Mystic Summer

by Hannah McKinnon

  Instead of getting upset, Erika softens. “By stuck I mean that I got caught up in nostalgia. There I was, run-down from work and having been passed over for a promotion I’d deserved. I needed to escape. So, I let myself believe that being back here in Mystic was real. That Chase and I were back where we were meant to be.” She pauses, and swipes at a tear that tumbles down her cheek. “I let the past catch up with me.”

  “That’s not always a bad thing,” I say, sticking to my guns. “I think that our pasts are a big part of who we are today.”

  “Well, in this case it was a bad thing. I didn’t just lie to Trent and to you, Maggie. I lied to myself. It was easier to come home and lick my wounds where everything was sunny and familiar and safe. But it wasn’t real life.”

  A plume of defensiveness rises in my chest. Is she comparing what she did with Chase with my being home in Mystic this summer? Because our two stories are nothing alike. “I’m not licking any wounds,” I say.

  “Maybe not,” she says, steering away from the question mark of my present situation. “But you are in a serious relationship with someone else back in Boston. Someone you can build a life with. Isn’t that what you want?”

  I don’t have an answer. “Evan’s great,” I say, finally. “I’m not trying to replace him, and I’m not running away from anything in Boston. I’m hardly involved with Cameron. It’s nothing like what you did.”

  Erika stiffens, and for a beat I feel bad. It’s a low blow. But she’s the one drawing a line in the sand. Our situations could not be more different, and I can’t allow her to suggest otherwise.

  “Then what is it like?” Erika asks, her tone cool.

  We avoid looking at each other as the server arrives to clear the dessert plates. Even after she’s gone, I stare into my lap. Erika plays with her bracelet distractedly.

  “It’s a friendship revisited, kind of like revisiting home. Yes, it’s comfortable like old slippers, it’s familiar. But it’s innocent.” I look at her. “And if something were going on, I would’ve told you.”

  Finally she offers the nearest thing to an apology. “I’m sorry I kept that secret from you. And I’m not trying to tell you what to do with your summer, or your life, for that matter. But I’m worried about you, Mags.”

  “You don’t need to be.”

  “Listen, you’re a sentimentalist and you’ve got a huge heart. Which is what I love most about you. I just don’t want you to fall back into the past, and risk losing what you’ve invested for your future.”

  I can feel my ire soften. Even if I disagree with her take on things, and even if it still stings that she kept something so big from me all this time.

  I sit up and meet her gaze. “So, what happened with Chase in the end?”

  Erika shrugs. “I forced myself to face reality. Mystic wasn’t my life any more than Chase was the guy for me. You know the rest. I packed my bags and went home. To Boston.”

  “I still love my life in Boston,” I feel the need to remind her. “And Evan and I have made commitments to each other that I intend to keep. But being back home and hanging out with Cam has been good for me. Just give me some wiggle room on this, okay?”

  Erika looks at me sympathetically. “Okay. Just remember one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Maggie, home isn’t a place. It’s not where your old boyfriend is, or your parents still live. It’s more than these neighborhoods and beaches that stir up old feelings. You’ve built a career and friends and a relationship away from here. Wherever you end up, home is inside you.”

  Erika has struck a chord. It’s the theme song of our generation, the motto I’ve read in countless magazine articles and social media posts. Love yourself before you can love others. Be at home in your own skin.

  But when I think of home, I don’t think you can exclude time, place, and loved ones: the things that have made me who I truly am. I know Erika has a point: home and self should be one and the same. But I still can’t help but wonder if she’s missing a finer point. What if home is where you feel most like your real self?

  Fifteen

  The next afternoon, I make a point to try to catch Evan during lunch. I’m happy when he picks up and I can imagine Erika sighing with relief somewhere across town. Evan is animated as he tells me about work, but behind his pep I can hear his fatigue. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he admits. “And I miss you.”

  I soften. “Me, too. Erika’s here and it’s all wedding, wedding, wedding.”

