Mystic Summer

by Hannah McKinnon

  “What?” Mrs. Crane squints. “Oh. The Wilder boy. Yes, I heard he’s back in town. Poor thing.”

  I don’t know if the poor thing she’s referring to is Cameron or his baby, but I feel a protective wave suddenly rise within me. Cameron doesn’t need the likes of us in all our wedding-planning pastels spying on him from the front door of the shoe boutique.

  “Come on,” I say. “Peyton’s gonna get all the good shoes.”

  Erika raises her eyebrows as we follow her mother, but I shake my head. The moment has passed. When we finally exit the store, three shopping bags between us and one pair of cream wedges for me later, I can’t help but glance up the street. Cameron’s Jeep is gone. Even though I figured it would be, I still feel a surge of disappointment.

  “Where to next?” Mrs. Crane asks. “There are a few new shops down the road.” Predictably, Peyton falls into step behind her. Erika lingers in the rear with me once more.

  “He’s gone, huh?”

  I shrug.

  “Why don’t you give him a call later? When you have a little privacy.” She nods at the two figures bustling ahead of us.

  “What would I say?”

  “Well, you’d better think fast.” She points directly up the sidewalk.

  It can’t be. Headed our way, on our side of the street, is Cameron.

  “Maggie?”

  He stops just in front of me, the car seat in his arms the only thing between us. Erika has skittered ahead, leaving me behind.

  “It’s me!” It’s all I can think of.

  “Wow, twice in a matter of weeks. I thought you’d gone back to Boston for the rest of the summer.”

  “I did.”

  Cam nods, waiting for me to continue.

  “But I’m back.”

  Cam breaks into a slow smile. “I can see that.”

  “I thought you’d left.”

  He cocks his head curiously. “Left?”

  “You moved your Jeep. I mean, I saw you go by earlier. I wanted to say hi, but—”

  He points up the street to where the Jeep is now parked. “I forgot to get stamps. Had to come back.”

  “Stamps. Huh.” I wince. Who would ever believe that I was once an English major? Thankfully we are rescued from our ineloquent interaction by a little cooing sound. I kneel down mostly to break the awkward silence, but as soon as I’m level with Emory’s piercing blue eyes, I don’t want to look away. Her bow lips curl into a smile.

  “Remember Emory? I don’t think I introduced you properly last time.” Cam looks bashful.

  “Of course I remember. She’s beautiful, Cam.”

  As if she is determined to make me eat my words, Emory’s face suddenly goes beet-red and she arches in her car seat. A small wail erupts from her mouth.

  “Oh, oh. I think she’s had enough.”

  I stand up straighter. “Of me? Oh, no. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no,” Cam laughs. “Of running errands. It’s almost her nap time. Here. Do you mind holding her a sec?” To my horror, he passes the car seat to me. No sooner do I accept the handle than I lurch forward—tiny Emory is a lot heavier in this contraption than she appears. The bumpy pass-off silences Emory’s crying for a beat.

  “Got her?” Cam asks.

  “No problem,” I say, straightening. And just like that, Emory lets out another long shrill wail.

  “She’s okay,” Cam assures me, bending to reach inside her carrier. He fiddles with her straps, and in one deft move she is free. Cam cradles her head and lifts her from her little prison. Emory blinks at us, stunned.

  “Hi, baby girl. Is that better?” he asks her.

  She answers with another loud wail.

  Cameron tucks her quickly against his chest, and motions to the car seat. “Could you please grab her pacifier? It’s pink.” There is nothing that sends grown men and women into motion like the squall of a baby. Especially in public.

  Emory’s shrill cry goes up another octave as I dig through the little blanket in search of her pacifier. I know the magic of this miracle-inducing plastic sucker from watching Jane pop it into the mouths of her own kids. So where is it?

  “It’s not here,” I cry, trying to raise my voice high enough to be heard over Emory’s wails, but not loud enough to startle her further. Though I doubt she could be more perturbed.

  “Try the diaper bag,” Cam says. He is bouncing up and down in place, swaying back and forth, in an attempt to quell her.

