tunnel, I heard myself repeat, “Pregnant?”

  The years melted away and I was suddenly swept back into the afternoon of my own confession; Gran and Jilly had been present for that one, too, although both had been nearly eighteen years younger. I’d confronted Mom while she was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, mid-May, the trees outside in full apple-blossom splendor. I’d had morning sickness for a week before I’d finally worked up the nerve to confess to her; only Jackson had known at that point. Ironically, I had spoken the exact same words to Mom that my daughter, whose tiny body I’d been carrying within my own, so full of shock and wonder and terror, had just spoken to me. I remembered how Jilly, who’d been slicing the peeled potatoes for potato salad, had looked at me, her blue eyes wide with surprise. Despite everything, she hadn’t predicted my first pregnancy.

  “Milla,” Jillian said now, moving to her when it was apparent that I could not. I turned and curled my hands over the top rung of the porch rail, bending forward at the waist as though I might be ill. It wasn’t that I was attempting to be melodramatic; I just needed a moment to absorb this news, which effectively trumped my own. I studied the lake, collecting myself, drawing a sense of peace from the familiar water, cloaked now in the humid darkness of a July night. Behind me, Camille clung to Jillian, sobbing now, rough, frightened sobs. My heart clenched like a fist and I moved instinctively to wrap my arms around them both, pressing my lips to my daughter’s long, loose hair, her beautiful hair I’d combed into a top curl when she was just months old. My beautiful, smart, sweet eldest child who was supposed to begin her senior year of high school in a few weeks, and then attend college and live in a dorm, earn a degree and obtain a fantastic job, befitting her intelligence and charm…no, no, no. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, not for her. Not for Camille. All of those plans washed away now. I knew that better than anyone. She was exactly the same age I had been with her. This, all of this, was my fault.

  “Does Noah know?” Jilly asked her after a moment.

  I felt her nod. “Yeah, but he…” here her breath hitched and she began weeping noisily again. When she was able to speak she continued, “He wants me to get an…an abortion.”

  “That little bastard!” I yelped.

  Jillian, who was the calm force I could not be at the moment, said gently, “What do you want, honey?”

  Camille moved from our dual embrace and sank to the chair beside Gran. Gran, who had not yet offered a word, reached and curved her hand over Camille’s right, palm up on the tabletop. Jilly slipped her arm around me, holding me close with one slim, wiry arm, and I drew a deep breath in an attempt to regain some calm. Not much luck there. At last Camille spoke, whispering, “I want to keep the baby. I could never do something like that.”

  “Noah will have to support that decision,” Jillian said. “Even if he doesn’t want to.”

  “How long have you known?” I asked her.

  “For about a week now,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “Does Tish know?”

  “No, Mom, of course not. I just told Noah a day ago.”

  “Did you take a pregnancy test?”

  Camille lifted her gaze at that, giving me a look. “Of course I did, I’m not stupid. I have the pee stick if you want to see it.”

  A trickle of anger seeped into my belly then, burning away some of the shock, and I lamented, rhetorically, because I didn’t exactly expect an answer, “How could this happen? Weren’t you protecting yourself?”

  “I did, we used a condom all of the times,” she said, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. “Mom, I’d never even had sex before last month. Seriously.” And then she began weeping again, and I moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her, my shoulders drooping with exhaustion and concern and a hundred other things that mothers consider when their daughters admit to being pregnant at seventeen. This time she allowed my touch, tipping her head against my stomach and clinging back.

  From a few feet away, Jilly said, “I knew someone was coming, I had that dream last month, remember, Jo?”

  I shot her a look that asked, is this really the time? But then one of those gut-instinct sensations came pouring over me, unexpected and undeniable. I knew in that moment that we were meant to stay here, and not return to Chicago this week. I shuddered a little at the intensity of the feeling, realizing maybe I’d known this all along, and had only now acknowledged the truth.

  Camille misinterpreted my shudder and sobbed, “I’m so sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean f
or this to h…h…happen…” and I hugged her harder, my heart aching and yet some ulterior satisfaction at coming to a decision fulfilled.