  “It’s less than two weeks away. I can’t wait for the break,” he says. Which makes me wonder: Is it me or the long weekend that he can’t wait for?

  We talk until he has to get back to work. He pauses before hanging up. “Mags, I’m sorry I’ve been so tied up lately. I promise I’ll make some time for us when I get down there. Maybe we can slip away for a night, to Rhode Island or something?”

  I smile. “That’d be great. What do you have in mind?”

  But when he doesn’t answer me, I realize I’ve lost the call. A moment later my phone rings again.

  “So which sounds better, a romantic stay at the Ocean House or a night out in Newport?” I ask.

  There’s a pause. “I’m thinking Ocean House. But Emory’s not quite big enough to ride the Watch Hill carousel yet.”

  I almost drop my phone. “Cam?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah. Sorry—obviously you were expecting someone else.”

  “No. I mean . . . What’s up?”

  “Well, I hate to bother you like this, but I’ve got a last-minute client meeting tonight. And I’m sort of in a bind.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This developer from New Haven just bought a spot along the river and it looks like he’s leaning toward my bid. We were supposed to meet this afternoon, but he got stuck in traffic. He wants me to drive over there now.”

  “Let me guess, you need help with someone little?”

  Cam lets out a sigh. “Do I ever. My parents went to Block Island for a couple of days.”

  “When is your meeting?”

  He pauses. “In ten minutes. The guy is on his way now.”

  “So am I.”

  I haven’t been in the Wilder house since I was in college, but when Cam invites me in, I feel like I’m nineteen again. The toile wallpaper in the entryway is the same. As are the damask couches in the living room, and the heavy rose-colored drapes. I stop to look at a high school photo of Cam on the bookshelf. “It wasn’t a mullet,” he says, coming to stand behind me. An ongoing joke we shared.

  “It was almost a mullet,” I tell him, laughing. Emory lets out a coo. “See? Even she thinks so.”

  He motions me to the rear of the house, through the kitchen, which has been updated with cherry cabinets and granite countertops. “The pantry is over there if you get hungry,” he says, pointing to a walk-in.

  “Thanks. It’s beautiful in here.”

  “Well, the basement is not. So brace yourself.”

  I follow him down the carpeted steps to the finished basement, the former rec room where we used to hang out and watch TV. The old overstuffed sofas have been replaced with leather and the carpeting switched out for hardwood. The pool table is gone, and the bar area has been turned into a small but cozy corner kitchen.

  “What are you talking about? This is great, Cam. Did you do all this?”

  Cam piles a stack of dishes in the sink and runs a cloth over the counter.

  “I had to make some updates when Emory and I moved back,” he says, quickly shoving a pile of mail into a silverware drawer.

  It’s a bright space with walkout doors to the side yard, much bigger than my Boston apartment.

  “Emory and I share the guest room,” he says, motioning me to the rear. We stand in the doorway together, surveying Cam’s bed, the crib, and the changing table. “It’s kind of cramped,” he says.

  “It’s cozy,” I tell him.

  Cam
shows me where the diapers and wipes are, and I watch as he fumbles through their shared dresser looking for pajamas. Each drawer he opens flashes in pinks and greens, and he looks up bashfully. “Typical girl. Totally took over the clothes storage.”

  “I can do that, really,” I say, shooing him out. “You don’t want to be late.”

  He leaves me with two fresh bottles, points out the bouncy seat, and is halfway up the stairs with Emory still in his arms before I catch him.

  “Uh, if you want me to watch the baby, I sort of need the baby.”

  We both laugh. “Right. Sorry, I’m just not used to leaving her with anyone besides my mom.” He looks at me bashfully.

  “It’s okay, Jane is the same way. I’ve got my cell, you’ve got yours. We’ll be fine, right, baby girl?” I ask Emory as Cam gingerly passes her to me.

  Emory looks between us like she isn’t so sure. “Go. Quick. Before one of you cries.”

  Cam leans in to kiss Emory, whose little face is right next to my own, and for a second we’re a triangle of faces pressed closely. “Okay, then. Bye.”

