Over the years, its residents lived the same way as those on most Maine islands did—they suffered after the whaling industry died, then turned to fishing and lobstering.
Islanders prided themselves on survival and toughness, bonded together by hurricanes and nor’easters, drownings and hardship. When the Gilded Age hit, it gave Scupper a new industry—service. Cleaning, gardening, catering, carpentry, plumbing, nannying, taking care of the rich folks and their property.
That never changed.
I grew up with the belief that while the rich people came in June—the summer nuisance, we called them—Scupper Island was for us, the tough Yankees. We’d deal with the summer people, those who owned big houses on the rocky cliffs and moored their wooden sailboats in our picturesque coves. The kids were attractive and polite, but never our real friends, not when they wore Vineyard Vines and Ralph Lauren and had European nannies. Not when they ate at the local restaurants where our parents worked.
But they were our bread and butter, and lots of them were genuinely nice people. They donated to our schools, paid the taxes that kept our roads patched and plowed, fed the local economy. Still, we were glad when they left every Labor Day. Being cheerful representatives of their summer getaway was a little wearing.
Scupper belonged to us. To my sister and me, to our dad and absolutely to our mom.
My mother, Sharon Potter Stuart (and believe me, her maiden name was the source of great joy to this Muggle), was a fourth-generation islander, born and raised here. She was a typical tough Maine woman—able to shoot a deer, dress it and make venison chili in the same day. She cut and stacked her own wood, made her own food, viewed going to restaurants as wasteful. She knew how to do everything—fish, sail, fix a car, make biscuits from scratch, sew our dresses. Once, she even stitched up a cut when the one doctor on Scupper was attending a difficult birth.
Scupper was not just the name of our founder. It’s also part of a ship—a drain, essentially, that allows excess water to flow out into the ocean, rather than puddle in the bottom. It was almost fitting, then, that so many of Scupper Island’s residents left, slipping away to bigger waters. If you didn’t make your life off the sea or tourism, Scupper Island was a tough place to stay.
Mom never went to college, never took a vacation. Once, I made the mistake of asking if we could go to Disney World, like just about every other American family. “Why on earth would we go there? You think it’s prettier than this here?” she said once, her thick Maine accent turning earth to uhth, here to heeah.
My earliest memories of my mother were all good. She was safe and reliable, as mothers should be. Our meals were nutritious if unimaginative. She braided my somewhat-wild hair every day, patiently taming the snarls without ever pulling. She made sure we were clean. She drank black coffee all day long, the kind that she brewed in a pot on the stove, and watched us play while she did housework and chores, a hint of a smile on her face.
Our house, though plainly furnished, was clean and tidy. Homework was done at the kitchen table, under her gaze. She went to all the parent events at school. When we walked through a parking lot or across the Main Street and Elm intersection, she held my hand, but otherwise, there wasn’t a lot of physical affection. When I was very little and she gave me my bath, sometimes she put the washcloth on my head and told me I had a fancy hat. Otherwise, she was simply there. And don’t get me wrong. I knew how important that was.
She loved me, sure. As for my sister...well, Lily was magical.
My sister was twelve months and one day younger than I was, and different in every way. My hair was brown and coarse, not quite curly, not quite straight; Lily’s was black and fine. My eyes were a murky mix of brown and green; Lily’s were a clear, pure blue. I was solid and tall, like our mother; Lily was a fairy child, knobby elbows and bluish-white skin. Lily often got carried, snuggled up on Mom’s sturdy hip. When I asked if I could be carried, too, Mom told me I was her big girl.
I loved my sister. She was my baby, too, despite the scant year between us. I loved her chick-like hair, her eyes, her skinny little body snuggled against mine when she crept into my bed after a bad dream. I loved being older, bigger, stronger.
Those early years...they were so sweet. When I thought of them now, my heart pulled at the simplicity of it. Back when Lily loved me. Back when my parents loved each other. Back before Mom’s heart was encased in concrete.
Back when Dad was here.
My father had a mysterious job, something Lily and I called “businessing.” Dad wasn’t an islander; he’d been born in the magical city of New York but grew up in Maine. He had an office and a secretary in town. I later learned he sold insurance.
But when I was about six, just starting all-day school, he started working from home. He took over our little den and tapped away on a computer, the first one we ever had. He was writing a book, he said, and he’d be around for us a lot more. Lily and I were thrilled. Both parents home? It’d be like the weekend all the time.
Except it wasn’t. There were a lot of terse conversations between our parents; we couldn’t hear the words from the bedroom Lily and I shared, but we could feel the mood, the energy between our parents brittle and tight, humming with unspoken words.
Mom took a job as manager at the Excelsior Pines, the big hotel at one end of Scupper. She’d always kept books for half a dozen local businesses, her calculator tapping into the night, but now she left the house before we got on the bus and didn’t get back till suppertime.
Life changed on a dime. Before this, we’d only see Dad for an hour or two each day. Now he seemed completely dedicated to making fun for his girls. After school, he’d be waiting for the school bus, would toss us in the back of the truck, and we’d go adventuring. No wash your hands, start your homework, here’s your apple. No, sir.
