Beach Glass

by Suzan Colon

  I’m speechless. I feel like I’ve been run over by a benevolent freight train. Richardson reminds me of someone else who used to make big decisions that affected me, but with no input from me. My mouth curls on one side. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to argue.”

  Richardson shakes his head slowly. “I will admit,” he says softly, “to being somewhat self-serving in this gesture.”

  “How do you mean?”

  My father-in-law holds his granddaughter on his lap tentatively, as though he’s doing something he has no right to enjoy. Amanda twists around and hugs him. He smiles gamely at her, but he looks at me with tears in his eyes. “I was not a good father to my children, Kate. I thought that by giving them all of this, I was being a good father. I wanted the best for them, but I gave them the worst of me.” He looks weary. “I can’t change the past. My son was lost to me in life, and now he’s gone. Chandler, well, we may one day be close.” He takes a deep breath. “My granddaughter gives me a chance to be good. I know money can’t replace love, but it has its uses. Amanda will have everything. But most especially, she will have family.”

  He’s changed so much, Carson’s father. At the memorial service, I wasn’t sure how either of us would ever emerge from the darkness of loss, how we could find which way was up and swim for the sunlight. Then, Amanda came and saved us.

  “Carson would have been so happy to see this,” I say, gesturing to Richardson holding Amanda. “And Amanda needs her Grandpa Rich.”

  He gives me a long look of gratitude. “Then please, Kate. Let me take care of you. Let me do right by my family.”

  We are both on the edge of tears. I get up from my chair and put my arms around his neck. “Thank you. Thank you for being a good grandpa and a wonderful father-in-law.”

  He nods and quickly wipes his eyes. Then he asks, “Is there something else I can do, Kate? Anything you and Amanda might need, or want?”

  My gaze wanders toward the hedge maze again. As powerful as Richardson Wakefield is, he can’t give me the only thing I want. But then an idea comes as though someone whispered it in my ear. “There is something,” I say. “Something Carson would have wanted Amanda to have.”

  That night, we sit down to an informal dinner, not at the grand dining table, but on the veranda, overlooking the beach. Richardson grills lobster and corn on the cob, and Chandler tells us excitedly about the college classes she’ll be taking, and Blaire and Richardson take turns holding Amanda, who finds lobster claws hilarious. Before dessert is served, the butler comes to whisper in Richardson’s ear.

  Richardson stands and proposes a toast. We raise our glasses to Amanda Carson Wakefield McNamara, who has become the very young owner of her first piece of real estate. A small, pristine, perfect stretch of beach, with champagne-colored sand and trees in every shade of emerald, along the bluest coast of Costa Rica. It’s so well hidden that even the locals have no name for it.

  I know it as Heaven.

  40.

  A WEEK LATER, my mother, Vic, Amanda, and I all head out west to spend August in California with Bethy, Ray, and Celia. As schoolteachers, Mom and Vic have the summer off, but on the plane they start talking about retirement. They discuss places they might want to visit, their heads together as they page through an airline magazine. They make me smile.

  The plane trip, which has Amanda very excited, is where she decides to say her first real word. “Mama,” she says, patting my cheek. She says it again after I squeal with delight. “Mama!”

  Joy. It’s different now, but these moments, they make me live.

  It’s not very long after that first word that Amanda follows it up with another. This one, though, is phrased as a question. “Dada?”

  She was listening intently when her cousin Celia called Ray “Daddy.” The kids in her playgroup at home have daddies, too, sometimes even two of them. The men in her life go by other names. Grandpa Vic, Grandpa Rich, Uncle Ray. “Dada?” she asks again, knowing that someone’s missing.

  I pull out my phone and scroll to a photo I’ve stared at so long I know it better than my own emotion-changed face. “Here’s Mama, on her first day surfing,” I say, pointing to a woman I used to be. Then I point to Carson, eternally bathed in adoring sunlight. “Dada.”

