Now That You Mention It: A Novel

by Kristan Higgins

  There at the bar was Luke Fletcher, leaning heavily on his elbows. And though he’d been horrible to me, I couldn’t help the pity that ran through my heart. This was a man whose life had not gone as planned, who couldn’t find his way out. There was no victory here for me.

  The seat next to him was empty. I slid onto it. Luke didn’t notice.

  “Whatcha want, deah?” asked the bartender, a woman who must’ve weighed three hundred pounds, body mass index of at least forty. Hypertension, judging from her weight and flushed face, and diabetes on the horizon if she didn’t have it already.

  “Uh...a beer?” I was not about to order a pomegranate martini in this place, that was for sure.

  “What kind? Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light, Genesee, Old Mil.”

  “Old Mil,” I said, not that I’d ever had it. I didn’t even like beer.

  Luke turned his head toward me, then did a double take. “It’s you.”

  “Hey, Luke, how’s it going?”

  He seemed pretty wasted; bleary eyes and slow to answer. “Just great.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

  “You already are.”

  The bartender put a beer in front of me. It was the color of urine from a severely dehydrated person—dark yellow and, well, disgusting.

  “Luke, I know we have a little history between us about the Perez Scholarship, but I’d like it if we could be friends.”

  “A little history? Why don’t you tell me how you got it? You did something, I know that. Some fat little trick up your fat sleeve.”

  What a prince. “I worked really hard, Luke. I’m sorry you didn’t get the scholarship, but I’m not sorry I did.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Anyway, maybe I can buy you a drink.” I paused. “Are you driving home?”

  “No,” he said sullenly. “I lost my license.”

  Good. “Well, I wanted to talk to you about something.” I gestured to the bartender. “Another one for my old classmate, please?”

  The bartender squinted at me. “Holy crap. I’m Luke’s classmate, too. Who are you?”

  “Nora Stuart.”

  Her mouth dropped. “Whoa! So you lost all your fat, and I found it and then some.” She laughed. “I’m Carmella Hurley. Long time no see.”

  One of the Cheetos back in the day, along with Darby Dennings and Amy Beckman. Except she didn’t seem mean anymore.

  “Is it true you’re a doctor?” she asked, pulling a beer for Luke.

  “I am,” I said. “I’m working at the clinic this summer.”

  “Cool! Good for you! You always were smart. Maybe I’ll stop by. Do you do gastric bypass?” She laughed again. “Just kidding. But seriously, maybe you can put me on a diet. I keep meaning to drop a few pounds, you know? Oops, Froggy there needs another drink. I’m coming, Froggy. Jesus. Don’t wet yourself.” She looked back at me. “Beer’s on the house. I was kind of a bitch to you back in school. In fact, I probably owe you a keg.”

  And just like that, a wound closed up. People did change. The thing about mean teenage girls—they were never happy. There was pressure and darkness in being a Popular Girl—I knew, because I’d watched Lily peel away her soul in exchange for hanging with the in crowd.

  But from here, it looked like Carmella found her way to happiness, even if it did entail gaining 150 extra pounds.

  “So what do you want?” Luke said.

  I turned to look at him.

  He was still ridiculously handsome, even now, even drunk. The irony was, he had what seemed to be a kind, happy face, always verging on a smile. Even when his eyes were bloodshot and his eyebrows drawn, it was impossible not to want to like him, to see a better version of himself hiding in there somewhere.

  Poor Luke. He’d had so much potential.

  “I don’t know if you remember,” I said, “but my father left Scupper Island a long time ago. When you and I were in fifth grade.”

  He frowned. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Jake Ferriman said you and your mom were on the boat to Portland that day. The day he left.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I nodded. “It was a long shot.”

  “My mom might, though. Ma! Come here!”

  I blinked. I hadn’t seen Teeny Fletcher when I came in, and the truth was, she scared me more than Luke.

  When she saw who was sitting with her baby boy, her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” she asked. “Why are you botherin’ my boy? Rubbin’ your fancy job in his face?”