Instead, we’d hike up Eagle Mountain, pretending to be on the run from the law. We explored the tidal caves on the wild side of the island, wondering if we could live there, surviving on mussels like the Passamaquoddy Indians Lily and I wished we were.
In late spring, Daddy would hold our hands at the top of the ominously named Deerkill Rock, a granite precipice that jutted out over the ocean. “You ready, my brave little warriors?” he’d ask, and we’d race to the edge and jump out as far as we could, gravity separating us almost immediately, a drop so far I thought I might fly, the air rushing past my face, through my tangled hair, the thrilling, icy embrace of the ocean. We’d pop up like corks, Lily and I, coughing, shrieking, our legs already numb as we swam back to shore, our father laughing and proud, swimming beside us.
He’d take us to the top of Eastman Hill Road, that patched-up testament to frost heaves and potholes, and unload our bikes from the back of the truck. Down we’d go, the streamers from my handlebars whipping, the wind whisking tears from my eyes, my arms shuddering with the effort of staying in control. No bike helmets for us, not back then. Lily was too small and skinny to manage it, so Dad would perch her on his handlebars, the two of them soaring in front of me, the sound of their laughter lashing back, wrapping around me.
Dad would cook us the best meals, too. Travelers’ food, he called it—stew cooked over the campfire, the way his Hungarian grandmother had taught him. He’d tell us stories of magical people who could hypnotize you into flying, people who could turn invisible, who could talk to animals and ride wild horses. There in the firelight, the ocean lapping at the granite rocks of the island shore, a saw-whet owl calling its lonely cry, it seemed more than just possible. It seemed true.
Then Mom would call us in and get that pinched-mouth look, shaking her head over our filthy feet, and send us to take our baths.
In the summer, we’d make forts and sleep outside, then come in covered in bug bites; grimy, happy and itchy. During the day, when Mom went to her job or did the grocery shopping on her afternoon off, Dad would let Lily and me out into the wild whi
le he worked on his book. We’d wander, spying on the rich folks’ houses, scouring the rocky shore for treasures, unsupervised and happy, returning home with Lily sunburned and me brown.
And meanwhile, my mother grew angry. Not that she showed it through anything other than terse orders about homework and chores. But the allure of all that freedom, especially with Dad’s beaming approval and frequent participation...we learned not to care what our mother thought.
Sometimes, I tried to make my mother feel better—I’d bring her lupines picked from the side of the road or find a piece of sea glass for her bowl, but the truth was, I loved having Daddy in charge. As our mother became more and more brittle, our love for Daddy mushroomed. While once I’d had friends—Cara Macklemore and Billy Ides—they didn’t come over anymore, and I turned down invitations to go to their houses to play. Home was more fun. We didn’t need friends, Lily and I. We had each other and Daddy. And Mom. Sure. Her, too.
So I pretended the tension between our parents wasn’t there. Mom worked grimly, Dad wrote his book and played with us, and life was mostly wonderful.
Except when Mom would track us down. I don’t know how she knew where we were, but every once in a while, her car would appear where we were adventuring, and she’d get out and yell at our father. “What are you doing out here? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Sharon, relax!” Dad would say, grinning, panting from whatever activity we’d been doing. “They’re having fun. They’re outside, playing, breathing fresh air.”
“One of these days, we’ll be standin’ over a casket if you don’t stop this!”
Dad’s smile would drop like granite. “You think I’d let something happen to my girls? You think I don’t love them? Girls, do you think Daddy loves you?”
Of course, we’d say yes. Mom’s mouth would tighten, her eyes would grow hard, and she’d either order us to get in the car or, worse, get in the car by herself and drive away, the rest of our day tainted.
“You’re so brave, my girls,” Dad would say. “Why be alive if you can’t have adventures, right? Who wants to end up all clenched and angry all the time?”
To prove his point, we’d go for one more swim, one more jump, one more thrilling ride down Eastman Hill. Stay out an extra half hour, have ice cream for dinner.
Lily was especially good at embracing Dad’s philosophy. Once Mommy’s girl, she started to avoid her, ignore her or, worse, talk about why Daddy was so much fun in front of her.
My flowers and sea glass didn’t cut it. “Thanks, Nora,” she’d say. But I couldn’t undo the hurt—I wasn’t Lily, after all, the magical, beautiful daughter.
Nothing I did seemed to make much impact on my mother, not the As on my report card, not the Mother’s Day art project—a little pinch pot painted yellow with blue polka dots. (Lily said she forgot hers at school; it never came home.)
I learned to kiss my mother hello when she got home, tell her about my day so I could check the mental box that said Talk to Mom. Every once in a while, Mom would give me a look that said I wasn’t fooling anyone. She wasn’t a little black rain cloud, our mother, but her skies were unrelentingly gray.
But Daddy laughed a ton, and he and Lily and I had so many fun times, so many goofy games and adventurings and imaginative meals, long stories at bedtime or in the car when we’d take a ride to nowhere. Of course, I loved him best.
The guilt hardly ever panged at me. Lily, she was the one who was really mean to Mom. Not me. At least I tried.