  Amanda puts her hand on the photo then looks at me. She frowns for a moment and asks the single-word question again. Where is my father?

  I TAKE AMANDA to the beach, just the two of us. The early morning sun glitters on the waves, and we have a whole stretch of sand to ourselves.

  “Peanut, I don’t know how to explain this so you’ll understand,” I say. “I’ll tell you the truth someday when you’re older. But for now, this will have to do.”

  I have two very different parental role models to draw on here. I think of what my mother would say and reject it immediately. Way too blunt, and a one-year-old won’t understand a flat statement like Your father died. Nope, best to channel Dad here.

  “See the ocean, Peanut?” Amanda looks where I’m pointing, at the water. “Daddy lives there now.”

  She turns back to me, confused. She’s got the same look on her face I probably had when my dad said he was moving across the country. Why would a father who loved his daughter live so far away from her?

  “See, Mommy was a mermaid once,” I say, “and Daddy was a sea prince.”

  Amanda frowns. She may be little, but she knows nonsense when she hears it.

  “Okay, the fairytale option’s not working for you. You’re too smart for your own good, Peanut.” I sigh. “Let’s try this.”

  I reach into my bag and take out a small, creamy conch shell and hand it to Amanda. “This is a special mermaid cell phone that your daddy gave me,” I say. “He has to live in the ocean now, but you can call him whenever you want and talk to him. Listen.” I put the shell up to her ear. Amanda looks at me with a surprised face—Oh!—that quickly turns into a grin. Her eyes, so like his, sparkle with joy.

  Amanda plays with the shell for a while, listening intently, making little noises in response. Then she pushes herself up to a standing position and, after getting used to the texture of the wet sand, takes a few steps away. For someone new to walking, she’s good; the way she finds her equilibrium reminds me of Carson balancing on the board as the waves carried him. I walk behind her, probably less steady than she is.

  At the water’s edge, she bends down to pick something up. “Whatcha got there, Peanut?” I say.

  She hands me a piece of green beach glass. Its once-sharp edges have been worn smooth from tumbling in endless tides, being rolled around in life’s surf, emerging as a polished gem.

  A gift, perhaps, from her father.

  41.

  BETHY KNOWS I’M no longer a birthday person, but this party isn’t really for me. The kids love birthdays, their own or anyone else’s, as long as there are balloons and singing and cake. My thirty-second is a good excuse for a backyard barbecue, though I suspect my sister is trying to pull me out of one of my low times. The “Dada” question didn’t go away after my talk with Amanda at the beach. It just became more refined, now Daddy, and direct, not as much a question as a demand.

  Ray, wearing his KISS THE COOK apron, grills up a feast of burgers, hot dogs, and corn, and now he sits at the table with both Celia and Amanda on his lap.

  Celia, now five, is good to her little cousin, but she’s at an age where she can be possessive. “He’s not your daddy, ‘Manda,” she corrects. “He’s your uncle.”

  “Easy, now, Celia,” Ray says, “Amanda’s not even a year old yet. She doesn’t understand.”

  Just as I feel tears for my daughter, knowing how she’ll ache like I did without a father, Bethy comes out of the kitchen singing “Happy Birthday.” I wipe my eyes quickly as the cake comes, and they all sing. Bethy sets the homemade chocolate cake, decorated by the kids with wild swirls of sprinkles, in front of me. Sparklers fizz and candles glow.

  “Go ahead, Katy,” Bethy says, “make
a wish.”

  I look at Amanda. The candles are reflected in those emerald eyes, and I let myself get blissfully lost, visiting an innocent past just for a moment. Then she smiles and claps her little hands. I take a deep breath—for her, every breath, everything I do and want is for her—and wish.

  42.

  AUTUMN LEAVES ARE slow to change in California. Mom says it’s a typical chilly November back in New York, but here, in Santa Monica, I just have to bring light sweaters for Amanda and me when it gets late at the park not far from Bethy’s house.