  “Some things are just meant to be,” Gran said, filling in for me, and I reached across the table to affectionately squeeze my grandma’s hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Well, someone is going to have to tell Jackson,” Mom said over coffee the next morning. She, Ellen, Jillian, Gran and I were crowded around table two, a pot of strong black coffee taking center stage. Camille was still in bed, or at least she’d been when I left the house, and Tish, Clint and Ruthann were outside somewhere, full of a breakfast that would have satisfied ten lumberjacks. Mom tended to turn to the stove when confronted with any sort of calamitous situation.

  “God, I’m not telling him,” I groaned, trying not to eyeball the kitchen where I’d spent so many hours studying Blythe this summer. The café was still and quiet this early Monday morning, filled with the scents of fresh-perked brew and cooking oil, cheerful beams of sun slanting in from the far east-facing windows.

  “Joelle, he has to be told,” Mom badgered. Gran made a small motion at her with her coffee cup and Mom backed off, slightly. She added, in a gentler tone, “You haven’t talked to him since you tossed our telephone into the lake.”

  “Mom, really,” Jilly said. “It’s not like he won’t find out soon enough.”

  “Honey, I’m just so glad that you’re staying here, I can’t tell you,” Ellen put in, squeezing my hand in hers, and I shot my auntie a silent thank you. “I hoped you might decide to stay since the moment you got here.”

  “But surely you can’t expect the girls to keep on being crammed into that bedroom upstairs,” Mom went on, ignoring Ellen’s pleasantries, her brow furrowing. She was wearing her feather earrings this morning, her hair in one long braid down her back. I studied her familiar face with an age-old combination of deep love and utter frustration.

  “Mom, of course not,” I replied. “I was already telling Gran and Jilly before you got here that I’m going to talk to Liz about looking for a place to rent, at least for now. Jackie will have to pay child support, and I’ll look for another job.”

  “Liz will hook you up,” Jilly said. She was delighted at this turn of events. After Camille had gone to bed last night, we’d sat on the porch with Gran and talked until almost three; I hadn’t slept more than about four hours, and couldn’t believe that Gran was up and about, but she looked as chipper as ever, clad in a hot-pink shirt that featured a rainbow trout leaping for a lure. She had been the one to remind me that Justin’s little sister was a real estate agent.

  “And you’ll have to get the girls registered for school,” Mom went on. “When is Camille due again?”

  “She thinks around the middle of March,” I said. I felt as though I was reacting just as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. “She can go to school at least until what, February?”

  “Oh, this is such a shock,” Mom said. “I can’t believe I’ll be sharing a grandchild with Curt and Marie Utley. I would never have guessed. And Camille might not want to go to school in her condition.”

  “Joanie, this isn’t the 1950s,” Ellen butted in. “She’s got nothing to be ashamed about.”

  “That is not what I meant,” Mom said, sounding affronted. “It’s just that—”

  “I managed just fine,” I interrupted, sipping my coffee. “Though I will never in a million years make my child marry that little bastard. After what he suggested.” I was still quelling the urge to drive over to the Utley’s farm and punch him in the face. If he thought he was getting away that easy…as though Camille had gotten herself pregnant.

  “Jo, ‘little bastard’ is not the most tactful expression under the circumstances,” Jillian pointed out, as the bell above the door tinkled and the kids came piling into the café. I regarded my two younger girls, thinking that there was no time like the present; Camille had requested that I break the news to them.

  “Mom, we’re hungry,” Clinty informed Jillian, flopping down at his customary spot at table three. He slouched back against the chair frame and regarded his mother with his big blue eyes.

  “Already? Then go raid the fridge, Eating Machine,” she told him, affectionately.

  Tish perched on the tabletop, jingling the bangle bracelets on her right arm; she’d found my old jewelry collection and those in particular had been a big hit. I studied the old metal bangles, silver and pink, blue and turquoise, mesmerized for a moment before Ruthann blocked my view as she came to give me a hug. I clung to my littlest girl for a moment, my sweetest child, though as a mother I could never acknowledge that thought aloud. Ruthie’s warm arms around my neck fortified me to say, “Hey girls, I have a couple of things to tell you.”

  Both of them regarded me with somber expressions. Ruthann asked, quietly, “Are you and Daddy getting divorced?”

  I’d spoken with her about our separation, omitting the facts about Jackson’s desire to remarry Lanny, a few weeks ago, sitting on the dock in the sunset light, just the two of us. She’d taken the news much harder than Camille and Tish, and had cried for an hour before calming down. I’d held her, stroked her hair, answered all of her questions, but since then she’d avoided the subject, though I knew she talked about it with her sisters, as Tish had informed me. But now she faced me without flinching. I could certainly do the same in return.