  I hoist her up on my hip. “It’s just you and me, baby.” She seems to be taking me in through little peeks, though every time I look directly at her she turns her head. Five minutes after Cam has left she starts to cry.

  At first it’s just a little hiccupy cry, an uncertain whimper about being left with me, a stranger. Lucy used to do this, so I walk her around the basement apartment, humming and talking to her. We make a few laps of the living area and kitchenette, and she seems to settle a bit. But soon she starts crying for real, and we move to the windows, a trick I learned from Jane. Her gaze fixes on the garden and she calms, so we step outside into the side yard. “Let’s check out Grandma’s yard. It’s so pretty out here, huh?”

  The sun is lower on the horizon. We walk together through Mrs. Wilder’s perennial beds, which are thick and lush with hydrangea and lilies. I kneel down and pick a yellow lily, and Emory’s eyes widen. She reaches with a fast hand and grips it tight. “Pretty. Like you, Em.”

  She brings her clenched fist, flower and all, abruptly to her mouth. Yellow pollen covers her nose and cheek, and she wags her head in surprise. “Uh-oh. Let’s not eat that.” I wonder for a faint heartbeat if she could be allergic. Or if it’s poisonous. Back inside we go, to clean her up.

  A half hour later we’ve washed our face, changed a diaper, given the swing a go, and tried the bouncy seat. To little avail. Emory oscillates between moderate fussing and weepy tears, her gaze sweeping the room, probably wondering when her daddy is going to rescue her from this strange lady. I am starting to wonder the same.

  “Daddy’s coming back really soon, sweetie. It’s okay.” I retrieve a fresh bottle from the fridge and place it in the bottle warmer as Cam showed me. Jane breast-fed all her babies and never had such a contraption. When the light goes off I test it on my wrist, fearful of scalding her. But it’s only lukewarm. “Perfect,” I say, settling Emory on my lap on the couch. But she does not think so. She arches her back away when I offer her the bottle, refusing. I try again, and she begins to cry louder. “Maybe you’re not hungry yet.” In five minutes we’re back out in the garden, Emory jigging on my hip and a sense of dread spreading through my chest. I’ve never had this much trouble soothing Jane’s kids. I remind myself that I’ve been a fixture in their life since they were born. But, as silly as it is, I can’t help but take it somewhat personally.

  Despite being outside, Emory is now in full-blown wailing mode. I grab my cell, but realize I don’t know whom to call. I’m certainly not going to interrupt Cam’s meeting. And Erika is not an option. The thought of my mother flashes briefly, but then I imagine the look of confusion on her face—upon learning that ten years later I am back in the Wilder basement—followed by a disapproving sigh.

  Once, when Owen was a baby and Jane was rushing out the door for a doctor’s appointment, she had what she called one of her worst-mother-ever moments. It was a cold winter afternoon, and she’d just tucked Owen into his snowsuit. He’d eaten and been changed, but the second she put his snowsuit on, he began howling. She wondered if it was his diaper, so she checked again. She thought maybe he was hot, so she unzipped him. But by then she was late and overwhelmed, and so she impatiently tucked him into his car seat, cranked up the radio, and drove off, praying the ride would calm him down. Halfway down the road when he still hadn’t let up, Jane pulled over, sensing something really was wrong. And it was. When she removed his snowsuit to check more carefully she realized one of his little thumbs had been bent back in the sleeve. In her haste, she’d overlooked it. The second she freed his arm, Owen silenced. Then Jane began to sob.

  Remembering that, I hurry Emory back inside. I lay her on the changing table in their shared room and undress her quickly. Maybe I put the diaper on too tight. Maybe her toe is tangled in a thread in her sock. Oh God, maybe there’s a spider stuck in her pajamas that’s bitten her at least twenty times by now. Flustered, I tug the suit off as gently as I can. But everything seems fine.