  Amanda is in her glory, ruling the sandbox because all the other kids have gone home with their parents. “We’re down to our last baggie of Cheerios, kid,” I say. “You can make one more sand pie, and then we go back to Aunt Bethy’s for dinner, okay?”

  Shaking her head, Amanda says her new favorite word, “No,” and grasps another fistful of damp sand with a dimple-chubby hand. I sigh, knowing I have zero clout next to a whole sandbox she doesn’t have to share.

  Behind me, I hear someone calling my name, probably one of the daddies who forgot something. I turn around and see a tall man with dark hair. At first, his pace is slow and unsure. Then, when he sees me, he speeds up, hurrying toward me. As the man comes closer, my eyes tell me something I can’t believe.

  It’s Daniel.

  When he reaches me, he’s smiling and shaking his head. “I thought that was you, but I couldn’t believe it!” he says. “What a small world, huh?”

  I stand up, taking him in, recognizing him and yet not. The maple syrup-colored eyes are the same, but I can see them now because his dark hair is cut shorter and pushed to the side. And his tall frame is filled out. His chest is broad, his arms and legs muscled and toned beneath a deep blue silk T-shirt, slate grey jeans, and a black suede jacket I know is by the rock n’ roll designer John Varvatos. And no beat up sneakers anymore, but stylishly tough motorcycle boots.

  “Daniel,” I say, stunned, “is it really you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m with the Wailing Walls,” he explains. “We’re recording just a few blocks away.”

  Daniel was working on the Wailing Walls’ first album when we met, and they’d become a huge top ten band since then. “You’re engineering their album?”

  “No, I’m producing it,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. He laughs at my thrilled surprise. “You always told me I could graduate from engineer to producer if I went for it. And I did.” His grin is shy, but it’s still a grin.

  “Daniel, that’s amazing, congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I’m going to be out here for the next couple of months. The band’s taking a break, so I figured I’d get some air, and, wow, Katy,” he says, shaking his head again, his smile warm and joyful. “I can’t believe running into you like this.”

  “It’s so random,” I say.

  His smile twists wryly. “You never believed in randomness. You used to say everything was fate.”

  I look away and shrug. “Yeah, well. A lot has changed.”

  “I read your book,” Daniel says. “Actually, I read it five times. Spirit was beautiful, Katy. I’d say amazing, but I wasn’t surprised. I always knew you could do that kind of work.”

  “Thank you, Daniel. That really means a lot to me.”

  “It was nice of you to put me in the acknowledgements. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to. You were the one who always told me I should write and that I could.”

  We smile at each other for a moment. Then Daniel asks, “You’re here visiting your sister?” I nod, and he looks at the child in the sandbox. “But . . . this isn’t Celia.”

  “This is Amanda,” I say. “My daughter.”

  He takes a deep breath, as though what he’s about to say requires effort. “Congratulations. So, uh, you and Carson started a family.”

  “Carson is—” I think of Amanda, and then say, “Carson passed away two years ago.”

  Daniel looks back at me quickly, knowing he heard me but still shocked. “Katy. My God.” He touches my shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Nothing about it is all right, but no one wants to hear that.

  “If I’d known, I would’ve . . . . Oh, Katy.” Daniel takes my hand. His is so warm and feels wonderfully familiar, something from another time.

  Just then, Amanda taps Daniel’s leg with her pink plastic shovel. “Daddy?” she asks, looking up at him and smiling.

  I bite my lip, a little embarrassed. “You’ll have to forgive her. She sees other kids’ fathers, and she keeps asking me where hers is.”

  “She doesn’t remember him?” Daniel asks.

  “She never knew him,” I answer. “He died before she was born.”

  Amanda drops her shovel and puts her hand on Daniel’s leg. “Daddy?” she asks again.