  “Yes, honey, we are, but the news I have is about Camille,” I said, heart clubbing. The room seemed to grow huge and silent, but I shouldered on, saying, “Girls, this isn’t easy to tell you, but we’re excited no matter what, and we support your sister—”

  “Ugh, Mom, spit it out!” Tish groaned.

  I narrowed my eyes at her and finished, “She’s having a baby. She’s due next March.”

  Tish gaped at me. Ruthann frowned as though confused, even though she’d had the whole birds and bees talk at age ten, like her sisters before her. When it was apparent they weren’t going to speak, I continued, “She’s still pretty surprised by all of this right now, so give her a big hug this morning when you see her, okay?”

  Tish flung her hands into the air, ever my drama queen. “That’s all you’re saying about this?”

  “What do you think I should say?” I asked her. “I just found out last night myself, kiddo. I was pretty shocked, but what else can we do but more forward, huh?”

  “Does this mean I get to be an auntie?” Ruthann asked, a certain amount of wonderment in her voice.

  “Yes, sweetie, that is exactly what that means,” Ellen said, winking at her. “It’s a big job.”

  “I think it’ll be a boy,” Clint chimed in, taking things in stride, as was his fashion. Then he asked, “Who’s the dad? Noah? You want me to kick his ass, Aunt Joey?”

  I rolled my eyes at my nephew and said firmly, “No. Thanks, though, Clint.”

  “I’m sure Milla would be flattered you thought of that,” Jillian teased, eyeing her son over her coffee cup.

  “And girls,” I went on, this time watching Tish even more warily, “I’ve decided that we should stay here, in Landon.”

  “And not move back to Chicago?” Ruthann asked and my gaze flickered to her. “But what about all of our friends? What about Daddy?”

  “Sweetie, you can visit him anytime you like,” I was quick to reassure. “But I think we belong here, don’t you?”

  Ruthann’s lower lip looked in danger of protruding, but she rallied and then nodded. Tish shrugged and said, “Yeah, that’s cool, Mom.”

  And I managed the first smile since breaking up with Blythe.

  ***

  Later in the afternoon I escaped my family for a bit to take a walk. The sky was a fanciful blue, Flickertail Lake glimmering beneath its arch like a polished stone, no significant wind to mar its surface. I ambled barefoot, reconsidering everything about my life as I followed the lake path. The leaves were so thick on the trees, the grape vines so profuse and wildflowers blazi
ng in abandon that I seemed to be in a jungle rather than a temperate deciduous forest. My favorites, the tiger lilies, were in full splendor in the sunny ditches. Beneath my feet, the path was dusty and pitted with rocks.

  Could I change my mind, give in to what my heart so desperately wanted? We were going to live here now, and maybe Blythe and I could date openly; we could see where things would go. I walked with that thought beating at my breastbone, pretending it could happen, that he wouldn’t eventually go insane being a surrogate father to three teenagers and a now a baby. I had done the right thing, breaking it off, I knew that.

  But it hurt so much. You love him, you are in love with him. Don’t throw that away, Joelle, my heart seemed to be sobbing inside my chest, and folded my arms over it, walking for several more beats with my head down. But he’s so young. What if he doesn’t want to stick around this little old town? But his eyes. He loves you. And you’ve never felt this way, not even for Jackson. I drew in a lungful and held it, knowing this was true. But I couldn’t make decisions based on what I wanted alone. I hadn’t that right. So what will you do tomorrow, and the day after that? Next year, and the next?

  The only thing I knew for sure was that I was going to be a thirty-six-year-old grandmother.

  ***

  On Tuesday I met Liz in town (conveniently keeping me from the café and the chance of running into Blythe) and we looked at houses, though I didn’t make any decisions at the moment. My heart was quaking and my knees trembling as I drove back hours later, both from the amazement at settling permanently in Landon and my desire to see Blythe’s truck in the lot. I was afraid that the moment I saw him I would bolt into his arms and never let go. But his truck was not in sight, though Rich’s car was in its usual spot. I entered through the porch door and was immediately intercepted by Jillian, on her way out. She had two cigarettes in her hand, and a book of matches clamped in her teeth. She transferred these to me by sticking out her chin, and then said, “Jo, we’ve gotta talk.”