  Lee Harvey Oswald also had had a shitty, overprotective mother, they said.

  “Hi, Teeny,” I said. “No, I just had a question about my father.”

  Her overplucked eyebrows rose. “What would Luke know about that?”

  “I understand you were both on the ferry the day he left. Jake Ferriman said you were going to Portland. My dad talked to you both. He was upset.”

  Her lips narrowed in a hateful smile. “Oh, yeah. Ayuh. We were there.”

  “We were? I don’t remember,” Luke said, finishing his drink.

  “I’m hoping to find out what happened to him,” I said to Teeny.

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  Sweet woman. “What would you like?” Damn. That was a mistake. I should’ve offered her twenty bucks.

  “What would I like?” she screeched. “I’d like my son to go to Tufts University, that’s what I’d like. But you killed his chance, didn’t you? And now you want something from me? I doubt it, flatlander.”

  Ooh. The ultimate insult, calling a Mainer a flatlander.

  The bar had gone more or less quiet.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sorry you’re still under the delusion that I stole anything from Luke. As you well know, the Perez Scholarship goes to the student with the highest GPA. I was that student. I understand, however, that Luke got a nice scholarship to the University of Maine, which is another fantastic school. Xiaowen Liu got her doctorate there, and look at her now. So whatever happened to Luke since high school isn’t any of my doing, and all of his.”

  “Fuck you,” Luke said, draining his drink.

  “You’re a snotty little thing, aren’t you?” She rubbed her son’s back in a way that was quite icky, given that he was thirty-five. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said. “Carmella, nice seeing you again.” That, at least, I meant.

  And I went to my car, more angry than shaken.

  Teeny Fletcher had said not a damn thing about her other son. The one who was completely innocent. She could’ve said My son had a TBI because of you, and he’s losing more of his hearing every day. While not completely accurate, that sentiment would at least be understandable, a mother grieving her child’s injury and difficulties.

  Instead, she was still fixated on a stupid scholarship.

  Nope. She hadn’t mentioned Sullivan at all.

  17

  On the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend, Roseline came to Scupper, just about fainted with glee at seeing the houseboat and said she was never leaving. We killed a bottle of rosé, ate coconut cake and watched movies till 2:00 a.m.

  In the morning, we got dressed, guzzled some coffee and took Boomer downtown to see the boat parade. It was one of Scupper Island’s biggest deals. More than a parade, it was our way of welcoming back the summer people, letting them show off their pretty wooden sailboats and Chris-Crafts, their small yachts.

  Main Street was decked out in red, white and blue, and Lala’s had a sign out front that said Show You Love America: Eat a Donut. Roseline and I had proven our love of country and now made our way through the crowds of people to sit on the rough wooden town dock.

  The dock was edged with a thick wooden beam, so little kids a
nd people on bikes wouldn’t fall into the drink. We sat on the lip now, as did half the town, our legs dangling over the edge, sugar on our fingertips, the donuts still steaming hot and soft.

  “This is so bad for your digestive track,” I said, taking another bite.

  “Shut up,” she said, taking her second out of the bag. “Who cares what you think? You some kind of expert?”

  “Oh, there’s my friend,” I said. “Xiaowen! Over here! We have donuts for you!”

  “I thought those were all for me,” Roseline muttered, but she smiled and said hi and scootched over to make room as I made the introductions.

  “You’re so beautiful, Roseline,” Xiaowen said. “Nora, you have the most gorgeous friends, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I acknowledged. “People often compliment me on my taste in women.”

  “Hi,” said a voice behind us, and I jumped up.

  “Poe! Hi, honey! Hi, Mom! You guys remember Roseline, right?”

  “Hello,” my mom said stiffly, never comfortable with people she hadn’t known her entire life.

  Roseline stood up. “Wow, Poe, you probably don’t remember me, but I came to visit you with Nora one time.”

  “I remember,” she said shyly. “You bought me a scarf and wrapped my hair up in it.”