  I’m about to tell her this isn’t Daddy when Daniel kneels down to her. “Hi, little princess,” he says, smiling. He offers his hand as if to shake hers. She takes hold of his thumb and looks at him with inquisitive eyes. Daniel looks up at me, beaming. “She looks so much like your baby pictures, Katy.” He looks back at her again. “Hi, little princess.”

  Amanda, still holding Daniel’s thumb and staring at him, suddenly breaks into a big smile, as though he’s done something magical just by being here. Then she gets down to baby business. Still holding his thumb, she shows him her sand pie handiwork. He tells her she’s an artisan and asks if she’ll show him how it’s done. She tugs at him, and he sits down in the sandbox with her. Soon his jeans are covered in wet sand, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I slowly sit back down on the ledge of the sandbox and watch them, spellbound by a scene I always dreamed of and could never have imagined.

  As the sun sets, Daniel continues to play with Amanda, showing her how to decorate the sand pies by making designs in them with their fingers and with some of her Cheerios. She’s very happy with this new element of sand pie production.

  When Daniel’s cell phone rings, he completes a pie design for Amanda before answering. “They’re back from break? Okay, tell them to go get some dinner or rehearse that new song. I’ll be there in a while.”

  When he hangs up, I ask, “Was that the band?”

  Daniel nods. “They can wait,” he says, apparently deciding that a multi-platinum top ten band is less important than making a wavy crust for Amanda’s sand pie. I’d have said the same, but to see Daniel think it, too is, well, impressive.

  When the park lights flicker on, it’s time to go, and Daniel helps me gather Amanda’s things. Before I can bend down to pick her up, she reaches for him, and he lifts her into his arms. “Daniel, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m good,” he says. “We good here, princess?”

  Amanda looks at him and does a baby swoon, letting her head fall to his shoulder. Daniel laughs in surprise. Then, moved by her gesture of trust, he rests his cheek against hers. When her arm curls around his neck, his eyes close for a moment.

  I’ve seen people change over time. My mother, when she let herself love again. Carson’s father, when he learned what love could be. Me, when I took a chance on trusting myself. Daniel, though, hasn’t changed as much as I thought he had. I look at him now and see the man I always knew he was and could be.

  It’s a shame that’s come to light too late.

  The sun begins to dip into a purple horizon as the three of us walk slowly through the park. We pass an elderly couple sitting on a bench, holding hands.

  As we walk by, the woman nudges the man. “Such a beautiful family,” she says.

  When we get to my SUV, I put the brake on the baby stroller. “Well, this is me.”

  “Oh,” Daniel says, sounding disappointed, “okay.”

  I open up the back door, and Daniel seems reluctant to let go of my sleeping child so I can put her in the car seat. He watches me intently, his hand on the door, keeping it open. “You know,” he says,
“from what I’ve heard about new moms, they like a night out every now and then.”

  “You know many new mothers?” I ask. I want to close the car door, but he’s still holding it open.

  “Some of my friends are parents. The band brought their families with them.” A gentle, innocent smile comes to his full lips. “Would you like a night out, Katy?”

  I sigh and look at the concrete sidewalk. “There’s a lot of water under this bridge, Daniel.”

  “I know.” He pauses for a moment before quickly coming back with, “How about this: it’s just dinner.”

  I look up at him, and because he knows my confused face, I don’t have to ask what he means before he explains. “This doesn’t have to be a big deal, Katy. Not intense, or difficult, no huge relationship rehash. Just two old friends sitting down to eat Italian food at this excellent Tuscan place I found. Come on.” His smile is difficult to resist. “What’s a little eggplant parmesan between friends?”

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you’re doing this,” Bethy says as she watches me get ready.

  “What?” I ask. “Going out on a Saturday night, like a real person? Wearing a nice dress instead of yoga pants and a baby-food-stained T-shirt?”

  “No, wasting your time going out with Daniel North.” She flops with exasperation on the bed in the room I stay in when Amanda and I visit. “Jeez, Katy, when I said you should think about dating again, I didn’t mean dating stupid.”