  I’m leaning against Cam now, as I fumble through the diaper bag hanging from his shoulder. I’m well acquainted with these bags from my niece and nephews. They have about four hundred pockets. As if a mother (or father) has either the time or the wherewithal to search through all those compartments for a miniature plastic soothing device. Finally, I locate it.

  “Got it,” I cry, holding it up for her to see. “Look, Emory!”

  And at that moment, with me thrusting the pink pacifier triumphantly into the air and Emory still wailing over Cam’s shoulder in the middle of the sidewalk, Erika, Peyton, and Mrs. Crane exit the boutique. I freeze.

  Cam reaches for the pacifier and pops it into Emory’s mouth. Instant silence.

  “Are you ladies done shopping already?” I manage to ask in a nearly normal voice.

  But they aren’t listening to me. All three sets of eyes rest firmly on Cam, who turns Emory around to face us as he cradles her in his arms. Her face is a less frantic shade of red, her long eyelashes wet with tears. She works the pacifier rapidly in her tiny mouth, taking us all in.

  “Cameron, you remember Mrs. Crane and Erika?” I say.

  “Nice to see you all.” Cam leans forward and offers the tips of his fingers, beneath Emory’s round bottom, for an awkward handshake.

  Mrs. Crane reaches forward and grips them warmly. I send her a million invisible thank-yous.

  “Nice to see you,” she says fondly.

  Peyton is staring at Emory’s flushed cheeks with a look of concern. I can’t help but wonder how much she wants one of these little creatures now.

  “This is my daughter, Emory,” Cam tells them, proudly.

  Mrs. Crane is the only one who looks genuinely delighted. She leans close to Emory. “Hello, little one.” And just like that—pop—the pacifier flips out of Emory’s pursed mouth. Before any of us can react, it hits the paved sidewalk with a tiny plastic thwack. Right on cue, Emory emits one of her deafening wails.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Crane steps back and we all fumble for the pacifier. Erika retrieves it first. She shoves it at Cam, who holds it in his open palm between the five of us like a broken treasure. Five-second rule?

  “Uh, I’m sure I have another. Somewhere,” Cam says, not looking very sure at all. He hoists Emory back onto his shoulder, repeating the little jig he’d done earlier, and searches one-handed through the diaper bag. Erika winces. I’m pretty sure Peyton has taken several steps back.

  “Let me.” I take the bag from his shoulder and tug it open. All four of us women peer inside, like a group of hens pecking for the sole worm.

  “Is this one okay?” Peyton plucks a yellow pacifier from a side pocket.

  “Yes!” Cameron and I cry together. She drops it uncertainly in my outstretched hand and instead of passing it to Cameron I pop it directly into Emory’s mouth. Her eyes flash open and she regards me coolly through her tears. Cluck, cluck, cluck goes her little mouth. We let out a communal sigh.

  “Thanks.” Cameron laughs uncomfortably. “I’m afraid we’re overdue for a nap.”

  We nod as a unit, though Mrs. Crane is the only one who probably gets it. And even she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else right now. “Well, it was very nice to see you,” she says quickly. “And Emma.”

  Cameron doesn’t correct her.

  The group says a quick goodbye and heads up the street toward the cars. I linger with Cam for a moment, feeling . . . what? That during this awkward little scrape we shared some kind of parental triumph?

  “I’
d better get Emory home,” he says. It occurs to me then that this success I’m feeling proud of is just one of thousands that he probably experiences each day, no one more or less special than any other.

  I hoist the diaper bag back over his shoulder for him. “Can I help you put her back in her car seat?” For some reason, I don’t want to leave just yet.

  “Oh, right.” He looks at the car seat still on the sidewalk. “So much stuff for such little people,” he laughs. It’s a standard parent joke, and one that I realize he’s now in on. “That would be great, thanks.”

  I lift up the straps and hold them to the sides, as I’ve helped Jane do with each of her kids. Cameron gently lowers baby Emory into her plush floral cocoon, and when she makes contact with the seat there is a loaded pause as she contemplates how to respond to this. We both hold our breath. Emory looks at him, then me, her big blue eyes intense and alert. But then she settles.