One spring day when I was eleven, Lily and I came off the bus to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, unexpectedly home from work, drinking her coffee. Lily buzzed right past, running up the stairs to throw her backpack on the floor and flop on the bed, as was her custom.
“Hi, Mom!” I said in my fake-cheery voice. “Guess what? Brenda Kowalski threw up during our math test, and it almost got on my desk! She had to go home early.”
“Well, that’s too bad.” She didn’t look up, just sat there, staring ahead, holding her mug. She’d changed from her work uniform of black pants and a white shirt and was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.
No other words were spoken. Mom just sat there, twisting her wedding ring.
“Where’s Dad?” I blurted, unable to take the silence anymore.
Her eyes flicked to me, then back to the middle distance. “He’s gone,” she said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Off island.”
Without us? That was strange. Usually, he’d wait for us, take us on the ferry to Portland, where there was a bakery filled with the most beautiful pastries, and let us get whatever we wanted.
“When will he be back?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
My heart started to whump in my chest. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”
“I don’t know, Nora. He didn’t see fit to tell me.”
Something was wrong. Something big. In that second, I felt my childhood teeter.
I pounded up the stairs. Our room had a slanted ceiling and was divided exactly in half; mine neat and tidy, as Mom requested, Lily’s a snarled mess. She was lying on her unmade bed with her headphones on, waiting for Mom to leave, for Dad to appear with the afternoon’s entertainment, because there was always something fun. Every single day.
I went into our parents’ room, and my breath started to shake out of me.
The closet was open, the top two drawers of the bureau—his—open, as well.
Open and empty. Our father’s shoes—he had more pairs than Mom—were gone. His socks were gone. Empty hangers hung like bones in the closet.
On top of the bureau, dead center, was his wedding ring.
I ran into the bathroom and threw up, my stomach heaving, my whole body racked with the violent expulsion of my ham-and-tomato sandwich and two oatmeal cookies, bits of apple floating on the surface.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lily asked. At ten, she already had a bit of a sneer.
“Daddy’s gone,” I said, my eyes streaming. I puked again, my sinuses burning with throw-up.
“What do you mean, gone? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. His clothes are gone. He packed.”
As I sat there, retching into the toilet, my sister ran into our parents’ bedroom, then pounded downstairs. She screamed accusations at our mother, whose flat, implacable voice answered questions. Something ceramic broke—Mom’s cup, I bet, throwing up again at the thought of the smell of coffee.
“I hate you!” Lily screamed. “I hate you!”
Then the door slammed, and it was quiet again.
I waited for my mother to come upstairs and take care of me. She didn’t.
Later that night, Lily told me what happened. Her version of it, anyway. Our mother, who was so boring and hateful and mean, had driven our father away. He’d gotten sick and tired of putting up with her, taken his novel and moved to New York City, where he was born, after all, and he was probably about to become a famous author. He’d call us and tell us to pack our things, that New York was the biggest place of all for adventuring, and we’d move, and Mom could stay here on her stupid Scupper Island.
If that was true...if our dad couldn’t stand our mother anymore, I honestly couldn’t blame him. He was a scarlet tanager, a rare, beautiful bird I’d only seen once in my life, flashing with red, its song happy and bright. She was a mourning dove, gray and dull, endlessly sighing the same notes over and over.
But I didn’t want them to get a divorce.
In my version of what had happened, which I dared not tell Lily, Dad would come home with a bouquet of roses. Mom would be wearing that white dress with the red flowers on it, the only dress she had, and they’d be hugging, and we’d move to New York but come home to Scupper for summers, like the rich people.
Days passed.
A week. Lily refused to go to school, and I was put in charge of breakfast while Mom went to work. At night, I listened to the suddenly scary noises of our old house, the muffled sobs from Lily’s side of the room. I tried to climb into her bed to comfort her, but she shoved me away.
I waited for my father to call. He didn’t.
He hadn’t left a phone number, either. He had a brother in Pennsylvania—Jeff, eight years older than my father, a man we’d only met twice before. I called him one afternoon when my mom was at a meeting at school—Lily was acting up. There was a long silence after I asked if he knew where my father might be.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I don’t. But if I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”
I could tell by his voice he didn’t think this would happen.
Another week crept by. Mom came home on Saturday morning and told us she’d switched her hours so she’d be able to be home with us after school.
“No one wants you here,” Lily said, her voice so cold and cruel I flinched.
“No one asked you,” Mom said mildly.
And that was the end of our deep family discussion.
What if Mom had killed Dad? Was that possible? She could lop the head off a sea bass, slide the knife down its belly and gut the thing in seconds... She could use a gun... We lived on an island, so she could dump his body anywhere and let the tides do what they would. I regretted reading the Patricia Cornwell novels I’d been sneaking out of the library, not to mention Stephen King, the patron saint of Maine. Was my father down the well, like Dolores Claiborne’s husband?
We didn’t have a well. Mom didn’t talk to the police.
He had packed. Left his wedding ring. Sure, Mom could’ve faked it, but she didn’t. I knew.
Now That You Mention It: A Novel Page 3