  “What is it, Em? Your diaper is dry. Your pajamas are okay. You’re not hungry.” I lean over her, desperate and fully cognizant of the fact that I’m pleading with a six-month-old. “What is it?”

  And then her eyes lock on mine and Emory stops. I wipe the tears off her plush cheeks with my thumb. “See? It’s okay.” I keep my gaze on hers, unwilling to break our eye contact. Gingerly, I tuck her chubby legs back into her pajama feet as best I can. I button her up, smiling all the while. And then, suddenly, she smiles back at me.

  “There’s our girl!” In that moment I am overcome. More than for any parent conference, or student win, or classroom score.

  This time when I scoop her up, she settles heavily against my chest. “You tired?” I certainly am. Outside the sky is darkening. I carry her around the room, singing “Silent Night.” It’s the only soothing song I know all the words to. I grab the bottle from the counter and move to the rocking chair in Cam’s dim room.

  This time, Emory takes the bottle eagerly. Her crying and her visitor have probably both worn the poor little thing out, but she looks up at me contentedly from the crook of my arm. I rock and she sucks noisily at first, then more softly. Soon her lashes flutter, and her sucking grows intermittent. “That’s my girl,” I whisper in the growing darkness.

  Much later, there is a noise overhead, followed by the fall of footsteps on the stairs. “Maggie? I’m home.”

  I blink at the silhouette that fills the doorway. “Cam?”

  Emory is a warm weight, still in my arms, which have grown stiff and ache. I glance down at her, sleeping soundly.

  “Did you fall asleep?” he whispers.

  I nod, rising slowly, mindful not to disturb her. “Here, let me help.”

  Cam steps into the room, but I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ve got her,” I whisper.

  I bend over the crib, holding Emory away from my chest as I lower her to her mattress. She stirs, and I hold my breath, keeping one hand on her tummy as reassurance, as I’ve seen Jane do. When I’m sure she’s settled, I tiptoe out.

  Cam is waiting in the kitchen, pouring us each a glass of water. “How’d it go?” he asks.

  I stretch and look around. The floor is strewn with blankets and soft toys. The bouncy seat is tipped over. “Great. She fussed a little when you left, but we worked through it.”

  Cam cocks his head. “Just a little? I forgot to mention, she’s teething.”

  I make a face. “Never would have guessed.”

  “So she worked you over, huh?” He chuckles softly and hands me a glass.

  “No, no, she was great. Just wondering where her daddy was. How’d the meeting go?”

  “It went well, I think. I should hear back from him tomorrow. Hey, it’s still early. Do you want to hang out for a bit?”

  Sitting on the couch in Cam’s parents’ basement, like we used to as nineteen-year-olds, should feel strange. But the strange thing i
s how normal it feels. Cam tells me about the house renovation bid and gets up to grab the blueprints, his expression intent as he walks me through the plans. After, I tell him about Emory, coming clean about how I’d almost called him at one point in her crying jag.

  “You can call me anytime,” he insists, shaking his head. “Now I feel bad. You were so great to help me out tonight.”

  “No, I’m glad I did. Even with the rough start, I have to tell you, putting her to bed was really sweet.” I glance back at the bedroom door, left ajar in case she needs us. And then at Cam. “You go from those moments of feeling so desperate to feeling so . . .”

  “Numb?”

  I laugh. “I was going to say full. Content. But yes, I suppose numb works.”

  Cam looks at me appreciatively. “That’s just it; they’re so little, and yet they can make the whole world screech to a halt in those moments. You did great, Mags. Thanks for helping me get out of a jam.” He leans back against the cushions, quiet for a moment. “Being a single parent you find yourself needing help more than you’d like to admit. But it’s still hard to ask.”

  I look over at him, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “You can ask me anytime.” And as I climb the stairs on my way out, I find myself feeling surprisingly good. Good about helping Cam out, and even better about how I was able to keep it together with a crying infant. But mostly, how good it felt while she slept in my arms, this helpless little creature, who moments earlier had me feeling so helpless, now snuggled against my chest. It was a feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but terribly satisfying.