  “That’s right! You looked so cute.” Rosie smiled and sat back down. “Sit next to me. I love your hair! How long does the color last before it starts to fade?”

  Mrs. Krazinski walked over, a donut in her hand, a bag from Lala’s in the other. She handed the bag to my mom. “For you, Shar,” she said. “One for you, too, Poe, honey.” Such a nice lady.

  “Hi, Mrs. K,” I said.

  “Dahlin,’ don’t you think it’s time you started using my first name?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Try. It’s Donna.” Or Donner, if you pronounced it her way. “Mind if I join you ladies?”

  “Of course not! Have a seat.”

  My mom and Mrs. K sat down next to Xiaowen, leaving me square in the middle, Boomer drooling in between the bites of donut I gave him.

  This was nice. This was kind of perfect, really—me and my girls. The foghorn sounded, a long, mournful blast, and the parade began. Mr. Brogan, who was a Navy veteran from World War II, was the parade master, and tradition had him in the Miss Magalloway, the old tugboat used during the First and Second World Wars.

  A cheer went up, and a lump formed in my throat at the sight of the old man in uniform. We all stood and waved the little American flags the Exchange Club has passed out earlier, and Mr. Brogan saluted.

  And there on the deck was Audrey. That’s right—the tugboat was owned by the Fletcher family.

  “Looking good, Audrey!” I called, and her head turned. A smile lit up her face at the sight of me.

  “Hey, Audrey,” Poe yelled. “Nice work if you can get it!”

  “That’s my little pal,” I told Roseline. “The one who comes by to visit.”

  Sullivan was behind the wheel. He looked over at us and pulled the horn three short times, eliciting a cheer.

  And, if I wasn’t mistaken, smiled at me.

  I waved, a chunk of donut still in my hand, and he gave me the Yankee nod—a chin jerk of recognition.

  It was enough that I blushed.

  The tugboat slipped around the curve of the cove, followed by the lobster boats, which got more calls of recognition from the crowd. Then came the summer nuisance boats, the kind that were for fun only. Being hospitable Yankees, we waved and cheered as they went by, too, but our enthusiasm was a little pale compared to the reception Mr. Brogan got. Obviously.

  When the boat parade wound down, we got to our feet. “You guys want to come over tonight?” I asked Mom and Poe. “We’re having a nice dinner. Gloria will be there, too. From the clinic? You, too, Mrs. K. Donna, I mean.” At my mother’s glare, I added, “Women only.”

  “Sure!” Poe said. Enthusiasm! So thrilling. I’d have to text Audrey, too. And her dad, to make sure it was okay. Maybe he and I would get to talk a little. The idea caused a little tingle in my stomach.

  “What we got here?” came a thin, nasty voice. “The United Nations or some such?”

  It was Teeny Fletcher, commenting on the shocking fact that there were two nonwhite people in town. She scowled down at Xiaowen. “Aren’t you that Oriental who went to school with my sons?”

  “I don’t know. Am I?” Xiaowen said.

  “You all look alike.”

  “My God,” Roseline said. “She did not just say that.”

  Teeny sneered. “And who are you?”

  “This is my best friend in Boston,” I said. “Teeny, meet Dr. Roseline Baptiste. Roseline, our postmistress, Teeny Fletcher.”

  “I always thought you had the prettiest name, Roseline,” my mother said. Unusual for her to compliment someone. Maybe she was mellowing, after all.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Stuart,” Rosie said. “I’ll tell my mom you said so.”

  “Gettin’ pretty snooty over here,” Teeny observed. “All these doctors.”

  “Lucky for you, in case you get sick,” I said.

  “Like I’d go see you,” she said. “I’d go to Portland, thank you very much.”

  She turned hard, and her elbow hit me in the stomach. I stumbled back, and something was behind my heels—shit, it was the lip of the dock! Then I was in the air, falling, and I could see Roseline’s horrified face. The hard water smacked my back, and then I was under and freezing. My scalp ached instantly. The cold would be good for inflammation and bruises, I thought, still sinking. My eyes stung, my arms floated at the side of my head.