  “Phew. Sometimes that doesn’t go so well. She likes to be held,” Cam says.

  I watch Cam tuck her chubby little arms through the straps, and then I click the center buckle over her round belly. Our hands brush as we work together, and he looks up at me.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” he says.

  I smile. “Yeah. Well, Jane has three kids. I’ve been on aunt duty for a while now.”

  He hoists the car seat, Emory between us once more. “Thanks, Mags. It was really good seeing you.”

  “You, too.”

  We hesitate a moment longer, until Emory makes a small noise behind her pacifier. “Better run,” he says. And then he leans forward and plants a quick kiss on me. It’s platonic, firmly placed in the center of my cheek. But in that one swoop, I smell Cameron: pine and fresh-cut grass. Like the summer camp we worked at. Like his house, in the pine grove by the Mystic River. He smells like the sweet memory of all those college summers.

  When I open my eyes, he is already moving away from me. And down the street.

  “Wait,” I call. Cam turns.

  “I’m home for a while. Maybe we could get together? Or something?”

  He looks surprised. But then he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

  This is not my style. I am not the girl who shouts after old boyfriends in the street. Certainly not to ask them to get together. Certainly not when I have a boyfriend. But this doesn’t feel wrong. In fact, it’s the first thing all day that’s felt right.

  “Call my cell. It’s listed under my business name,” Cam calls back to me.

  “Which is?”

  “Saltwater Construction.” His smile almost levels me right there in the middle of Main Street.

  Ten

  Erika holds the bottle of Veuve Clicquot against her chest. “Cheers to my girls,” she announces. “For coming to Mystic and rescuing my wedding day!” We’re huddled on the four-poster bed in Erika’s childhood bedroom, across which is spread an array of preteen slumber-party food: a box of cupcakes from the market, a bag of popcorn, and carrot sticks for Erika. Tonight is about comfort: in lieu of champagne glasses we sip from old mismatched Stonington High Bears coffee mugs, and except for Peyton, who’s breaking in a new pair of patent red sandals, we’re dressed in our pj’s and socks. We clink our mugs ceremoniously. “And to Maggie, who was right about coming home,” Erika adds.

  It’s a funny thing. Since moving to Boston, Erika and I have both returned to Mystic to visit, but oddly enough, never together. Gone were the long college vacations that once drew us back home at the same times. Which makes it special now; it’s as if we’re back in high school again, and planning what to do with the intoxicating freedom of a teenage weekend. “It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” I say. But even though she feels the nostalgic novelty, too, it’s not the same.

  Unlike my room back at home, whose dusty-pink walls are still covered in posters, Erika’s room has been professionally redecorated. Her mother has repainted the walls in ivory, and the taffeta drapes are a rich burnt copper. It looks like something out of a southern mansion, with its sconce lighting and rich embroidered accents. I hate it: I wish that Erika’s pom-poms were still hanging over her bed and that our high school photos lined her bookshelves in neon frames.

  “What do you think the guys are doing at home?” Peyton asks.

  Erika rolls over onto her tummy. “Trent said he was going out with guys from work.”

  They turn to me, expectantly. “What about Evan?”

  “Working late on set,” I say. “Again.” I’ve told them about his new scenes with Angie Dune. That’s the thing with friends: you don’t have to hold back on your gut response. And you know they won’t, either. “Are you kidding me?” Erika practically shouted. “Are you going to go down there and watch?”

  “I’ve never been to his set,” I reminded her. “Wouldn’t it be a little obvious to suddenly show up for that particular scene? Besides, Evan isn’t supposed to bring friends by to gawk. You know how sensitive he is about keeping things professional. It’s his first show.”

  My friends find it strange that Evan has never invited me to visit his set. But it’s his first big break, and it’s important to him not to get distracted.

  “If that were Trent, I’d find a way on set,” Erika had said, confirming the sense of initial dread that I’d felt when Evan told me about their new love scenes. I’m still not crazy about it, but what really bothers me has more to do with the fact that Angie Dune sees more of my boyfriend than I do in any given week.