  Then I touched bottom, pushed off and rose through the greenish, frigid water to the air and noise.

  “Are you okay? Nora! Are you all right?” people were shouting.

  “I’m fine!” I called, spitting out salt water, gagging a little. Gah. I could taste diesel fuel from the boats, too. Lovely.

  Well. Best get out of the water. I started a feeble breaststroke to the shore. My brain did a quick assessment. Head, eyes, ears, nose and throat: normal. Neck: supple (if cold). Heart and lungs: so far, so good. Abdomen: full of donut. Extremities: in working order, though pretty damn cold right about now. Neurologic: I seemed normal to me. I’d have Rosie check me out when I got on shore. My back stung from the slap of the water, but otherwise, I was pretty sure I was okay.

  Teeny Fletcher was a bitch. Lucky it was high tide, or the fall would’ve been ten or twelve feet farther.

  Poe ran down to meet me, and my heart squeezed at the sight of her perfect face etched with concern. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I think so. That water is freezing, though.” I smiled to reassure her.

  She took off her jacket and gave it to me. “Come on. Lean on me.”

  I did, if only because...well, because she wanted me to.

  My mom and friends swarmed me in a concerned little knot. Xiaowen pulled a bit of seaweed from my hair, and Roseline began asking the typical doctor questions—what day it was and so on. I rolled my eyes and answered as she palpated my head, neck and spine.

  “No pain anywhere?” she asked.

  “Nah,” I said, my teeth starting to chatter. “I’m fine.”

  My mother, who’d been silent until now, whirled on Teeny Fletcher. “You better get an attitude adjustment, and fast, Louanne Peckins,” she snarled. Uh-oh. Using Teeny’s original name. I couldn’t help a smile.

  “It was an accid—”

  “Shut it,” Mom said. “I’ve had enough of your snipin’ and whinin’ all these years. Touch my daughter again, and I’ll punch you in the gawddamn throat.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “And I’ll kick you,” added Poe. “Come on, Nora. You need a hot shower and clean clothes.”


  And thus, surrounded by women I loved, I was escorted to my car.

  Who knew falling off a dock would be, in some ways, the happiest moment of my life?

  * * *

  Seven hours later, we were having a rollicking good time up on the top deck of the houseboat. Roseline, Mom, Poe, Donna Krazinski, Xiaowen and Gloria—our little United Nations of womanhood, all of us eating and laughing and talking. I told them about the fun run—Xiaowen and I had come up with a name, Go Far, Be Strong, and Bob Dobbins had signed off on it. Donna thought it was a great idea. Even Mom said she’d help, and Poe only grumbled a little when I asked if she’d run.

  “I’m not an exercise freak like you,” she said.

  “I run four times a week. I’m hardly a freak.”

  “No, you are,” Xiaowen said. “You’re right, Poe, but I need someone to run with, so you have to do it, or Serena Williams here will leave us in the dust.”

  “Serena’s a tennis player,” Poe said.

  “Do you think she can’t also run?”

  “Good point.”

  I was on call tonight, so Poe and I were drinking seltzer and cranberry juice—everyone else was having mojitos, made with my very own mint.

  Mrs. K was a hoot, something I hadn’t known, and she got my mom to tell stories of horrible hotel guests—the man who got locked out of his room with a sock on his penis, the couple who insisted on doing it with the door propped open, the lady who got so drunk she threw up in the bathtub, then climbed in there to sleep.

  Rosie and Poe were hitting it off—Rosie was telling Poe about a birth where the baby’s hand popped out first, like a little victory fist, and how she had to reach into the mother’s vagina with both hands to turn the baby’s head so he’d come out without breaking his shoulder. Poe looked suitably awestruck (and nauseous). Good old Roseline—there was no better birth control than gruesome tales from Labor and Delivery.