  “Once you get settled into a new place and he wraps up this season, you guys will be able to spend more time together,” Erika reassures me now, flopping back on a pile of pillows.

  “Speaking of new places, have you found anything yet?” Peyton asks.

  I shake my head. “There was a cute one-bedroom that I could actually afford on the West End, but when I called, it had already been scooped up.”

  “So are you going to look for another roommate?” Peyton asks.

  I smile. “Actually, I already have one. Evan wants us to move in together.”

  Erika shrieks. “I knew it! That would be so great. Now you can get a bigger place.”

  “Were you surprised when he asked?” Peyton wants to know.

  I smile. “Not really. I was more relieved.”

  Peyton looks at me funny, and I know what she’s thinking. Why not thrilled?

  “Now I won’t have to worry about you!” Erika says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t like the thought of you living alone in the city.”

  I don’t add that I didn’t, either. “Evan’s going to keep an eye out, and the plan is to start looking at places together when I get back. In fact, I’m thinking I might head back to town next week.”

  “Which brings me to someone we ran into in this town.” Peyton, having moved on already, props herself up intently on her elbows. “So, what’s the scoop on this Cameron?”

  I shrug. “I ran into him a few weeks ago when I was home for my mom’s birthday party. But other than that, I haven’t talked to him since senior year in college. It’s weird bumping into someone you were once so close to.”

  Erika can’t help but chime in. “He was the boy-next-door summer romance that ended like they all do. He went out west, Mags came to Boston. Now he’s a dad, and she’s got Evan. End of story.”

  “Thanks for the plot summary,” I say, elbowing her playfully. But I notice that Erika seems eager to switch the subject. She’s never been a big fan of Cameron, something I could never put my finger on.

  “Whatever he was, he’s pretty cute,” Peyton says. Her eyes are growing glassy, which means she’s reached that in-between stage of a light buzz and sheer joy. Which is not too far off from total wretchedness, bent over a toilet bowl.

  “Cute or not, he’s on a whole different page from where his life used to be,” Erika reminds us. “He’s got a kid now. What woman is going to want to walk in and take all that on?”

  Her words hit me in the stomach.

  “At lea
st he’s stepping up and doing the right thing,” Peyton says.

  Erika isn’t as admiring. “What choice does he have? The mother left.” Then, “What kind of woman up and leaves her own kid, anyway?”

  “We don’t know the whole story,” I say, sifting carefully through the details Cameron shared with me on the phone that night I called him. I’m not sure if it’s more out of respect for his confidence, or out of my own desire to keep it to myself, but I haven’t disclosed all the details to them yet. “From what Cameron said, they were a grad school couple about to head out on environmental internships, and Emory came as a huge surprise during their final semester. Apparently Lauren stuck around in the beginning, but ultimately she couldn’t handle it.” The girls are studying me carefully, and I’m sure Erika is wondering when this news was made privy to me. And why I haven’t shared it with her sooner.

  “Well, I can’t imagine it. But I also can’t imagine leaving your baby.”

  “Maybe she suffered from depression, or something. Postpartum is a pretty prevalent thing, you guys,” Peyton says. Then, when we look at her strangely, “What? So I’ve done a little reading.”

  “My sister had postpartum,” I say. When it happened, it didn’t seem as close to home as it does now. I was fresh out of college and moving to Boston for my first job. I felt for Jane, but I can’t say I ever really understood it.

  “I’d forgotten about that.” Erika sits up, suddenly more interested.

  “Remember? After Randall was born. It was really hard on her: she could barely get out of bed. And she had Owen to look after, too.”

  Peyton’s expression softens. “I feel like the more people I know who’ve had children, the more I’m hearing about it. It’s out there and it’s happening, but it’s not something anyone talks about at the time.”

  I appreciate Peyton’s sensitivity. “Well, it’s not really something you want to talk about. Everyone’s so excited to meet the baby, no one wants to hear that the mom is crying on the toilet while her husband hovers outside the bathroom door with a bawling infant who needs to nurse.”

  “Was it really that bad for Jane?” she wants to know.